the complete works of john ruskin volume xxiv * * * * * our fathers have told us storm-cloud of the nineteenth century hortus inclusus * * * * * hortus inclusus messages from the wood to the garden, sent in happy days to the sister ladies of the thwaite, coniston. dedicated with grateful thanks to my dear friends professor ruskin and albert fleming. s. b. * * * * * preface. the ladies to whom these letters were written have been, throughout their brightly tranquil lives, at once sources and loadstones of all good to the village in which they had their home, and to all loving people who cared for the village and its vale and secluded lake, and whatever remained in them or around of the former peace, beauty, and pride of english shepherd land. sources they have been of good, like one of its mountain springs, ever to be found at need. they did not travel; they did not go up to london in its season; they did not receive idle visitors to jar or waste their leisure in the waning year. the poor and the sick could find them always; or rather, they watched for and prevented all poverty and pain that care or tenderness could relieve or heal. loadstones they were, as steadily bringing the light of gentle and wise souls about them as the crest of their guardian mountain gives pause to the morning clouds: in themselves, they were types of perfect womanhood in its constant happiness, queens alike of their own hearts and of a paradise in which they knew the names and sympathized with the spirits of every living creature that god had made to play therein, or to blossom in its sunshine or shade. they had lost their dearly-loved younger sister, margaret, before i knew them. mary and susie, alike in benevolence, serenity, and practical judgment, were yet widely different, nay, almost contrary, in tone and impulse of intellect. both of them capable of understanding whatever women should know, the elder was yet chiefly interested in the course of immediate english business, policy, and progressive science, while susie lived an aerial and enchanted life, possessing all the highest joys of imagination, while she yielded to none of its deceits, sicknesses, or errors. she saw, and felt, and believed all good, as it had ever been, and was to be, in the reality and eternity of its goodness, with the acceptance and the hope of a child; the least things were treasures to her, and her moments fuller of joy than some people's days. what she had been to me, in the days and years when other friendship has been failing, and others' "loving, mere folly," the reader will enough see from these letters, written certainly for her only, but from which she has permitted my master of the rural industries at loughrigg, albert fleming, to choose what he thinks, among the tendrils of clinging thought, and mossy cups for dew in the garden of herbs where love is, may be trusted to the memorial sympathy of the readers of "frondes agrestes." j. r. brantwood, _june, _. introduction. often during those visits to the thwaite which have grown to be the best-spent hours of my later years, i have urged my dear friend miss beever to open to the larger world the pleasant paths of this her garden inclosed. the inner circle of her friends knew that she had a goodly store of mr. ruskin's letters, extending over many years. she for her part had long desired to share with others the pleasure these letters had given her, but she shrank from the fatigue of selecting and arranging them. it was, therefore, with no small feeling of satisfaction that i drove home from the thwaite one day in february last with a parcel containing nearly two thousand of these treasured letters. i was gladdened also by generous permission, both from brantwood and the thwaite, to choose what i liked best for publication. the letters themselves are the fruit of the most beautiful friendship i have ever been permitted to witness, a friendship so unique in some aspects of it, so sacred in all, that i may only give it the praise of silence. i count myself happy to have been allowed to throw open to all wise and quiet souls the portals of this armida's garden, where there are no spells save those woven by love, and no magic save that of grace and kindliness. here my pleasant share in this little book would have ended, but mr. ruskin has desired me to add a few words, giving my own description of susie, and speaking of my relationship to them both. to him i owe the guidance of my life,--all its best impulses, all its worthiest efforts; to her some of its happiest hours, and the blessings alike of incentive and reproof. in reading over mr. ruskin's preface, i note that, either by grace of purpose or happy chance, he has left me one point untouched in our dear friend's character. her letters inserted here give some evidence of it, but i should like to place on record how her intense delight in sweet and simple things has blossomed into a kind of mental frolic and dainty wit, so that even now in the calm autumn of her days, her friends are not only lessoned by her ripened wisdom, but cheered and recreated by her quaint and sprightly humor. in the royal order of gardens, as bacon puts it, there was always a quiet resting-place called the pleasaunce; there the daisies grew unchecked, and the grass was ever the greenest. such a pleasaunce do these letters seem to me. here and there, indeed, there are shadows on the grass, but no shadow ever falls between the two dear friends who walk together hand in hand along its pleasant paths. so may they walk in peace till they stand at the gate of another garden, where "co' fiori eterni, eterno il frutto dura." a. f. neaum crag, loughrigg, ambleside. preface to the third edition. since these letters were published fourteen years ago, both mr. ruskin and miss beever have passed to the country he longed to find, "where the flowers do not fade." in this new edition some of the earlier letters have been withdrawn, and others, of possibly wider interest, are inserted in their place. i have also added a reproduction of mr. ruskin's last letter to miss beever. it was written about the th october, , and was read to her on her death-bed. he was then himself in broken health, and it took him three weary hours to write this little note of eight lines. i believe this to be the last complete letter that ever came from his pen. miss beever sent it to me with the wish "that some day i might use it," and i now fulfill that wish by inserting it here as the pathetic close to a correspondence, in which there was so much of a gay and playful nature; commending it to the "memorial sympathy" claimed by him for his earlier letters. the word "phoca" is a signature often used by him in writing to his old friend. i have been asked to add illustrations to this edition; and some fresh explanatory notes and dates will also be found. a. f. neaum crag, ambleside, . hortus inclusus. * * * * * brantwood, _ th march, _. my dearest susie,-- in a state of great defeat and torment, this morning--having much to do with the weather and--not living on milk, i have been greatly helped by--one of my own books![ ] it is the best i ever wrote--the last which i took thorough loving pains with--and the first which i did with full knowledge of sorrow. will you please read in it--first--from at the bottom of page [ ] as far as and not farther than, in page . that is what helped me this morning. then, if you want to know precisely the state i am in, read the account of the myth of tantalus, beginning at --p. and going on to --page . it is a hard task to set you, my dear little susie; but when you get old, you will be glad to have done it, and another day, you must look at page , and then you must return me my book, for it's my noted copy and i'm using it. the life of tantalus doesn't often admit of crying: but i had a real cry--with quite wet tears yesterday morning, over what--to me is the prettiest bit in all shakespeare "pray, be content; mother, i am going to the market-place-- chide me no more."[ ] and almost next to it, comes (to me, always i mean in my own fancy) virgilia, "yes, certain; there's a letter for you; i saw it."[ ] ever your loving j. r. [footnote : "the queen of the air." see page .] [footnote : cf. contemporary edition.] [footnote : "coriolanus", act iii. scene .] [footnote : "coriolanus", act ii. scene .] * * * * * the sacristan's cell. assisi, _ th april, _. i got to-day your lovely letter of the th, but i never knew my susie _could_ be such a naughty little girl before; to burn her pretty story[ ] instead of sending it to me. it would have come to me so exactly in the right place here, where st. francis made the grasshopper (cicada, at least) sing to him upon his hand, and preached to the birds, and made the wolf go its rounds every day as regularly as any franciscan friar, to ask for a little contribution to its modest dinner. the bee and narcissus would have delighted to talk in this enchanted air. yes, that _is_ really very pretty of dr. john brown to inscribe your books so, and it's so like him. how these kind people understand things! and that bit of his about the child is wholly lovely; i am so glad you copied it. i often think of you, and of coniston and brantwood. you will see, in the may fors, reflections upon the temptations to the life of a franciscan. there are two monks here, one the sacristan who has charge of the entire church, and is responsible for its treasures; the other exercising what authority is left to the convent among the people of the town. they are both so good and innocent and sweet, one can't pity them enough. for this time in italy is just like the reformation in scotland, with only the difference that the reform movement is carried on here simply for the sake of what money can be got by church confiscation. and these two brothers are living by indulgence, as the abbot in the monastery of st. mary's in the regent moray's time. the people of the village, however, are all true to their faith; it is only the governing body which is modern-infidel and radical. the population is quite charming,--a word of kindness makes them as bright as if you brought them news of a friend. all the same, it does not do to offend them; monsieur cavalcasella, who is expecting the government order to take the tabernacle from the sanctuary of st. francis, cannot, it is said, go out at night with safety. he decamped the day before i came, having some notion, i fancy, that i would make his life a burden to him, if he didn't, by day, as much as it was in peril by night. i promise myself a month of very happy time here (happy for _me_, i mean) when i return in may. the sacristan gives me my coffee for lunch, in his own little cell, looking out on the olive woods; then he tells me stories of conversions and miracles, and then perhaps we go into the sacristy and have a reverent little poke out of relics. fancy a great carved cupboard in a vaulted chamber full of most precious things (the box which the holy virgin's veil used to be kept in, to begin with), and leave to rummage in it at will! things that are only shown twice in the year or so, with fumigation! all the congregation on their knees; and the sacristan and i having a great heap of them on the table at once, like a dinner service! i really looked with great respect at st. francis's old camel-hair dress. i am obliged to go to rome to-morrow, however, and to naples on saturday. my witch of sicily[ ] expects me this day week, and she's going to take me such lovely drives, and talks of "excursions" which i see by the map are thirty miles away. i wonder if she thinks me so horribly old that it's quite proper. it will be very nice if she does, but not flattering. i know her mother can't go with her, i suppose her maid will. if she wants any other chaperon i won't go. she's really very beautiful, i believe, to some people's tastes, (i shall be horribly disappointed if she isn't, in her own dark style,) and she writes, next to susie, the loveliest letters i ever get. now, susie, mind, you're to be a very good child while i'm away, and never to burn any more stories; and above all, you're to write me just what comes into your head, and ever to believe me your loving j. r. [footnote : "the bee and narcissus."] [footnote : miss amy yule. see "præterita", vol. iii., chap. vii.] * * * * * naples, _ d may, _. i heard of your great sorrow[ ] from joan six days ago, and have not been able to write since. nothing silences me so much as sorrow, and for this of yours i have no comfort. i write only that you may know that i am thinking of you, and would help you if i could. and i write to-day because your lovely letters and your lovely old age have been forced into my thoughts often by dreadful contrast during these days in italy. you who are so purely and brightly happy in all natural and simple things, seem now to belong to another and a younger world. and your letters have been to me like the pure air of yewdale crags breathed among the pontine marshes; but you must not think i am ungrateful for them when i can't answer. you can have no idea how impossible it is for me to do all the work necessary even for memory of the things i came here to see; how much escapes me, how much is done in a broken and weary way. i am the only author on art who does the work of illustration with his own hand; the only one therefore--and i am not insolent in saying this--who has learned his business thoroughly; but after a day's drawing i assure you one cannot sit down to write unless it be the merest nonsense to please joanie. believe it or not, there is no one of my friends whom i write so scrupulously to as to you. you may be vexed at this, but indeed i can't but try to write carefully in answer to all your kind words, and so sometimes i can't at all. i _must_ tell you, however, to-day, what i saw in the pompeian frescoes--the great characteristic of falling rome, in her furious desire of pleasure, and brutal incapability of it. the walls of pompeii are covered with paintings meant only to give pleasure, but nothing they represent is beautiful or delightful, and yesterday, among other calumniated and caricatured birds, i saw one of my susie's pets, a peacock; and he had only eleven eyes in his tail. fancy the feverish wretchedness of the humanity which in mere pursuit of pleasure or power had reduced itself to see no more than eleven eyes in a peacock's tail! what were the cyclops to this? i hope to get to rome this evening, and to be there settled for some time, and to have quieter hours for my letters. [footnote : the death of miss margaret beever.] * * * * * rome, hÔtel de russie, _ th may, ' _. i have your sweet letter about ulysses, the leaves, and the robins. i have been feeling so wearily on this journey, the want of what--when i had it, i used--how often! to feel a burden--the claim of my mother for at least a _word_, every day. happy, poor mother, with two lines--and i--sometimes--nay--often--thinking it hard to have to stay five minutes from what i wanted to do--to write them. i am despising, now, in like senseless way, the privilege of being able to write to you and of knowing that it will please you to hear--even that i can't tell you anything! which i cannot, this morning--but only, it is a little peace and rest to me to write to my susie. * * * * * rome, _ d may, _. a number of business letters and the increasing instinct for work here as time shortens, have kept me too long from even writing a mere mamma-note to you; though not without thought of you daily. i have your last most lovely line about your sister--and giving me that most touching fact about poor dr. john brown, which i am grieved and yet thankful to know, that i may better still reverence his unfailing kindness and quick sympathy. i have a quite wonderful letter from him about you; but i will not tell you what he says, only it is so _very_, very true, and so very, very pretty, you can't think. i have written to my bookseller to find for you, and send a complete edition of "modern painters," if findable. if not, i will make my assistant send you down my own fourth and fifth volumes, which you can keep till i come for them in the autumn. there is nothing now in the year but autumn and winter. i really begin to think there is some terrible change of climate coming upon the world for its sin, like another deluge. it will have its rainbow, i suppose, after its manner--promising not to darken the world again, and then not to drown. * * * * * rome, _ th may, _ (_whit-sunday_). i have to-day, to make the day whiter for me, your lovely letter of the th,[ ] telling me your age. i am so glad it is no more; you are only thirteen years older than i, and much more able to be my sister than mamma, and i hope you will have many years of youth yet. i think i _must_ tell you in return for this letter what dr. john brown said, or part of it at least. he said you had the playfulness of a lamb without its selfishness. i think that perfect as far as it goes. of course my susie's wise and grave gifts must be told of afterwards. there is no one i know, or have known, so well able as you are to be in a degree what my mother was to me. in this chief way (as well as many other ways) (the puzzlement i have had to force that sentence into grammar!), that i have had the same certainty of giving you pleasure by a few words and by any little account of what i am doing. but then you know i have just got out of the way of doing as i am bid, and unless you can scold me back into that, you can't give me the sense of support. tell me more about yourself first, and how those years came to be "lost." i am not sure that they were; though i am very far from holding the empty theory of compensation; but much of the slighter pleasure you lost then is evidently still open to you, fresh all the more from having been for a time withdrawn. the roman peasants are very gay to-day, with roses in their hair; legitimately and honorably decorated, and looking lovely. oh me, if they had a few susies to take human care of them what a glorious people they would be! [footnote : _see_ page .] * * * * * the lost church in the campagna. rome, _ d june, _. ah if you were but among the marbles here, though there are none finer than that you so strangely discerned in my study; but they are as a white company innumerable, ghost after ghost. and how you would rejoice in them and in a thousand things besides, to which i am dead, from having seen too much or worked too painfully--or, worst of all, lost the hope which gives all life. last sunday i was in a lost church found again,--a church of the second or third century, dug in a green hill of the campagna, built underground;--its secret entrance like a sand-martin's nest. such the temple of the lord, as the king solomon of that time had to build it; not "the mountains of the lord's house shall be established above the hills," but the cave of the lord's house as the fox's hole, beneath them. and here, now lighted by the sun for the first time (for they are still digging the earth from the steps), are the marbles of those early christian days; the first efforts of their new hope to show itself in enduring record, the new hope of a good shepherd:--there they carved him, with a spring flowing at his feet, and round him the cattle of the campagna in which they had dug their church, the very self-same goats which this morning have been trotting past my window through the most populous streets of rome, innocently following their shepherd, tinkling their bells, and shaking their long spiral horns and white beards; the very same dew-lapped cattle which were that sunday morning feeding on the hillside above, carved on the tomb-marbles sixteen hundred years ago. how you would have liked to see it, susie! and now to-day i am going to work in an eleventh century church of quite proud and victorious christianity, with its grand bishops and saints lording it over italy. the bishop's throne all marble and mosaic of precious colors and of gold, high under the vaulted roof at the end behind the altar; and line upon line of pillars of massive porphyry and marble, gathered out of the ruins of the temples of the great race who had persecuted them, till they had said to the hills, cover us, like the wicked. and then _their_ proud time came, and their enthronement on the seven hills; and now, what is to be their fate once more?--of pope and cardinal and dome, peter's or paul's by name only,--"my house, no more a house of prayer, but a den of thieves." i can't write any more this morning. oh me, if one could only write and draw all one wanted, and have our susies and be young again, oneself and they! (as if there were two susies, or _could_ be!) ever my one susie's very loving j. ruskin. * * * * * regrets. assisi, _june th_ ( ). yes, i am a little oppressed just now with overwork, nor is this avoidable. i am obliged to leave all my drawings unfinished as the last days come, and the point possible of approximate completion fatally contracts, every hour to a more ludicrous and warped mockery of the hope in which one began. it is impossible not to work against time, and _that_ is killing. it is not labor itself, but competitive, anxious, disappointed labor that dries one's soul out. but don't be frightened about me, you sweet susie. i know when i _must_ stop; forgive and pity me only, because sometimes, nay often my letter (or word) to susie must be sacrificed to the last effort on one's drawing. the letter to one's susie should be a rest, do you think? it is always more or less comforting, but not rest; it means further employment of the already extremely strained sensational power. what one really wants! i believe the only true restorative is the natural one, the actual presence of one's "helpmeet." the far worse than absence of mine _reverses_ rest, and what is more, destroys one's power of receiving from others or giving. how much love of mine have _others_ lost, because that poor sick child would not have the part of love that belonged to her! i am very anxious about your eyes too. for any favor don't write more extracts just now. the books are yours forever and a day--no loan; enjoy any bits that you find enjoyable, but don't copy just now. i left rome yesterday, and am on my way home; but, alas! might as well be on my way home from cochin china, for any chance i have of speedily arriving. meantime your letters will reach me here with speed, and will be a great comfort to me, if they don't fatigue _you_. * * * * * "frondes agrestes." perugia, _ th june_ ( ). i am more and more pleased at the thought of this gathering of yours, and soon expect to tell you what the bookseller says. meantime i want you to think of the form the collection should take with reference to my proposed re-publication. i mean to take the botany, the geology, the turner defense, and the general art criticism of "modern painters," as four separate books, cutting out nearly all the preaching, and a good deal of the sentiment. now what you find pleasant and helpful to you of general maxim or reflection, _must_ be of some value; and i think therefore that your selection will just do for me what no other reader could have done, least of all i myself; keep together, that is to say, what may be right and true of those youthful thoughts. i should like you to add anything that specially pleases you, of whatever kind; but to keep the notion of your book being the didactic one as opposed to the other picturesque and scientific volumes, will i think help you in choosing between passages when one or other is to be rejected. * * * * * how he fell among thieves. assisi, _ th june_ ( ). i have been having a bad time lately, and have no heart to write to you. very difficult and melancholy work, deciphering what remains of a great painter[ ] among stains of ruin and blotches of repair, of five hundred years' gathering. it makes me sadder than idleness, which is saying much. i was greatly flattered and petted by a saying in one of your last letters, about the difficulty i had in unpacking my mind. that is true; one of my chief troubles at present is with the quantity of things i want to say at once. but you don't know how i find things i laid by carefully in it, all moldy and moth-eaten when i take them out; and what a lot of mending and airing they need, and what a wearisome and bothering business it is compared to the early packing,--one used to be so proud to get things into the corners neatly! i have been failing in my drawings, too, and i'm in a horrible inn kept by a garibaldian bandit; and the various sorts of disgusting dishes sent up to look like a dinner, and to be charged for, are a daily increasing horror and amazement to me. they succeed in getting _everything_ bad; no exertion, no invention, could produce such badness, i believe, anywhere else. the hills are covered for leagues with olive trees, and the oil's bad; there are no such lovely cattle elsewhere in the world, and the butter's bad; half the country people are shepherds, but there's no mutton; half the old women walk about with a pig tied to their waists, but there's no pork; the vine grows wild anywhere, and the wine would make my teeth drop out of my head if i took a glass of it; there are no strawberries, no oranges, no melons, the cherries are as hard as their stones, the beans only good for horses, or jack and the beanstalk, and this is the size of the biggest asparagus-- [illustration: hand-drawn sketch of asparagus stalk] i live here in a narrow street ten feet wide only, winding up a hill, and it was full this morning of sheep as close as they could pack, at least a thousand, as far as the eye could reach,--tinkle tinkle, bleat bleat, for a quarter of an hour. [footnote : cimabue.] * * * * * in paradise. assisi, sacristan's cell, _ th june_ ( ). this letter is all upside down, and this first page written last; for i didn't like something i had written about myself last night when i was tired, and have torn it off. that star you saw beat like a heart must have been a dog star. a planet would not have twinkled. far mightier, he, than any planet; burning with his own planetary host doubtless round him; and, on some speckiest of the specks of them, evangelical persons thinking our sun was made for _them_. ah, susie, i do not pass, unthought of, the many sorrows of which you kindly tell me, to show me--for that is in your heart--how others have suffered also. but, susie, _you_ expect to see your margaret again, and you will be happy with her in heaven. i wanted my rosie _here_. in heaven i mean to go and talk to pythagoras and socrates and valerius publicola. i shan't care a bit for rosie there, she needn't think it. what will gray eyes and red cheeks be good for _there_? these pious sentiments are all written in my sacristan's cell. this extract book[ ] of yours will be most precious in its help to me, provided it is kept within somewhat narrow limits. as soon as it is done i mean to have it published in a strong and pretty but _cheap_ form, and it must not be too bulky. consider, therefore, not only what you like, but how far and with whom each bit is likely to find consent and service. you will have to choose perhaps, after a little while, among what you have already chosen. i mean to leave it _wholly_ in your hands; it is to be susie's choice of my writings. don't get into a flurry of responsibility, but don't at once write down all you have a mind to; i know you'll find a good deal! for you are exactly in sympathy with me in all things. [footnote : "frondes agrestes."] * * * * * assisi, _ th july, _. your lovely letters are always a comfort to me; and not least when you tell me you are sad. you would be far less in sympathy with me if you were not, and in the "everything right" humor of some, even of some really good and kind persons, whose own matters are to their mind, and who understand by "providence" the power which particularly takes care of _them_. this favoritism which goes so sweetly and pleasantly down with so many pious people is the chief of all stumbling-blocks to _me_. i must pray for everybody or nobody, and can't get into any conceptions of relation between heaven and _me_, if not also between heaven and earth, (and why heaven should allow hairs in pens i can't think). i take great care of myself, be quite sure of that, susie; the worst of it is, here in assisi everybody else wants me to take care of them. catharine brought me up as a great treat yesterday at dinner, ham dressed with as much garlic as could be stewed into it, and a plate of raw figs, telling me i was to eat them together! the sun is changing the entire mountains of assisi into a hot bottle with no flannel round it; but i can't get a ripe plum, peach, or cherry. all the milk turns sour, and one has to eat one's meat at its toughest or the thunder gets into it next day. * * * * * foam of tiber. perugia, _ th july_ ( ). i am made anxious by your sweet letter of the th saying you have been ill and are "not much better." the letter is all like yours, but i suppose however ill you were you would always write prettily, so that's little comfort. about the narcissus, please. i want them for my fishpond stream rather than for the bee-house one. the fishpond stream is very doleful, and wants to dance with daffodils if they would come and teach it. how happy we are in our native streams. a thunder-storm swelled the tiber yesterday, and it rolled over its mill weirs in heaps, literally, of tossed water, the size of haycocks, but black brown like coffee with the grounds in it, mixed with a very little yellow milk. in some lights the foam flew like cast handfuls of heavy gravel. the chief flowers here are only broom and bindweed, and i begin to weary for my heather and for my susie; but oh dear, the ways are long and the days few. * * * * * lucca, _ th july_ ( ). i'm not going to be devoured when i come, by anybody, unless _you_ like to. i shall come to your window with the birds, to be fed myself. and please at present always complain to me whenever you like. it is the over boisterous cheerfulness of common people that hurts me; your sadness is a help to me. you shall have whatever name you like for your book provided you continue to like it after thinking over it long enough. you will not like "gleanings," because you know one only gleans refuse--dropped ears--that other people don't care for. _you_ go into the garden and gather with choice the flowers you like best. that is not gleaning! * * * * * lucca, _ th august_ ( ). i have been grieved not to write to you; but the number of things that vex me are so great just now, that unless by false effort i could write you nothing nice. it is very dreadful to live in italy, and more dreadful to see one's england and one's english friends, all but a field or two, and a stream or two, and a one susie and one dr. brown, fast becoming like italy and the italians. i have too _much sympathy_ with your sorrow to write to you of it. what i have not sympathy with, is your hope; and how cruel it is to say this! but i am driven more and more to think there is to be no more good for a time, but a reign of terror of men and the elements alike; and yet it is so like what is foretold before the coming of the son of man that perhaps in the extremest evil of it i may some day read the sign that our redemption draws nigh. now, susie, invent a nice cluster of titles for the book and send them to me to choose from, to hôtel de l'arno, florence. i must get that out before the day of judgment, if i can. i'm so glad of your sweet flatteries in this note received to-day. * * * * * florence, _ th august_ ( ). i have not been able to write to you, or any one lately, whom i don't want to tease, except dr. brown, whom i write to for counsel. my time is passed in a fierce steady struggle to save all i can every day, as a fireman from a smoldering ruin, of history or aspect. to-day, for instance, i've been just in time to ascertain the form of the cross of the emperor, representing the power of the state in the greatest _political_ fresco of old times--fourteenth century. by next year, it may be next month, it will have dropped from the wall with the vibration of the railway outside, and be touched up with new gilding for the mob. i am keeping well, but am in a terrible spell (literally, "spell," enchanted maze, that i can't get out of) of work. i _was_ a little scandalized at the idea of your calling the book "word-painting." my dearest susie, it is the chief provocation of my life to be called a "word-painter" instead of a thinker. i hope you haven't filled your book with descriptions. i thought it was the thoughts you were looking for? "posie" would be pretty. if you ask joanie she will tell you perhaps _too_ pretty for _me_, and i can't think a bit to-night, for instead of robins singing i hear only blaspheming gamesters on the other side of the narrow street. * * * * * florence, _ st september_ ( ). don't be in despair about your book. i am sure it will be lovely. i'll see to it the moment i get home, but i've got into an entirely unexpected piece of business here, the interpretation of a large chapel[ ] full of misunderstood, or not at all understood, frescoes; and i'm terribly afraid of breaking down, so much drawing has to be done at the same time. it has stranded botany and everything. i was kept awake half of last night by drunken blackguards howling on the bridge of the holy trinity in the pure half-moonlight. this is the kind of discord i have to bear, corresponding to your uncongenial company. but, alas! susie, you ought at ten years old to have more firmness, and to resolve that you won't be bored. i think i shall try to enforce it on you as a very solemn duty not to _lie_ to people as the vulgar public do. if they bore you, say so, and they'll go away. that is the right state of things. how am i to know that _i_ don't bore you, when _i_ come, when you're so civil to people you hate? [footnote : spanish chapel in s. maria novella.] * * * * * pass of bocchetta, _ st october_ ( ). * * * * * * all that is lovely and wonderful in the alps may be seen without the slightest danger, in general, and it is especially good for little girls of eleven who can't climb, to know this--all the best views of hills are at the bottom of them. i know one or two places indeed where there is a grand peeping over precipices, one or two where the mountain seclusion and strength are worth climbing to see. but all the entirely beautiful things i could show you, susie; only for the very highest sublime of them sometimes asking you to endure half an hour of _chaise à porteurs_, but mostly from a post-chaise or smoothest of turnpike roads. but, susie, do you know, i'm greatly horrified at the penwipers of peacocks' feathers! _i_ always use my left-hand coat-tail, indeed, and if only i were a peacock and a pet of yours, how you'd scold me! sun just coming out over sea (at sestri), which is sighing in towards the window, within your drive, round before the door's breadth of it,[ ] seen between two masses of acacia copse and two orange trees at the side of the inn courtyard. [footnote : that is, within that distance of the window.--j. r.] * * * * * geneva, _ th october_ ( ). how i have been neglecting you! perhaps joanie may have told you that just at my last gasp of hand-work, i had to write quite an unexpected number of letters. but poor joanie will think herself neglected now, for i have been stopped among the alps by a state of their glaciers entirely unexampled, and shall be a week after my "latest possible" day, in getting home. it is eleven years since i was here, and very sad to me to return, yet delightful with a moonlight paleness of the past, precious of its kind. i shall be at home with joan in ten days now, god willing. i have much to tell you, which will give you pleasure and pain; but i don't know how much it will be--to tell you--for a little while yet, so i don't begin. * * * * * oxford, _ th october_ ( ). home at last with your lovely, most lovely, letter in my breast pocket. i am so very grateful to you for not writing on black paper. oh, dear susie, why should we ever wear black for the guests of god? * * * * * wharfe in flood. bolton abbey, _ th january, _. the black rain, much as i growled at it, has let me see wharfe in flood; and i would have borne many days in prison to see that. no one need go to the alps to see wild water. seldom unless in the rhine or rhone themselves at their rapids, have i seen anything much grander. an alpine stream, besides, nearly always has its bed full of loose stones, and becomes a series of humps and dumps of water wherever it is shallow; while the wharfe swept round its curves of shore like a black damascus saber, coiled into eddies of steel. at the strid, it had risen eight feet vertical since yesterday, sheeting the flat rocks with foam from side to side, while the treacherous mid-channel was filled with a succession of boiling domes of water, charged through and through with churning white, and rolling out into the broader stream, each like a vast sea wave bursting on a beach. there is something in the soft and comparatively unbroken slopes of these yorkshire shales which must give the water a peculiar sweeping power, for i have seen tay and tummel and ness, and many a big stream besides, savage enough, but i don't remember anything so grim as this. i came home to quiet tea and a black kitten called sweep, who lapped half my cream jugful (and yet i had plenty) sitting on my shoulder,--and life of sir walter scott. i was reading his great scottish history tour, when he was twenty-three, and got his materials for everything nearly, but especially for waverley, though not used till long afterwards. do you recollect gibbie gellatly? i was thinking over that question of yours, "what did i think?"[ ] but, my dear susie, you might as well ask gibbie gellatly what _he_ thought. what does it matter what any of us think? we are but simpletons, the best of us, and i am a very inconsistent and wayward simpleton. i know how to roast eggs, in the ashes, perhaps--but for the next world! why don't you ask your squirrel what _he_ thinks too? the great point--the one for all of us--is, not to take false words in our mouths, and to crack our nuts innocently through winter and rough weather. i shall post this to-morrow as i pass through skipton or any post-worthy place on my way to wakefield. write to warwick. oh me, what places england had, when she was herself! now, rail stations mostly. but i never can make out how warwick castle got built by that dull bit of river. [footnote : of the things that shall be, hereafter.--j. r.] * * * * * "frondes." wakefield, _ th january, _. here's our book in form at last, and it seems to me just a nice size, and on the whole very taking. i've put a touch or two more to the preface, and i'm sadly afraid there's a naughty note somewhere. i hope you won't find it, and that you will like the order the things are put in. such ill roads as we came over to-day, i never thought to see in england. * * * * * castleton, _ th january, _. here i have your long dear letter. i am very thankful i can be so much to you. of all the people i have yet known, you are the only one i can find complete sympathy in; you are so nice and young without the hardness of youth, and may be the best of sisters to me. i am not so sure about letting you be an elder one; i am not going to be lectured when i'm naughty. i've been so busy at _wasps_ all day coming along, having got a nice book about them. it tells me, too, of a delightful german doctor who kept tame hornets,--a whole nest in his study! they knew him perfectly, and would let him do anything with them, even pull bits off their nest to look in at it. wasps, too, my author says, are really much more amiable than bees, and never get angry without cause. all the same, they have a tiresome way of inspecting one, too closely, sometimes, i think. i'm immensely struck with the peak cavern, but it was in twilight. i'm going to stay here all to-morrow, the place is so entirely unspoiled. i've not seen such a primitive village, rock, or stream, this twenty years; langdale is as sophisticated as pall mall in comparison. * * * * * wasp stings. bolton bridge, _saturday_. i never was more thankful than for your sweet note, being stopped here by bad weather again; the worst of posting is that one has to think of one's servant outside, and so lose a day. it was bitter wind and snow this morning, too bad to send any human creature to sit idle in. black enough still, and i more than usual, because it is just that point of distinction from brutes which i truly say is our only one,[ ] of which i have now so little hold. the bee fors[ ] will be got quickly into proof, but i must add a good deal to it. i can't get into good humor for natural history in this weather. i've got a good book on wasps which says they are our chief protectors against flies. in cumberland the wet cold spring is so bad for the wasps that i partly think this may be so, and the terrible plague of flies in august might perhaps be checked by our teaching our little agneses to keep wasps' nests instead of bees. yes, that is a pretty bit of mine about hamlet, and i think i must surely be a little pathetic sometimes, in a doggish way. "you're so dreadfully faithful!" said arthur severn to me, fretting over the way i was being ill-treated the other day by r. oh dear, i wish i were at brantwood again, now, and could send you my wasp book! _it_ is pathetic, and yet so dreadful,--the wasp bringing in the caterpillar for its young wasp, stinging each enough to paralyze but not to kill, and so laying them up in the cupboard. i wonder how the clergymen's wives will feel after the next fors or two! i've done a bit to-day which i think will go in with a shiver. do you recollect the curious _thrill_ there is--the cold _tingle_ of the pang of a nice deep wasp sting? well, i'm not in a fit temper to write to susie to-day, clearly. [footnote : i've forgotten what it was, and don't feel now as if i had 'got hold' of _any_ one.--j. r.] [footnote : see "fors clavigera", letter li.] * * * * * bolton strid. i stopped here to see the strid again--not seen these many years. it is curious that life is embittered to me, now, by its former pleasantness; while _you_ have of these same places painful recollections, but you could enjoy them now with your whole heart. instead of the drive with the poor over-labored one horse through the long wet day, here, when i was a youth, my father and mother brought me,[ ] and let me sketch in the abbey and ramble in the woods as i chose, only demanding promise that i should not go near the strid. pleasant drives, with, on the whole, well paid and pleased drivers, never with over-burdened cattle; cheerful dinner or tea waiting for me always, on my return from solitary rambles. everything right and good for me, except only that they never put me through any trials to harden me, or give me decision of character, or make me feel how much they did for me. but that error was a fearful one, and cost them and me, heaven only knows how much. and now, i walk to strid, and abbey, and everywhere, with the ghosts of the past days haunting me, and other darker spirits of sorrow and remorse and wonder. black spirits among the gray, all like a mist between me and the green woods. and i feel like a caterpillar,--stung _just enough_. foul weather and mist enough, of quite a real kind besides. an hour's sunshine to-day, broken up speedily, and now veiled utterly. [footnote : in .] * * * * * herne hill, london, _ th february, _. i have your sweet letter with news of dr. john and his brother. i have been working on the book to-day very hard, after much interruption; it is two-thirds done now. so glad people are on tiptoe. paddocks are frogs, not toads in that grace.[ ] and why should not people smile? do you think that god does not like smiling graces? he only dislikes frowns. but you know when once habitual, the child would be told on a cold day to say "cold as paddocks;" and everybody would know what was coming. finally the deep under-meaning, that as the cold hand is lifted, so also the cold heart, and yet accepted, makes it one of the prettiest little hymns i know. i cannot tell you how very apposite to my work these two feathers are. i am just going to dwell on the exquisite result of the division into successive leaves, by which nature obtains the glittering look to set off her color; and you just send me two feathers which have it more in perfection than any i ever saw, and i think are more vivid in color. how those boys must tease you! but you will be rewarded in the world that good susies go to. [footnote : herrick's. see "fors clavigera", letter xliii.] * * * * * herne hill, _ th october_ ( ). all your letter is delicious, but chiefest the last sentence where you say you like your chaucer so much.--and you need never fear touching that wound of mine--it is never more--never less--without its pain. i like you to lay your pure--gentle hand on it. but i am not despondent or beaten at all, and i'm at work on your peacock's feathers--and oh me, they should be put into some great arch of crystal where one could see them like a large rainbow--i use your dear little lens deep in and in--and can't exhaust their wonderfulness. * * * * * hÔtel meurice, paris, _ th august, ' _. i'm so very miserable just now that i can't write to you: but i don't want you to think that i am going so far away without wishing to be near you again. a fit of intense despondency coming on the top, or under the bottom, of already far-fallen fatigue leaves me helpless to-day, my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. oh dear, the one pleasant thing i've to say is that it will make me know the blessings of brantwood and dearness of the thwaite, twenty fold more, when i get back. * * * * * venice, _ th september, ' _. i am a sad long way from the pretty garden steps of the thwaite, now, yet in a way, at home, here also--having perhaps more feeling of old days at venice than at any other place in the world, having done so much work there, and i hope to get my new "stones of venice" into almost as nice a form as "frondes." i'm going to keep all that i think susie would like, and then to put in some little bits to my own liking, and some other little bits for the pleasure of teasing, and i think the book will come out quite fresh. i am settled here for a month at least--and shall be very thankful for susie notes, when they cross the alps to me in these lovely days. love to mary--i wish i could have sent both some of the dark blue small veronica i found on the simplon! * * * * * venice, _ th september, _. i must just say how thankful it makes me to hear of this true gentleness of english gentlewomen in the midst of the vice and cruelty in which i am forced to live here, where oppression on one side and license on the other rage as two war-wolves in continual havoc. it is very characteristic of fallen venice, as of modern europe, that here in the principal rooms of one of the chief palaces in the very headmost sweep of the grand canal there is not a room for a servant fit to keep a cat or a dog in (as susie would keep cat or dog, at least). * * * * * venice, _ th september_ ( ). i never knew such a fight as the good and wicked fairies are having over my poor body and spirit just now. the good fairies have got down the st. ursula for me and given her to me all to myself, and sent me fine weather and nice gondoliers, and a good cook, and a pleasant waiter; and the bad fairies keep putting everything upside down, and putting black in my box when i want white, and making me forget all i want, and find all i don't, and making the hinges come off my boards, and the leaves out of my books, and driving me as wild as wild can be; but i'm getting something done in spite of them, only i never _can_ get my letters written. * * * * * venice, _september th_. i have woeful letters telling me you also were woeful in saying good-bye. my darling susie, what _is_ the use of your being so good and dear if you can't enjoy thinking of heaven, and what fine goings on we shall all have there? all the same, even when i'm at my very piousest, it puts me out if my drawings go wrong. i'm going to draw st. ursula's blue slippers to-day, and if i can't do them nicely shall be in great despair. i've just found a little cunning inscription on her bedpost, 'in fanntia.' the double n puzzled me at first, but carpaccio spells anyhow. my head is not good enough for a bedpost....oh me, the sweet grange!--thwaite, i mean (bedpost again); to think of it in this mass of weeds and ruin! * * * * * st. ursula. venice, _ th november_ ( ). i have to-day your dear little note, and have desired joan to send you one just written to her in which i have given some account of myself, that may partly interest, partly win your pardon for apparent neglect. coming here, after practically an interval of twenty-four years,--for i have not seriously looked at anything during the two hurried visits with joan,[ ]--my old unfinished work, and the possibilities of its better completion, rise grievously and beguilingly before me, and i have been stretching my hands to the shadow of old designs and striving to fulfill shortcomings, always painful to me, but now, for the moment, intolerable. i am also approaching the close of the sixth year of fors, and have plans for the sabbatical year of it, which make my thoughts active and troubled. i am drawing much, and have got a study of st. ursula which will give you pleasure; but the pain of being separate from my friends and of knowing they miss me! i wonder if you will think you are making me too vain, susie. such vanity is a very painful one, for i know that you look out of the window on sundays now, wistfully, for joan's handkerchief. this pain seems always at my heart, with the other which is its own. i am thankful, always, you like st. ursula. _one_ quite fixed plan for the last year of fors, is that there shall be absolutely no abuse or controversy in it, but things which will either give pleasure or help; and some clear statements of principle, in language as temperate as hitherto violent; to show, for one thing, that the violence was not for want of self-command. i'm going to have a good fling at the bishops in next fors to finish with, and then for january!--only i mustn't be too good, susie, or something would happen to me. so i shall say naughty things still, but in the mildest way. i am very grateful to you for that comparison about my mind being as crisp as a lettuce. i am _so_ thankful you can feel that still. i was beginning to doubt, myself. [footnote : may and june .] * * * * * st. mark's doves. venice, _ d december_ ( ). i have been very dismal lately. i hope the next captain of st. george's company will be a merrier one and happier, in being of use. i am inherently selfish, and don't enjoy being of use. and here i've no susies nor kathleens nor diddies, and i'm only doing lots of good, and i'm very miserable. i've been going late to bed too. i picked myself up last night and went to bed at nine, and feel cheerful enough to ask susie how she does, and send her love from st. mark's doves. they're really tiresome now, among one's feet in st. mark's place, and i don't know what it will come to. in old times, when there were not so many idlers about, the doves were used to brisk walkers, and moved away a foot or two in front of one; but now everybody lounges, or stands talking about the government, and the doves won't stir till one just touches them; and i who walk fast[ ] am always expecting to tread on them, and it's a nuisance. if i only had time i would fain make friends with the sea-gulls, who would be quite like angels if they would only stop on one's balcony. if there were the least bit of truth in darwinism, venice would have had her own born sea-gulls by this time building their nests at her thresholds. [footnote : see "fors clavigera", letter lxxxii.] * * * * * venice, _ th december_ ( ). my mouth's watering so for that thwaite currant jelly, you can't think. i haven't had the least taste of anything of the sort this three months. these wretches of venetians live on cigars and garlic, and have no taste in their mouths for anything that god makes nice. the little drawing (returned) is nice in color and feeling, but, which surprises me, not at all intelligent in line. it is not weakness of hand but fault of perspective instinct, which spoils so many otherwise good botanical drawings. bright morning. sickle moon just hiding in a red cloud, and the morning stars just vanished in light. but we've had nearly three weeks of dark weather, so we mustn't think it poor coniston's fault--though coniston _has_ faults. * * * * * st. mark's rest. _ d january, _. a great many lovely things happened to me this christmas, but if i were to tell susie of them i am sure she would be frightened out of her bright little wits, and think i was going to be a roman catholic. i'm writing _such_ a catholic history of venice, and chiseling all the protestantism off the old "stones" as they do here the grass off steps. all the pigeons of st. mark's place send you their love. st. ursula adds hers to the eleven thousand birds' love. and the darlingest old pope who went a pilgrimage with her, hopes you won't be too much shocked if he sends _his_ too! (if you're not shocked, _i_ am!) my new catholic history of venice is to be called "st. mark's rest." * * * * * _ th january_ ( ). joanie tells me you are writing her such sad little letters. how _can_ it be that any one so good and true as my susie should be sad? i am sad, bitterly enough and often, but only with sense of fault and folly and lost opportunity such as you have never fallen into or lost. it is very cruel of fate, i think, to make us sad, who would fain see everybody cheerful, and (cruel of fate too) to make so many cheerful who make others wretched. the little history of venice is well on, and will be clear and interesting, i think,--more than most histories of anything. and the stories of saints and nice people will be plenty. such moonlight as there is to-night, but nothing to what it is at coniston! it makes the lagoon water look brown instead of green, which i never noticed before. * * * * * venice, _ th february, _. your praise and sympathy do me double good, because you could not praise me so nicely and brightly without pleasure of your own. i'm always sure a fors will be good if i feel it will please susie;--but i can only write them now as they're given me; it all depends on what i'm about. but i'm doing a great deal just now which you will enjoy--i'm thankful to say, i know you will. st. theodore's horse is delightful[ ]--and our venetian doggie--and some birds are coming too! this is not a letter--but just a purr. [footnote : st. theodore had a contest with a dragon, and his horse gave considerable help, trampling it down with its four feet. the saint spoke first to the horse as to a man--"oh thou horse of christ comfort thee, be strong like a man, and come that we may conquer the contrary enemy." see "fors," vol. vii. also "st. mark's rest,"] * * * * * saints and flowers. venice, _ th february_ ( ). it is very grievous to me to hear of your being in that woeful weather while i have two days' sunshine out of three, and starlight or moonlight always; to-day the whole chain of the alps from vicenza to trieste shining cloudless all day long, and the sea-gulls floating high in the blue, like little dazzling boys' kites. yes, st. francis would have been greatly pleased with you watching pussy drink your milk; so would st. theodore, as you will see by next fors, which i have ordered to be sent you in first proof, for i am eager that you should have it. what wonderful flowers these pinks of st. ursula's are, for life! they seem to bloom like everlastings. i get my first rosebud and violets of this year from st. helena's island to-day. how i begin to pity people who have no saints to be good to them! who is yours at coniston? there must have been some in the country once upon a time. with their help i am really getting well on with my history and drawing, and hope for a sweet time at home in the heathery days, and many a nice afternoon tea at the thwaite. * * * * * venice, _ th march, _. that is entirely new and wonderful to me about the singing mouse.[ ] douglas (was it the douglas?) saying "he had rather hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak" needs revision. it is a marvelous fact in natural history. the wind is singing a wild tune to-night--cannot be colder on our own heaths--and the waves dash like our waterhead. oh me, when i'm walking round it again how like a sad dream all this venice will be! [footnote : a pleasant story that a friend sent me from france. the mouse often came into their sitting-room and actually sang to them, the notes being a little like a canary's.--s. b.] * * * * * venice, _ th may, _. i've not tumbled into the lagoons, nor choked myself in a passion, nor gone and made a monk of myself--nor got poisoned by the italian cooks. i'm packing up, and coming to the thwaite as soon as ever i can--after a little alpine breathing of high air. i'm pretty well--if you'll forgive me for being so naughty--else i can't be even plain well--but i'm always your loving---- [transcriber's note: no ending to the sentence here.] * * * * * oxford, _ d december_ ( ). i write first to you this morning to tell you that i gave yesterday the twelfth and last[ ] of my course of lectures this term, to a room crowded by six hundred people, two-thirds members of the university, and with its door wedged open by those who could not get in; this interest of theirs being granted to me, i doubt not, because for the first time in oxford, i have been able to speak to them boldly of immortal life. i intended when i began the course only to have read "modern painters" to them; but when i began, some of your favorite bits interested the men so much, and brought so much larger a proportion of undergraduates than usual, that i took pains to reinforce and press them home; and people say i have never given so useful a course yet. but it has taken all my time and strength, and i have not been able even to tell susie a word about it until now. in one of my lectures i made my text your pretty peacock and the design[ ] of him. but did not venture to say what really must be true, that his voice is an example of "the devil sowed tares," and of the angels letting both grow together. my grateful compliments to the peacock. and little (but warm) loves to all your little birds. and best of little loves to the squirrels, only you must send _them_ in dream-words, i suppose, up to their nests. [footnote : an oxford lecture. _nineteenth century_, january, .] [footnote : decorative art of his plumage.--j. r.] * * * * * herne hill, _sunday, th december_ ( ). it is a long while since i've felt so good for nothing as i do this morning. my very wristbands curl up in a dog's-eared and disconsolate manner; my little room is all a heap of disorder. i've got a hoarseness and wheezing and sneezing and coughing and choking. i can't speak and i can't think, i'm miserable in bed and useless out of it; and it seems to me as if i could never venture to open a window or go out of a door any more. i have the dimmest sort of diabolical pleasure in thinking how miserable i shall make susie by telling her all this; but in other respects i seem entirely devoid of all moral sentiments. i have arrived at this state of things, first by catching cold, and since by trying to "amuse myself" for three days. i tried to read "pickwick," but found that vulgar,[ ] and, besides, i know it all by heart. i sent from town for some chivalric romances, but found them immeasurably stupid. i made baxter read me the _daily telegraph_, and found that the home secretary had been making an absurd speech about art, without any consciousness that such a person as i had ever existed. i read a lot of games of chess out of mr. staunton's handbook, and couldn't understand any of them. i analyzed the dock company's bill of charges on a box from venice, and sent them an examination paper on it. i think _that_ did amuse me a little, but the account doesn't. _£ s. d._ for bringing a box two feet square from the tower wharf to here! but the worst of all is, that the doctor keeps me shut up here, and i can't get my business done; and now there isn't the least chance of my getting down to brantwood for christmas, nor, as far as i can see, for a fortnight after it. there's perhaps a little of the diabolical enjoyment again in that estimate; but really the days _do_ go, more like dew shaken off branches than real sunrisings and settings. but i'll send you word every day now for a little while how things are going on. [footnote : "may i ask you to correct a false impression which any of your readers who still care to know my opinions would receive from the reference to dickens in your kind notice of my letters to miss beever....i have not the letters here, and forget what i said about my pickwick's not amusing me when i was ill, but it always does, to this hour, when i am well; though i have known it by heart, pretty nearly all, since it came out; and i love dickens with every bit of my heart, and sympathize in everything he thought or tried to do, except in his effort to make more money by readings which killed him." _letter to "daily telegraph", sandgate, january , ._] * * * * * corpus christi college, oxford, _ th december, _. i don't know really whether i _ought_ to be at brantwood or here on christmas. yesterday i had two lovely services in my own cathedral. you know the _cathedral_ of oxford is the chapel of christ church college, and i have my own high seat in the chancel, as an honorary student, besides being bred there, and so one is ever so proud and ever so pious all at once, which is ever so nice, you know; and my own dean, that's the dean of christ's church, who is as big as any bishop, read the services, and the psalms and anthems were lovely; and then i dined with henry acland and his family, where i am an adopted son,--all the more wanted yesterday because the favorite son herbert died this year in ceylon,--the first death out of seven sons. so they were glad to have me. then i've all my turners here, and shall really enjoy myself a little to-day, i think; but i do wish i could be at brantwood too. oh dear, i've scribbled this dreadfully. can you really read my scribble, susie? love, you may always read, however scribbled. * * * * * oxford, _ th december_, . by the way, what a shame it is that we keep that word "jealous" in the second commandment, as if it meant that god was jealous of images. it means burning, zealous or full of life, visiting, etc., _i.e._, necessarily when leaving the father leaving the child; necessarily, when giving the father life, giving life to the child, and to thousands of the race of them that love me. it is very comic the way people have of being so particular about the second and fourth commandments, and breaking all the rest with the greatest comfort. for me, i try to keep all the rest rather carefully, and let the second and fourth take care of themselves. cold quite gone; now it's your turn, susie. i've got a love letter in chinese, and can't read it! * * * * * windsor castle, _ d january, _. i'm horribly sulky this morning, for i expected to have a room with a view, if the room was ever so little, and i've got a great big one looking into the castle yard, and i feel exactly as if i was in a big modern county jail with beautiful turrets of modern gothic. i came to see prince leopold, who has been a prisoner to his sofa lately, but i trust he is better; he is very bright and gentle, under severe and almost continual pain. my dear little susie, about that rheumatism of yours? if it wasn't for that, how happy we both ought to be, living in thwaites and woods, instead of nasty castles! well, about that shakespeare guide? i cannot, cannot, at all fancy what it is. in and out among the stars; it sounds like a plan for stringing the stars. i am so very glad you told me of it. "unwritten books in my brain?" yes, but also in how many other brains of quiet people, books unthought of, "in the book and volume" which will be read some day in heaven, aloud, "when saw we thee?" yes, and "when _read_ we ourselves?" my dear susie, if i were to think really _lost_, what you for instance have new found in your own powers of receiving and giving pleasure, the beautiful faculties you have, scarcely venturing even to show the consciousness of them, when it awakes in you, what a woeful conception i should have of god's not caring for us. he will gather all the wheat into his garner. * * * * * ingleton, _ th january_ ( ). it's a charming post here, and brings me my letters the first thing in the morning; and i took care to tell nobody where i was going, except people i wanted to hear from. what a little busy bee of a susie you've been to get all those extracts ready by this time. i've got nothing done all the while i've been away, but a few mathematical figures, and the less i do the less i find i can do it; and yesterday, for the first time these twenty years at least, i hadn't so much as a "plan" in my head all day. but i had a lot to look at in the moorland flowers and quiet little ancient yorkshire farmhouses, not to speak of ingleborough, who was, i think, a little depressed because he knew you were only going to send your remembrances and not your love to him. the clouds gathered on his brow occasionally in a fretful manner, but towards evening he resumed his peace of mind and sends you his "remembrances" and his "blessing." i believe he saves both you and me from a great deal of east wind. well, i've got a plan in my head _this_ morning for the new extracts. shall we call them "lapides (or "marmora") portici"; and put a little preface to them about the pavement of st. mark's porch and its symbolism of what the education of a good man's early days must be to him? i think i can write something a little true and trustworthy about it. * * * * * _ th november._ i have entirely resigned all hope of ever thanking you rightly for bread, sweet odors, roses and pearls, and must just allow myself to be fed, scented, rose-garlanded and bepearled as if i were a poor little pet dog or pet pig. but my cold is better, and i _am_ getting on with this botany; but it is really too important a work to be pushed for a week or a fortnight. and mary and you will be pleased at last, i am sure. i have only to-day got my four families, clarissa, lychnis, scintilla, and mica, perfectly and simply defined.[ ] see how nicely they come. a. clarissa changed from dianthus, which is bad greek (and all my pretty flowers have names of girls). petal _jagged_ at the outside. b. lychnis. petal _divided in two_ at the outside, and the fringe retired to the top of the limb. c. scintilla. (changed from stellaria, because i want stella for the house leeks.) petal formed by the _two_ lobes of lychnis without the retired fringe. d. mica. _single_ lobed petal. when once these four families are well understood in typical examples, how easy it will be to attach either subordinate groups or specialities of habitat, as in america, to some kinds of them! the entire order, for their purity and wildness, are to be named, from artemis, "artemides", instead of caryophyllaceæ; and next them come the vestals (mints, lavenders, etc.); and then the cytheride viola, veronica, giulietta, the last changed from polygala. that third herb robert one is just the drawing that nobody but me (never mind grammar) could have made. nobody! because it means ever so much careful watching of the ways of the leaf, and a lot of work in cramp perspective besides. it is not quite right yet, but it _is_ nice. [footnote : "proserpina,"] * * * * * it is so nice to be able to find anything that is in the least new to _you_, and interesting; my rocks are quite proud of rooting that little saxifrage. i'm scarcely able to look at one flower because of the two on each side, in my garden just now. i want to have bees' eyes, there are so many lovely things. i must tell you, interrupting my botanical work this morning, something that has just chanced to me. i am arranging the caryophylls, which i mass broadly into "clarissa," the true jagged-leaved and clove-scented ones; "lychnis," those whose leaves are essentially in two lobes; "arenaria," which i leave untouched; and "mica," a new name of my own for the pearlworts of which the french name is to be miette, and the representative type (now sagina procumbens) is to be in-- _latin_--mica amica. _french_--miette l'amie. _english_--pet pearlwort. then the next to this is to be-- _latin_--mica millegrana. _french_--miette aux mille perles. _english_--thousand pearls. now this on the whole i consider the prettiest of the group, and so look for a plate of it which i can copy. hunting all through my botanical books, i find the best of all is baxter's oxford one, and determine at once to engrave that. when turning the page of his text i find: "the specimen of this curious and interesting little plant from which the accompanying drawing was made was communicated to me by miss susan beever. to the kindness of this young lady, and that of her sister, miss mary beever, i am indebted for the four plants figured in this number." i have copied lest you should have trouble in looking for the book, but now, you darling susie, please tell me whether i may not separate these lovely pearlworts wholly from the spergulas,--by the pearlworts having only two leaves like real pinks at the joints, and the spergulas, a _cluster_; and tell me how the spergulas scatter their seeds, i can't find any account of it. * * * * * i would fain have come to see that st. bruno lily; but if i don't come to see susie and you, be sure i am able to come to see nothing. at present i am very deeply involved in the classification of the minerals in the sheffield museum, important as the first practical arrangement ever yet attempted for popular teaching, and this with my other work makes me fit for nothing in the afternoon but wood-chopping. but i will call to-day on dr. brown's friends. i hope you will not be too much shocked with the audacities of the new number[ ] of "proserpina," or with its ignorances. i am going during my wood-chopping really to ascertain in my own way what simple persons ought to know about tree growth, and give it clearly in the next number. i meant to do the whole book very differently, but can only now give the fragmentary pieces as they chance to come, or it would never be done at all. you must know before anybody else how the exogens are to be completely divided. i keep the four great useful groups, mallow, geranium, mint, and wallflower, under the head of domestic orders, that their sweet service and companionship with us may be understood; then the water-lily and the heath, both four foils, are to be studied in their solitudes (i shall throw all that are not four foils out of the ericaceæ); then finally there are to be seven orders of the dark proserpine, headed by the draconids (snapdragons), and including the anemones, hellebores, ivies, and forget-me-nots. what plants i cannot get ranged under these + + + == in all, orders, i shall give broken notices of, as i have time, leaving my pupils to arrange them as they like. i can't do it all. the whole household was out after breakfast to-day to the top of the moor to plant cranberries; and we squeezed and splashed and spluttered in the boggiest places the lovely sunshine had left, till we found places squashy and squeezy enough to please the most particular and coolest of cranberry minds; and then each of us choosing a little special bed of bog, the tufts were deeply put in with every manner of tacit benediction, such as might befit a bog and a berry, and many an expressed thanksgiving to susie and to the kind sender of the luxuriant plants. i have never had gift from you, dear susie, more truly interesting and gladdening to me, and many a day i shall climb the moor to see the fate of the plants and look across to the thwaite. i've been out most of the forenoon and am too sleepy to shape letters, but will try and get a word of thanks to the far finder of the dainty things to-morrow. what loveliness everywhere in a duckling sort of state just now. [footnote : part .] * * * * * brantwood. i hope you did not get a chill in the garden. the weather is a little wrong again, but i am thankful for last night's sunset. you know our english bible is only of james st time--stalk is a saxon word, and gets into english i fancy as early as the plantagenets--but i have not hunted it down.--i'm just in the same mess with "pith," but i'm finding out a great deal about the thing though not the word, for next "deucalion," in chopping my wood. you know, "funckia" won't last long. i am certain i shall have strength enough to carry my system of nomenclature at least as far, as to exclude people's individual names. i won't even have a "susia"--stay--that's christian--yes, i will have a susia. but not a "beeveria," though---- * * * * * to miss beever. _ th january, ._ you will not doubt the extreme sorrow with which i have heard of all that was ordered to be, of terrible, in your peaceful and happy household. without for an instant supposing, but, on the contrary, utterly refusing to admit, that such calamities[ ] may be used to point a moral (all useful morality having every point that god meant it to have, perfectly sharp and bright without any burnishing of _ours_), still less to adorn a tale (the tales of modern days depending far too much upon scythian decoration with death's heads), i, yet, if i had been mr. chapman, would have pointed out that all concealments, even of trivial matters, on the part of young servants from kind mistresses, are dangerous no less than unkind and ungenerous, and that a great deal of preaching respecting the evil nature of man and the anger of god might be spared, if children and servants were only taught, as a religious principle, to tell their mothers and mistresses, when they go out, exactly where they are going and what they are going to do. i think both you and miss susan ought to use every possible means of changing, or at least checking, the current of such thoughts in your minds; and i am in hopes that you may have a little pleasure in examining the plates in the volume of sibthorpe's "f. græca" which i send to-day, in comparison with those of "f. danica." the vulgarity and lifelessness of sibthorpe's plates are the more striking because in mere execution they are the more elaborate of the two; the chief point in the "f. danica" being the lovely artistic skill. the drawings for sibthorpe, by a young german, were as exquisite as the dane's, but the english engraver and colorist spoiled all. i will send you, if you like them, the other volumes in succession. i find immense interest in comparing the greek and danish forms or conditions of the same english flower. i send the second volume, in which the rufias are lovely, and scarcely come under my above condemnation. the _first_ is nearly all of grass. [footnote : one of our younger servants had gone on to the frozen lake; the ice gave way, and she was drowned.--s. b.] * * * * * brantwood, _ th february_ ( ). you know i'm getting my oxford minerals gradually to brantwood, and whenever a box comes, i think whether there are any that i don't want myself, which might yet have leave to live on susie's table. and to-day i've found a very soft purple agate, that looks as if it were nearly melted away with pity for birds and flies, which is like susie; and another piece of hard wooden agate with only a little ragged sky of blue here and there, which is like me; and a group of crystals with grass of epidote inside, which is like what my own little cascade has been all the winter by the garden side; and so i've had them all packed up, and i hope you will let them live at the thwaite. then here are some more bits, if you will be a child. here's a green piece, long, of the stone they cut those green weedy brooches out of, and a nice mouse-colored natural agate, and a great black and white one, stained with sulphuric acid, black but very fine always, and interesting in its lines. oh dear, the cold; but it's worth _any_ cold to have that delicious robin dialogue. please write some more of it; you hear all they say, i'm sure. i cannot tell you how delighted i am with your lovely gift to joanie. the perfection of the stone, its exquisite color, and superb weight, and flawless clearness, and the delicate cutting, which makes the light flash from it like a wave of the lake, make it altogether the most perfect mineralogical and heraldic jewel that joanie could be bedecked with, and it is as if susie had given her a piece of coniston water itself. and the setting is delicious, and positively must not be altered. i shall come on sunday to thank you myself for it. meantime i'm working hard at the psalter, which i am almost sure susie will like. * * * * * brantwood. i am so very glad you like sir philip so much. i've sent for, and hope to get him for you. he was shot before he had done half his psalter--his sister finished it, but very meanly in comparison, you can tell the two hands on the harp at a mile off. the photograph--please say--like all photos whatsoever, is only nature dirtied and undistanced.--if that is all one wants in trees,--they might be dead all the year round. * * * * * _ th may_ ( ). this is a most wonderful stone that dr. kendall has found--at least to _me_. i have never seen anything quite like it, the arborescent forms of the central thread of iron being hardly ever assumed by an ore of so much metallic luster. i think it would be very desirable to cut it, so as to get a perfectly smooth surface to show the arborescent forms; if dr. kendall would like to have it done, i can easily send it up to london with my own next parcel. i want very much to know exactly where it was found; might i come and ask about it on dr. kendall's next visit to you? i could be there waiting for him any day. what lovely pictures you would have made in the old butterfly times, of opal and felspar! what lost creatures we all are, we nice ones! the alps and clouds that _i_ could have done, if i had been shown how. * * * * * _ th june_ ( ). everybody's gone! and i have all the new potatoes, and all the asparagus, and all the oranges and everything, and my susie too, all to myself. i wrote in my diary this morning that really on the whole i never felt better in my life. mouth, eyes, head, feet, and fingers all fairly in trim; older than they were, yes, but if the head and heart grow wiser, they won't want feet or fingers some day. and i'll come to be cheered and scolded myself the moment i've got things a little to rights here. i think imps get into the shelves and drawers, if they're kept long locked, and must be caught like mice. the boys have been very good, and left everything untouched; but the imps; and to hear people say there aren't any! how happy you and i should always be if it weren't for them! how gay you were and how you cheered me up after the dark lake. please say "john inglesant" is harder than real history and of no mortal use. i couldn't read four pages of it. clever, of course. * * * * * herne hill, _ th august, _. i've _just_ finished my scott paper:[ ] but it has retouchings and notings yet to do. i couldn't write a word before; haven't so much as a syllable to diddie, and only a move at chess to macdonald, for, you know, to keep a chess player waiting for a move is like keeping st. lawrence unturned. [footnote : "fiction fair and foul", no. .] * * * * * _ st august, ._ i'm leaving to-day for dover, and a line from you to-morrow or monday would find me certainly at poste restante, abbeville. i have not been working at all, but enjoying myself (only that takes up time all the same) at crystal palace concerts, and jugglings, and at zoological gardens, where i had a snake seven feet long to play with, only i hadn't much time to make friends, and it rather wanted to get away all the time. and i gave the hippopotamus _whole_ buns, and he was delighted, and saw the cormorant catch fish thrown to him six yards off; never missed one; you would have thought the fish ran along a wire up to him and down his throat. and i saw the penguin swim under water, and the sea lions sit up, four of them on four wooden chairs, and catch fish also; but they missed sometimes and had to flop off their chairs into the water and then flop out again and flop up again. and i lunched with cardinal manning, and he gave me _such_ a plum pie. i never tasted a protestant pie to touch it. * * * * * now you're just wrong about my darling cardinal. see what it is to be jealous! he gave me lovely soup, roast beef, hare and currant jelly, puff pastry like papal pretensions--you had but to breathe on it and it was nowhere--raisins and almonds, and those lovely preserved cherries like kisses kept in amber. and told me delicious stories all through lunch. _there_! and we really do see the sun here! and last night the sky was all a spangle and delicate glitter of stars, the glare of them and spikiness softened off by a young darling of a moon. * * * * * amiens, _ th august, _. you have been made happy doubtless with us by the news from herne hill. i've only a telegram yet though, but write at once to congratulate you on your little goddaughter. also to say that i am very well, and sadly longing for brantwood; but that i am glad to see some vestige of beloved things here, once more. we have glorious weather, and i am getting perfect rest most of the day--mere saunter in the sunny air, taking all the good i can of it. to-morrow we get (d.v.) to beauvais, where perhaps i may find a letter from susie; in any case you may write to hôtel meurice, paris. the oleanders are coming out and geraniums in all cottage windows, and golden corn like etruscan jewelry over all the fields. * * * * * beauvais, _ d september, _. we are having the most perfect weather i ever saw in france, much less anywhere else, and i'm taking a thorough rest, writing scarcely anything and sauntering about old town streets all day. i made a little sketch of the lake from above the waterhead which goes everywhere with me, and it is so curious when the wind blows the leaf open when i am sketching here at beauvais, where all is so differently delightful, as if we were on the other side of the world. i think i shall be able to write some passages about architecture yet, which susie will like. i hear of countless qualities being discovered in the new little susie! and all things will be happy for me if you send me a line to hôtel meurice saying _you_ are happy too. * * * * * paris, _ th september_ ( ). i have all your letters, and rejoice in them; though it is a little sadder for you looking at empty brantwood, than for me to fancy the bright full thwaite, and then it's a great shame that i've everything to amuse me, and lovely louvres and shops and cathedrals and coquettes and pictures and plays and prettinesses of every color and quality, and you've only your old, old hills and quiet lake. very thankful i shall be to get back to them, though. we have finished our paris this afternoon, and hope to leave for chartres on monday. * * * * * hÔtel de meurice, paris, _ th september_ ( ). is it such pain to you when people say what they ought not to say about _me_? but when do they say what they ought to say about anything? nearly everything i have ever done or said is as much above the present level of public understanding as the old man is above the waterhead. we have had the most marvelous weather thus far, and have seen paris better than ever i've seen it yet,--and to-day at the louvre we saw the casette of st. louis, the coffre of anne of austria, the porphyry vase, made into an eagle, of an old abbé segur, or some such name. all these you can see also, you know, in those lovely photographs of miss rigbye's, if you can only make out in this vile writing of mine what i mean. but it is so hot. i can scarcely sit up or hold the pen, but tumble back into the chair every half minute and unbutton another button of waistcoat, and gasp a little, and nod a little, and wink a little, and sprinkle some eau de cologne a little, and try a little to write a little, and forget what i had to say, and where i was, and whether it's susie or joan i'm writing to; and then i see some letters i've never opened that came by this morning's post, and think i'd better open them perhaps; and here i find in one of them a delightful account of the quarrel that goes on in this weather between the nicest elephant in the zoo' and his keeper, because he won't come out of his bath. i saw them at it myself, when i was in london, and saw the elephant take up a stone and throw it hard against a door which the keeper was behind,--but my friend writes, "i _must_ believe from what i saw that the elephant knew he would injure the man with the stones, for he threw them hard to the _side_ of him, and then stood his ground; when, however, he threw water and wetted the man, he plunged into the bath to avoid the whip; not fearing punishment when he merely showed what he could do and did not." the throwing the stone hard at the door when the keeper was on the other side of it, must have been great fun for him! i am so sorry to have crushed this inclosed scrawl. it has been carried about in my pocket to be finished, and i see there's no room for the least bit of love at the bottom. so here's a leaf full from the bois de boulogne, which is very lovely; and we drive about by night or day, as if all the sky were only the roof of a sapphire palace set with warm stars. * * * * * chartres, _ th september_ ( ). (_hôtel du grande monarque._) i suppose _i'm_ the grand monarque! i don't know of any other going just now, but i don't feel quite the right thing without a wig. anyhow, i'm having everything my own way just now,--weather, dinner, news from joanie and news from susie, only i don't like her to be so very, very sad, though it _is_ nice to be missed so tenderly. but i do hope you will like to think of my getting some joy in old ways again, and once more exploring old streets and finding forgotten churches. the sunshine is life and health to me, and i am gaining knowledge faster than ever i could when i was young. this is just to say where i am, and that you might know where to write. the cathedral here is the grandest in france, and i stay a week at least. * * * * * chartres, _ th september_ ( ) i must be back in england by the st october, and by the th shall be myself ready to start for brantwood, but may perhaps stay, if joanie is not ready, till she can come too. anyway, i trust very earnestly to be safe in the shelter of my own woodside by the end of october. i wonder what you will say of my account of the five lovers of nature[ ] and seclusion in the last _nineteenth century_? i am a little ashamed to find that in spite of my sublimely savage temperament, i take a good deal more pleasure in paris than of old, and am even going back there on friday for three more days. we find the people here very amiable, and the french old character unchanged. the perfect cleanliness and unruffledness of white cap, is always a marvel, and the market groups exquisite, but our enjoyment of the fair is subdued by pity for a dutiful dog, who turns a large wheel (by walking up it inside) the whole afternoon, producing awful sounds out of a huge grinding organ, of which his wheel and he are the unfortunate instruments. him we love, his wheel we hate! and in general all french musical instruments. i have become quite sure of one thing on this journey, that the french of to-day have no sense of harmony, but only of more or less lively tune, and even, for a time, will be content with any kind of clash or din produced in time. the cathedral service is, however, still impressive. [footnote : rousseau, shelley, byron, turner, and john ruskin.] * * * * * paris, _ th september_, . what a _very_ sad little letter, and how very naughty of my little susie to be sad because there are still six weeks to the end of october! how thankful should we both be to have six weeks still before us of the blessed bright autumn days, with their quiet mildnesses in the midst of northern winds; and that these six weeks are of the year --instead of ' or ' --and that we both can read, and think, and see flowers and skies, and be happy in making each other happy. _what_ a naughty little susie, to want to throw any of her six weeks away! i've just sealed in its envelope for post the most important fors i have yet written, addressed to the trades unions,[ ] and their committees are to have as many copies as they like free, for distribution, free (dainty packets of dynamite). i suspect i shall get into hot water with _some_ people for it. also i've been afraid myself, to set it all down, for once! but down it is, and out it shall come! and there's a nice new bit of article for the _nineteenth century_, besides anyhow i keep you in reading, susie--do you know it's a very bad compliment to me that you find time pass so slowly! i wonder why you gave me that little lecture about being "a city on a hill." i don't want to be anything of the sort, and i'm going to-night to see the fille du tambour-major at the folies dramatiques. [footnote : "fors," vol. viii., letter .] * * * * * brantwood, _ th february, _. i've much to tell you "to-day"[ ] of answer to those prayers you prayed for me. but you must be told it by our good angels, for your eyes must not be worn. god willing, you shall see men as trees walking in the garden of god, on this pretty coniston earth of ours. don't be afraid, and please be happy, for i can't be, if you are not. love to mary, to miss rigbye, and my own st. ursula,[ ] and mind you give the messages _to all three, heartily_. [footnote : the motto on mr. ruskin's seal. see "præterita", vol. ii.,] [footnote : photograph of carpaccio's.] * * * * * brantwood, _ d april, _. i'm not able to scratch or fight to-day, or i wouldn't let you cover me up with this heap of gold; but i've got a rheumatic creak in my neck, which makes me physically stiff and morally supple and unprincipled, so i've put two pounds sixteen in my own "till," where it just fills up some lowering of the tide lately by german bands and the like, and i've put ten pounds aside for sheffield museum, now in instant mendicity, and i've put ten pounds aside till you and i can have a talk and you be made reasonable, after being scolded and scratched, after which, on your promise to keep to our old bargain and enjoy spending your little "frondes" income, i'll be your lovingest again. and for the two pounds ten, and the ten, i am really most heartily grateful, meaning as they do so much that is delightful for both of us in the good done by this work of yours. i send you spenser; perhaps you had better begin with the hymn to beauty, page , and then go on to the tears; but you'll see how you like it. it's better than longfellow; see line -- "the house of blessed gods which men call skye." now i'm going to look out dr. kendall's crystal. it _must_ be crystal,[ ] for having brought back the light to your eyes. [footnote : for a present to dr. kendall.] * * * * * brantwood, _ th july, _. how delightful that you have that nice mrs. howard to hear you say "the ode to beauty," and how nice that you can learn it and enjoy saying it![ ] i do not know it myself. i only know that it should be known and said and heard and loved. i _am_ often near you in thought, but can't get over the lake somehow. there's always somebody to be looked after here, now. i've to rout the gardeners out of the greenhouse, or i should never have a strawberry or a pink, but only nasty gloxinias and glaring fuchsias, and i've been giving lessons to dozens of people and writing charming sermons in the "bible of amiens"; but i get so sleepy in the afternoon i can't pull myself over it. i was looking at your notes on birds yesterday. how sweet they are! but i can't forgive that young blackbird for getting wild again.[ ] [footnote : i learnt the whole of it by heart, and could then say it without a break. i have always loved it, and in return it has helped me through many a long and sleepless night.--s. b.] [footnote : pages _et seqq._] * * * * * _last day of . and the last letter i write on it, with new pen._ i've lunched on _your_ oysters, and am feasting eyes and mind on _your_ birds. what birds? woodcock? yes, i suppose, and never before noticed the _sheath_ of his bill going over the front of the lower mandible that he may dig comfortably! but the others! the glory of velvet and silk and cloud and light, and black and tan and gold, and golden sand, and dark tresses, and purple shadows and moors and mists and night and starlight, and woods and wilds and dells and deeps, and every mystery of heaven and its finger work, is in those little birds' backs and wings. i am so grateful. all love and joy to you, and wings to fly with and birds' hearts to comfort, and mine, be to you in the coming year. * * * * * _easter day_, . i have had a happy easter morning, entirely bright in its sun and clear in sky; and with renewed strength enough to begin again the piece of st. benedict's life where i broke off, to lose these four weeks in london,--weeks not wholly lost neither, for i have learned more and more of what i should have known without lessoning; but i _have_ learnt it, from these repeated dreams and fantasies, that we walk in a vain shadow and disquiet ourselves in vain. so i am for the present, everybody says, quite good, and give as little trouble as possible; but people _will_ take it, you know, sometimes, even when i don't give it, and there's a great fuss about me yet. but _you_ must not be anxious any more, susie, for really there is no more occasion at one time than another. all the doctors say i needn't be ill unless i like, and i don't mean to like any more; and as far as chances of ordinary danger, i think one runs more risks in a single railway journey, than in the sicknesses of a whole year. * * * * * herne hill, _ th june_ ( ). you write as well as ever, and the eyes must surely be better, and it was a joyful amazement to me to hear that mary was able to read and could enjoy my child's botany. you always have things before other people; will you please send me some rosemary and lavender as soon as any are out? i am busy on the labiatæ, and a good deal bothered. also st. benedict, whom i shall get done with long before i've made out the nettles he rolled in. i'm sure i ought to roll myself in nettles, burdocks, and blackthorn, for here in london i can't really think now of anything but flirting, and i'm only much the worse for it afterwards. and i'm generally wicked and weary, like the people who ought to be put to rest. but you'd miss me, and so would joanie; so i suppose i shall be let stay a little while longer. * * * * * sallanches, savoy, _ th september_ ( ). i saw mont blanc again to-day, unseen since ; and was very thankful. it is a sight that always redeems me to what i am capable of at my poor little best, and to what loves and memories are most precious to me. so i write to _you_, one of the few true loves left. the snow has fallen fresh on the hills, and it makes me feel that i must soon be seeking shelter at brantwood and the thwaite. * * * * * genoa, _sunday, th september_ ( ). i got your delightful note yesterday at turin, and it made me wish to run back through the tunnel directly instead of coming on here. but i had a wonderful day, the alps clear all the morning all round italy--two hundred miles of them; and then in the afternoon blue waves of the gulf of genoa breaking like blue clouds, thunderclouds, under groves of olive and palm. but i wished they were my sparkling waves of coniston instead, when i read your letter again. what a gay susie, receiving all the world, like a queen susan (how odd one has never heard of a queen susan!), only you _are_ so naughty, and you never do tell me of any of those nice girls when they're _coming_, but only when they're gone, and i never shall get glimpse of them as long as i live. but you know you really represent the entire ruskin school of the lake country, and i think these _levées_ of yours must be very amusing and enchanting; but it's very dear and good of you to let the people come and enjoy themselves, and how really well and strong you must be to be able for it. i am very glad to hear of those sweet, shy girls, poor things.[ ] i suppose the sister they are now anxious about is the one that would live by herself on the other side of the lake, and study emerson and aspire to buddhism. i'm trying to put my own poor little fragmentary ism into a rather more connected form of imagery. i've never quite set myself up enough to impress _some_ people; and i've written so much that i can't quite make out what i am myself, nor what it all comes to. [footnote : florence, alice, and may bennett. florence is gone. alice and may still sometimes at coniston, d.g. (march ).--j. r. "one companion, ours no more, sends you i doubt not christmas greeting from her home,--florence bennett. of her help to us during her pure brief life, and afterwards, by her father's fulfillment of her last wishes, you shall hear at another time."--_fors clavigera_, vol. viii.] * * * * * to miss beever. _ th january, ._ i cannot tell you how grateful and glad i am, to have your lovely note and to know that the bewick gave you pleasure, and that you are so entirely well now, as to enjoy anything requiring so much energy and attention to this degree. for indeed i can scarcely now take pleasure myself in things that give me the least trouble to look at, but i know that the pretty book and its chosen wood-cuts ought to be sent to you, first of all my friends (i have not yet thought of sending it to any one else), and i am quite put in heart after a very despondent yesterday, passed inanely, in thinking of what i _couldn't_ do, by feeling what you _can_, and hoping to share the happy christmas time with you and susie in future years. will you please tell my dear susie i'm going to bring over a drawing to show! (so thankful that i am still able to draw after these strange and terrible illnesses) this afternoon. i am in hopes it may clear, but dark or bright i'm coming, about half past three, and am ever your and her most affectionate and faithful servant. * * * * * _ th september, ._ i wandered literally "up and down" your mountain garden--(how beautifully the native rocks slope to its paths in the sweet evening light, susiesque light!)--with great happiness and admiration, as i went home, and i came indeed upon what i conceived to be--discovered in the course of recent excavations--two deeply interesting thrones of the ancient abbots of furness, typifying their humility in that the seats thereof were only level with the ground between two clusters of the earth; contemplating cyclamen, and their severity of penance, in the points of stone prepared for the mortification of their backs; but truly, susie's seat of repose and meditation i was unable as yet to discern, but propose to myself further investigation of that apple-perfumed paradise, and am ever your devoted and enchanted [transcriber's note: no ending to the sentence here.] * * * * * oxford, _ st december_ ( ). i gave my fourteenth, and last for this year, lecture this afternoon with vigor and effect, and am safe and well (d.g.), after such a spell of work as i never did before. i have been thrown a week out in all my plans, by having to write two new lectures, instead of those the university was frightened at. the scientists slink out of my way now, as if i was a mad dog, for i let them have it hot and heavy whenever i've a chance at them. but as i said, i'm a week late, and though i start for the north this day week, i can't get home till this day fortnight at soonest, but i hope not later than to-morrow fortnight. very thankful i shall be to find myself again at the little room door. fancy mary gladstone forgiving me even that second _naughtiness_![ ] she's going to let me come to see her this week, and to play to me, which is a great comfort. [footnote : the first attack on mr. gladstone is in "fors", september, , the apology and withdrawal in "fors", february, . the second "naughtiness" will be found in "arrows of the chace", vol. ii., and a final attack is made in an interview in the _pall mall gazette_, st april, . the subject is summarized in an article in the _daily news_ of th july, .] * * * * * st. susie, _ th november, _. behold athena and apollo both come to bless you on your birthday, and all the buds of the year to come, rejoice with you, and your poor cat[ ] is able to purr again, and is extremely comfortable and even cheerful "to-day." and we will make more and more of all the days, won't we, and we will burn our candle at both beginnings instead of both ends, every day beginning two worlds--the old one to be lived over again, the new to learn our golden letters in. not that i mean to write books in that world. i hope to be set to do something, there; and what lovely "receptions" you will have in your little heavenly thwaite, and celestial teas! and you won't spoil the cream with hot water, will you, any more? the whole village is enjoying itself, i hear, and the widows and orphans to be much the better for it, and altogether, you and i have a jolly time of it, haven't we? [footnote : j. r.] * * * * * _ th february, ._ i haven't had anything nice to send you this ever so long, but here's a little bird's nest of native silver which you could almost live in as comfortably as a tit. it will stand nicely on your table without upsetting, and is so comfortable to hold, and altogether i'm pleased to have got it for you. * * * * * brantwood, _ st march, _. yes, i knew you would like that silver shrine! and it _is_ an extremely rare and perfect specimen. but you need not be afraid in handling it; if the little bit of spar does come off it, or out of it, no matter. but of course nobody else should touch it, till you give them leave, and show them how. i am sorry for poor miss brown, and for your not having known the doctor. he should have come here when i told him. i believe he would have been alive yet, and i never should have been ill. * * * * * i believe you know more latin than i do, and can certainly make more delightful use of it. your mornings' ministry to the birds must be remembered for you by the angels who paint their feathers. they will all, one day, be birds of paradise, and say, when the adverse angel accuses you of being naughty to _some_ people, "but we were hungry and she gave us corn, and took care that nobody else ate it." i am indeed thankful you are better. but you must please tell me what the thing was i said which gave you so much pain. do you recollect also what the little bit in "proserpina" was that said so much to you? were you not thinking of "fors"? * * * * * i am very thankful for all your dear letters always--greatly delighted above all with the squirrel one, and chaucer. didn't he love squirrels![ ] and don't i wish i was a squirrel in susie's pear trees, instead of a hobbling disconsolate old man, with no teeth to bite, much less crack, anything, and particularly forbidden to eat nuts! [footnote : "and many squireles, that sett ful high upon the trees and ete and in his maner made festys." "the dethe of blaunche," .] * * * * * your precious letter, showing me you are a little better, came this morning, with the exquisite feathers, one, darker and lovelier than any i have seen, but please, i still want one not in the least flattened; all these have lost just the least bit of their shell-like bending. you can so easily devise a little padding to keep two strong cards or bits of wood separate for one or two to lie happily in. i don't mind giving you this tease, for the throat will be better the less you remember it. but for all of us, a dark sky is assuredly a poisonous and depressing power, which neither surgery nor medicine can resist. the difference to me between nature as she is now, and as she was ten years ago, is as great as between lapland and italy, and the total loss of comfort in morning and evening sky, the most difficult to resist of all spiritual hostility. * * * * * _ d may, ._ of course the little pyramid in crystal is a present. with that enjoyment of pinkerton,[ ] you will have quite a new indoors interest, whatever the rain may say. how very lucky you asked me what basalt was! how much has come out of it (written in falling asleep)! i've been out all the morning and am _so_ sleepy. but i've written a nice little bit of "præterita" before i went out, trying to describe the rhone at geneva. i think susie will like it, if nobody else. that "not enjoying the beauty of things" goes ever so much deeper than mere blindness. it is a form of antagonism, and is essentially satanic. a most strange form of demonology in otherwise good people, or shall we say in "good people"? you know _we_ are not good at all, are we now? i don't think you've got any green in your mica. i've sent you a bit inclosed with some jealous spots in. [footnote : pinkerton on "petralogy."] * * * * * _ th november, ._ _do_ you know how to make sugar candy? in my present abject state the only way of amusing myself i can hit on is setting the girls of the school to garden and cook! by way of beginning in cooking i offered to pay for any quantity of wasted sugar if they could produce me a crystal or two of sugar candy. (on the way to twelfth cakes, you know, and sugar animals. one of francesca's friends made her a life-size easter lamb in sugar.) the first try this morning was brought me in a state of sticky jelly. and after sending me a recipe for candy, would you please ask harry to look at the school garden? i'm going to get the _boys_ to keep that in order; but if harry would look at it and order some mine gravel down for the walks, and, with mr. brocklebank's authority (to whom i have spoken already), direct any of the boys who are willing to form a corps of little gardeners, and under harry's orders make the best that can be made of that neglected bit of earth, i think you and i should enjoy hearing of it. i told a cambridge man yesterday that he had been clever enough to put into a shilling pamphlet all the mistakes of his generation. * * * * * _ th november, ._ for once, i have a birthday stone for you, a little worth your having, and a little gladsome to me in the giving. it is blue like the air that you were born into, and always live in. it is as deep as gentians, and has their gleams of green in it, and it is precious all through within and without, as susie herself is. many and many returns of all the birthdays that have gone away, and crowds yet of those that never were here before. * * * * * miscellaneous. * * * * * corpus christi college, oxford, _ th december, _. this is just for christmas love, and i'm quite well and up to work this morning, and the first thing i opened here was st. ursula from mr. gould--and i hope the darling will be with me and you and him, and all good lovers and laborers everywhere. love to mary. also to the servants. also to the birds. if any mice are about--also to them,--and in a hush-a-bye to the squirrels--wherever they are. * * * * * brantwood. this reminiscence of birds--entirely delightful--puts me on a thought of better work that you can do for me than even the shakespeare notes. each day, when you are in spirits,--never as an effort, sit down and tell me--as in this morning's note--whatever you remember about birds--going back to very childhood--and just chatting on, about all you have seen of them and done for them. you will make a little book as delightful--nay, much more delightful than white of selborne--and you will feel a satisfaction in the experience of your real knowledge--power of observation--and loving sentiment, in a way to make them even more exemplary and helpful. now don't say you can't--but begin directly to-morrow morning. * * * * * brantwood, . what am i about all this while? well--i wake every morning at four--can't help it--to see the morning light--perhaps i go to sleep again--but never for long--then i do really very good work in the mornings--but by the afternoon i'm quite beaten and can do nothing but lie about in the wood. however--the prosody and serpent lectures are just finishing off and then i shall come to see you in the morning! while i am awake. i went out before breakfast this morning, half asleep--and saw what i thought was a red breasted woodpecker as big as a pigeon! presently it came down on the lawn and i made up my mind it was only a robin about the size of a small partridge! can it have been a cross-bill? * * * * * brantwood. i've had this cold five days now and it's worse than ever, and yet i feel quite well in other respects, and the glorious sunshine is a great joy to me. also prince leopold's words,[ ] seen to-day. very beautiful in themselves--and--i say it solemnly--just, more than ever i read before of friend's sayings. it is strange--i had no conception he saw so far into things or into _me_. it is the greatest help that has ever been given me (in the view the public will take of it). [footnote : in a speech delivered at the mansion house, february , , in support of the extension of university teaching. see cook's "studies in ruskin," p. .] * * * * * brantwood. a heap half a foot high of unanswered letters pouring and tottering across the table must pour and fall as they will, while i just say how thankful i am for yours always, and how, to-day, i must leave letters, books and all to work on that lovely trientalis which mary sent me. it has a peculiar set of trine leaves which linnæus noticed and named it for--modern botanists have no notion of it. i think both mary and you will be deeply interested in seeing it worked out. i've been at it since seven o'clock. yes, if i had known you were in the garden! alas--one never can know what one wants to--i was all that afternoon seeing the blacksmith make a chopper! * * * * * broadlands, romsey, _ th october_ ( ). i was very thankful for your letter this morning--having heard you were unwell and being a little despondent myself--more than of late--an italian nobleman is here who cares for nothing but shooting, and everybody thinks it perfectly right! it is a great joy to me that you find so much in the "stones of venice"--i hope that book is worth the time it took me to write it, every year of youth seems to me in looking back, now so precious. how very strange i should give you _quietness_, myself being always disquieted in heart--a ghost of poor samuel--helpless--in sight of ruining israel. to think of the difference between these two scenes,--samuel at his feast sending the prepared portion to the expected saul. and samuel the ghost--with his message. well--this is a cheering letter to send my poor susie. it's all that italian duke. * * * * * brantwood. if ever a gentiana verna demeans itself to you at brantwood--i'll disown it and be dreadfully ashamed for it! the other little things if they'll condescend to come shall be thanked and honored with my best. only please now _don't_ send me more asparagus! i feel so piggish and rabbitish in eating you out of all your vegetables, that i'm afraid to speak lest it should turn out grunting, and to shake my head for fear of feeling flappy at the ears. but--please--is the bread as brown as it used to be? i think you're cosseting me up altogether and i don't like the white bread so well! * * * * * brantwood. what _can_ you mean about your ignorance--or my astonishment at it? indeed you are a naughty little susie to think such things. i never come to the thwaite but you and your sister tell me all kinds of things i didn't know, and am so glad to know. i send a book of architect's drawings of pisa, which i think will interest you--only you must understand that the miserable frenchman who did it, could not see the expression of face in any of the old sculptures, nor draw anything but hard mechanical outlines--and the charm of all these buildings is this almost _natural_ grace of free line and color. the little tiny sketch of mine, smallest in the sheet of (the other sheet only sent to keep its face from rubbing) will show you what the things really are like--the whole front of the dome, plate xi. (the wretch can't even have his numbers made legibly) is of arches of this sweet variable color. please can your sister or you plant a grain or grains of corn for me, and watch them into various stages of germination.[ ] i want to study the mode of root and blade development. and i am sure you two will know best how to show it me. [footnote : "proserpina,"] * * * * * brantwood, _ th december, _. i heard with extreme sorrow yesterday of your mischance, and with the greater, that i felt the discomfort and alarm of it would be increased to you--in their depressing power by a sense of unkindness to you on my part in not having been to see you--nor even read the letter which would have warned me of your accident. but you must remember that christmas is to me a most oppressive and harmful time--the friends of the last thirty years of life all trying to give what they cannot give--of pleasure, or receive what--from me, they can no more receive--the younger ones especially thinking they can amuse me by telling me of their happy times--which i am so mean as to envy and am doubly distressed by the sense of my meanness in doing so. and my only resource is the quiet of my own work, to which--these last days--i have nearly given myself altogether. yet i _had_ read your letter as far as the place where you said you wanted one and then, began to think what i should say--and "read no further"[ ] that day--and now here is this harm that had befallen you--which i trust, nevertheless, is of no real consequence, and this one thing i must say once for all, that whatever may be my feelings to you--you must _never_ more let yourself imagine for an instant they can come of any manner of offense? _that_ thought is real injustice to me. i have never, and never can have, any other feeling towards you than that of the deepest gratitude, respect, and affection--too sorrowfully inexpressible and ineffectual--but never changing. i will drive, walk, or row, over to see you on new year's day--if i am fairly well--be the weather what it will. i hope the bearer will bring me back a comforting report as to the effects of your accident and that you will never let yourself again be discomforted by mistrust of me, for i am and shall ever be your faithful and loving servant, john ruskin. [footnote : dante, "inferno," v. .] * * * * * i never heard the like--my writing good! and just now!! if you only saw the wretched notes on the back of lecture leaves! but i am so very glad you think it endurable, and it is so nice to be able to give you a moment's pleasure by such a thing. i'm better to-day, but still extremely languid. i believe that there is often something in the spring which weakens one by its very tenderness; the violets in the wood send one home sorrowful that one isn't worthy to see them, or else, that one isn't one of them. it is mere midsummer dream in the wood to-day. you could not possibly have sent me a more delightful present than this lychnis; it is the kind of flower that gives me pleasure and health and memory and hope and everything that alpine meadows and air can. i'm getting better generally, too. the sun _did_ take one by surprise at first. how blessedly happy joanie and the children were yesterday at the thwaite! i'm coming to be happy myself there to-morrow (d.v.). here are the two bits of study i did in malham cove; the small couples of leaves are different portraits of the first shoots of the two geraniums. i don't find in any botany an account of their little round side leaves, or of the definite central one above the branching of them. here's your lovely note just come. i am very thankful that the "venice" gives you so much pleasure. i _have_, at least, one certainty, which few authors could hold so surely, that no one was ever harmed by a book of mine; they may have been offended, but have never been discouraged or discomforted, still less corrupted. _there's_ a saucy speech for susie's friend. you won't like me any more if i begin to talk like that. * * * * * a sapphire is the same stone as a ruby; both are the pure earth of clay crystallized. no one knows why one is red and the other blue. a diamond is pure _coal_ crystallized. an opal, pure flint--in a state of fixed _jelly_. i'm in a great passion with the horrid people who write letters to tease my good little susie. _i won't have it._ she shall have some more stones to-morrow. i must have a walk to-day, and can't give account of them, but i've looked them out. it's so very nice that you like stones. if my father, when i was a little boy, would only have given me stones for bread, how i should have thanked him. what infinite power and treasure you have in being able thus to enjoy the least things, yet having at the same time all the fastidiousness of taste and imagination which lays hold of what is greatest in the least, and best in all things! never hurt your eyes by writing; keep them wholly for admiration and wonder. i hope to write little more myself of books, and to join with you in joy over crystals and flowers in the way we used to do when we were both more children than we are. * * * * * to miss beever. i am ashamed not to have sent you a word of expression of my real and very deep feelings of regard and respect for you, and of my not _fervent_ (in the usual phrase, which means only hasty and ebullient), but serenely _warm_, hope that you may keep your present power of benevolent happiness to length of many days to come. but i hope you will sometimes take the simpler view of the little agate box than that of birthday token, and that you will wonder sometimes at its labyrinth of mineral vegetable! i assure you there is nothing in all my collection of agates in its way quite so perfect as the little fiery forests of dotty trees in the corner of the piece which forms the bottom. i ought to have set it in silver, but was always afraid to trust it to a lapidary. what you say of the greek want of violets is also very interesting to me, for it is one of my little pet discoveries that homer means the blue iris by the word translated "violet." * * * * * _thursday morning._ i'm ever so much better, and the jackdaw has come. but why wasn't i there to meet his pathetic desire for art knowledge? to think of that poor bird's genius and love of scarlet ribbons, shut up in a cage! what it might have come to! if ever my st. george's schools come to any perfection, they shall have every one a jackdaw to give the children their first lessons in arithmetic. i'm sure he could do it perfectly. "now, jack, take two from four, and show them how many are left." "now, jack, if you take the teaspoon out of this saucer, and put it into _that_, and then if you take two teaspoons out of two saucers, and put them into this, and then if you take one teaspoon out of this, and put it into that, how many spoons are there in this, and how many in that?"--and so on. oh, susie, when we _do_ get old, you and i, won't we have nice schools for the birds first, and then for the children? that photograph is indeed like a visit; how thankful i am that it is still my hope to get the real visit some day! i was yesterday and am always, certainly at present, very unwell, and a mere trouble to my joanies and susies and all who care for me. but i'm painting another bit of moss which i think susie will enjoy, and hope for better times. did you see the white cloud that stayed quiet for three hours this morning over the old man's summit? it was one of the few remains of the heaven one used to see. the heaven one had a father in, not a raging enemy. i send you rogers' "italy," that is no more. i do think you'll have pleasure in it. * * * * * i've been made so miserable by a paper of sir j. lubbock's on flowers and insects, that i must come and whine to you. he says, and really as if he knew it, that insects, chiefly bees, entirely originate flowers; that all scent, color, pretty form, is owing to bees; that flowers which insects don't take care of, have no scent, color, nor honey. it seems to me, that it is likelier that the flowers which have no scent, color, nor honey, don't get any attention from the bees. but the man really knows so much about it, and has tried so many pretty experiments, that he makes me miserable. so i'm afraid you're miserable too. write to tell me about it all. it is very lovely of you to send me so sweet a note when i have not been near you since the tenth century. but it is all i can do to get my men and my moor looked after; they have both the instinct of doing what i don't want, the moment my back's turned; and then there has not been light enough to know a hawk from a hand-saw, or a crow from a ptarmigan, or a moor from a meadow. but how much better your eyes must be when you can write such lovely notes! i don't understand how the strange cat came to love you so quickly, after one dinner and a rest by the fire! i should have thought an ill-treated and outcast animal would have regarded everything as a trap, for a month at least,--dined in tremors, warmed itself with its back to the fire, watching the door, and jumped up the chimney if you stepped on the rug. if you only knew the good your peacock's feathers have done me, and if you could only see the clever drawing i'm making of one from the blue breast! you know what lovely little fern or equisetum stalks of sapphire the filaments are; they beat me so, but they're coming nice. * * * * * that is so intensely true what you say about turner's work being like nature's in its slowness and tenderness. i always think of him as a great natural force in a human frame. _so_ nice all you say of the "ethics"! and i'm a monster of ingratitude, as bad as the dragon of wantley. don't like dr. brown's friend's book at all. it's neither scotch nor english, nor fish nor flesh, and it's tiresome. i'm in the worst humor i've been in this month, which is saying much; and have been writing the wickedest "fors" i ever wrote, which is saying more; you will be _so_ angry. * * * * * i'm so very glad you will mark the bits you like, but are there not a good many here and there that you _don't_ like?--i mean that sound hard or ironical. please don't mind them. they're partly because i never count on readers who will really care for the prettiest things, and it gets me into a bad habit of expressing contempt which is not indeed any natural part of my mind. it pleases me especially that you have read "the queen of the air." as far as i know, myself, of my books, it is the most useful and careful piece i have done. but that again--did it not shock you to have a heathen goddess so much believed in? (i've believed in english ones long ago). if you can really forgive me for "the queen of the air," there are all sorts of things i shall come begging you to read some day. * * * * * _ st july._ i'm always looking at the thwaite, and thinking how nice it is that you are there. i think it's a little nice, too, that _i'm_ within sight of you, for if i hadn't broken, i don't know how many not exactly promises, but nearly, to be back at oxford by this time, i might have been dragged from oxford to london, from london to france, from france who knows where? but i'm here, and settled to produce, as soon as possible, the following works-- . new number of "love's meinie," on the stormy petrel. . new ditto of "proserpina," on sap, pith, and bark. . new ditto of "deucalion," on clouds. . new "fors," on new varieties of young ladies. . two new numbers of "our fathers," on brunehaut, and bertha her niece, and st. augustine and st. benedict. . index and epilogue to four oxford lectures. . report and account of st. george's guild. and i've had to turn everything out of every shelf in the house, for mildew and moths. and i want to paint a little bank of strawberry leaves. and i've to get a year's dead sticks out of the wood, and see to the new oat field on the moor, and prepare lectures for october! i'm _so_ idle. i look at the hills out of bed, and at the pictures off the sofa. let us _both_ be useless beings; let us be butterflies, grasshoppers, lambs, larks, anything for an easy life. i'm quite horrified to see, now that these two have come back, what a lot of books i've written, and how cruel i've been to myself and everybody else who ever has to read them. i'm too sleepy to finish this note. * * * * * _ th june._ i do not know when i have received, or how i _could_ receive so great an encouragement in all my work, as i do in hearing that you, after all your long love and watchfulness of flowers, have yet gained pleasure and insight from "proserpina" as to leaf structure. the examples you send me are indeed admirable. can you tell me the exact name of the plant, that i may quote it? yes, and the weather also is a great blessing to me--so lovely this morning. * * * * * i'm getting steadily better, and breathing the sunshine a little again in soul and lips. but i always feel so naughty after having had morning prayers, and that the whole house is a sort of little bethel that i've no business in. i'm reading history of early saints too, for my amiens book, and feel that i ought to be scratched, or starved, or boiled, or something unpleasant, and i don't know if i'm a saint or a sinner in the least, in mediæval language. how did saints feel themselves, i wonder, about their saintship? * * * * * it is _such_ a joy to hear that you enjoy anything of mine, and a double joy to have your sympathy in my love of those italians. how i wish there were more like you! what a happy world it would be if a quarter of the people in it cared a quarter as much as you and i do, for what is good and true: that nativity _is_ the deepest of all. it is by the master of botticelli, you know; and whatever is most sweet and tender in botticelli he owes to lippi. but, do you know, i quite forget about cordelia, and where i said it! please keep it till i come. i hope to be across to see you to-morrow. they've been doing photographs of me again, and i'm an orang-outang as usual, and am in despair. i thought with my beard i was beginning to be just the least bit nice to look at. i would give up half my books for a new profile. what a lovely day since twelve o'clock! i never saw the lake shore more heavenly. i am very thankful that you like this "st. mark's" so much, and do not feel as if i had lost power of mind. i think the illness has told on me more in laziness than foolishness. i feel as if there was as much _in_ me as ever, but it is too much trouble to say it. and i find myself reconciled to staying in bed of a morning to a quite woeful extent. i have not been affected so much by melancholy, being very thankful to be still alive, and to be able to give pleasure to some people. you have greatly helped me by this dear little note. and the bread's all right, brown again, and i'm ready for asparagus of any stoutness, there! are you content! but my new asparagus is quite _visible_ this year, though how much would be wanted for a dish i don't venture to count, but must be congratulated on its definitely stalky appearance. i was over the water this morning on school committee. how bad i have been to let those poor children be tormented as they are all this time! i'm going to try and stop all the spelling and counting and catechising, and teach them only--to watch and pray. the oranges make me think i'm in a castle in spain! * * * * * your letters always warm me a little, not with laughing, but with the soft glow of life, for i live mostly with "la mort dans l'ame." (it is curious that the french, whom one thinks of as slight and frivolous, have this true and deep expression for the forms of sorrow that kill, as opposed to those that discipline and strengthen.) and your words and thoughts just soften and warm like west wind. it is nice being able to please you with what i'm writing, and that you can tell people i'm not so horrid. here's the "fors" you saw the proof of, but _this_ isn't quite right yet. the willy[ ] quotations are very delightful. do you know that naughty "cowley" at all? there's all kind of honey and strawberries in him. it is bitter cold here these last days. i don't stir out, but must this afternoon. i've to go out to dinner and work at the arundel society. and if you only knew what was in my thoughts you would be _so_ sorry for me, that i can't tell you. [footnote : shakespeare.] * * * * * corpus christi college, oxford. what a sad little letter! written in that returned darkness. how can _you_ ever be sad, looking forward to eternal life with all whom you love, and god over all? it is only so far as i lose hold of that hope, that anything is ever a trial to me. but i can't think how i'm to get on in a world with no venice in it. you were quite right in thinking i would have nothing to do with lawyers. not one of them shall ever have so much as a crooked sixpence of mine, to save him from being hanged, or to save the lakes from being filled up. but i really hope there may be feeling enough in parliament to do a right thing without being deafened with lawyers' slang. i have never thanked you for the snowdrops. they bloomed here beautifully for four days. then i had to leave them to go and lecture in london. it was nice to see them, but my whole mind is set on finding whether there is a country where the flowers do not fade. else there is no spring for me. people liked the lecture, and so many more wanted to come than could get in, that i had to promise to give another. * * * * * here's your little note first of all. and if you only knew how my wristbands are plaguing me you'd be very sorry. they're too much starched, and _would_ come down like mittens; and now i've turned them up, they're just like two horrid china cups upside down, inside my coat, and i'm afraid to write for fear of breaking them. and i've a week's work on the table, to be done before one o'clock, on pain of uproar from my friends, execution from my enemies, reproach from my lovers, triumph from my haters, despair of joanie, and--what from susie? i've had such a bad night, too; woke at half-past three and have done a day's work since then--composing my lecture for march, and thinking what's to become of a godson of mine whose---- well, never mind. i needn't give _you_ the trouble, poor little susie, of thinking too. * * * * * i'm going to oxford to-day (d.v.), really quite well, and rather merry. i went to the circus with my new pet, and saw lovely riding and ball play; and my pet said the only drawback to it all, was that she couldn't sit on both sides of me. and then i went home to tea with her, and gave mamma, who is evangelical, a beautiful lecture on the piety of dramatic entertainments, which made her laugh whether she would or no; and then i had my christmas dinner in advance with joanie and arfie and stacy marks, and his wife and two pretty daughters, and i had six kisses--two for christmas, two for new year's day, and two for twelfth night--and everybody was in the best humor with everybody else. and now my room is ankle deep in unanswered letters, mostly on business, and i'm going to shovel them up and tie them in a parcel labeled "needing particular attention;" and then that will be put into a cupboard in oxford, and i shall feel that everything's been done in a business-like way. that badger's beautiful. i don't think there's any need for such beasts as _that_ to turn christians. * * * * * i am indeed most thankful you are well again, though i never looked on that deafness very seriously; but if you _like_ hearing watches tick, and boots creak, and plates clatter, so be it to you, for many and many a year to come. i think i should _so_ like to be deaf, mostly, not expected to answer anybody in society, never startled by a bang, never tortured by a railroad whistle, never hearing the nasty cicadas in italy, nor a child cry, nor an owl. nothing but a nice whisper into my ear, by a pretty girl. ah well, i'm very glad i can chatter to you with my weak voice, to my heart's content; and you must come and see me soon now. all that you say of "proserpina" is joyful to me. what a susie you are, drawing like that! and i'm sure you know latin better than i do. * * * * * i am better, but not right yet. there is no fear of sore throat, i think, but some of prolonged tooth worry. it is more stomachic than coldic, i believe, and those tea cakes are too crisply seductive! what _can_ it be, that subtle treachery that lurks in tea cakes, and is wholly absent in the rude honesty of toast? the metaphysical effect of tea cake last night was, that i had a perilous and weary journey in a desert, in which i had to dodge hostile tribes round the corners of pyramids. a very sad letter from joanie tells me she was going to scotland last night, at which i am not only very sorry but very cross. a chirping cricket on the hearth advises me to keep my heart up. * * * * * your happy letters (with the sympathetic misery of complaint of dark days) have cheered me as much as anything could do. the sight of one of my poor "companions of st. george," who has sent me, not a widow's but a parlor-maid's (an old school-mistress) "all her living," and whom i found last night, dying, slowly and quietly, in a damp room, just the size of your study (which her landlord won't mend the roof of), by the light of a single tallow candle--dying, i say, _slowly_, of consumption, not yet near the end, but contemplating it with sorrow, mixed partly with fear, lest she should not have done all she could for her children! the sight of all this and my own shameful comforts, three wax candles and blazing fire and dry roof, and susie and joanie for friends! oh me, susie, what _is_ to become of me in the next world, who have in this life all my good things! * * * * * what a sweet, careful, tender letter this is! i re-inclose it at once for fear of mischief, though i've scarcely read, for indeed my eyes are weary, but i see what gentle mind it means. yes, you will love and rejoice in your chaucer more and more. fancy, i've never time, now, to look at him,--obliged to read even my homer and shakespeare at a scramble, half missing the sense,--the business of life disturbs one so. * * * * * herne hill. [illustration: plan of ruskin's room] here's your letter first thing in the morning, while i'm sipping my coffee in the midst of such confusion as i've not often achieved at my best. the little room, which i think is as nearly as possible the size of your study, but with a lower roof, has to begin with--a, my bed; b, my basin stand; c, my table; d, my chest of drawers; thus arranged in relation to e, the window (which has still its dark bars to prevent the little boy getting out); f, the fireplace; g, the golden or mineralogical cupboard; and h, the grand entrance. the two dots with a back represent my chair, which is properly solid and not _un_-easy. three others of lighter disposition find place somewhere about. these with the chimney-piece and drawer's head are covered, or rather heaped, with all they can carry, and the morning is just looking in, astonished to see what is expected of it, and smiling--(yes, i may fairly say it is smiling, for it is cloudless for its part above the smoke of the horizon line)--at sarah's hope and mine, of ever getting that room into order by twelve o'clock. the chimney-piece with its bottles, spoons, lozenge boxes, matches, candlesticks, and letters jammed behind them, does appear to me entirely hopeless, and this the more because sarah,[ ] when i tell her to take a bottle away that has a mixture in it which i don't like, looks me full in the face, and says "she _won't_, because i may want it." i submit, because it is so nice to get sarah to look one full in the face. she really is the prettiest, round faced, and round eyed girl i ever saw, and it's a great shame she should be a housemaid; only i wish she would take those bottles away. she says i'm looking better to-day, and i think i'm feeling a little bit more,--no, i mean, a little bit less demoniacal. but i still can do that jackdaw beautifully. [footnote : our herne hill parlor-maid for four years. one of quite the brightest and handsomest types of english beauty i ever saw, either in life, or fancied in painting.--j. r.] * * * * * i am quite sure you would have felt like albert dürer, had you gone on painting wrens. the way nature and heaven waste the gifts and souls they give and make, passes all wonder. you might have done anything you chose, only you were too modest. no, i never _will_ call you my dear lady; certainly, if it comes to that, something too dreadful will follow. * * * * * i am most interested in your criticism of "queen mary." i have not read it, but the choice of subject is entirely morbid and wrong, and i am sure all you say must be true. the form of decline which always comes on mental power of tennyson's passionately sensual character, is always of seeing ugly things, a kind of delirium tremens. turner had it fatally in his last years. i am so glad you enjoy writing to me more than any one else. the book you sent me of dr. john brown's on books, has been of extreme utility to me, and contains matter of the deepest interest. did you read it yourself? if not i must lend it to you. i am so glad also to know of your happiness in chaucer. don't hurry in reading. i will get you an edition for your own, that you may mark it in peace. * * * * * i send you two books, neither i fear very amusing, but on my word, i think books are always dull when one really most wants them. no, other people don't feel it as you and i do, nor do the dogs and ponies, but oughtn't we to be thankful that we _do_ feel it. the thing i fancy we are both wanting in, is a right power of enjoying the past. what sunshine there _has_ been even in this sad year! i have seen beauty enough in one afternoon, not a fortnight ago, to last me for a year if i could rejoice in memory. i have a painter friend, mr. goodwin, coming to keep me company, and i'm a little content in this worst of rainy days, in hopes there _may_ be now some clearing for him. our little kittens pass the days of their youth up against the wall at the back of the house, where the heat of the oven comes through. what an existence! and yet with all my indoor advantages i am your sorrowful and repining j. r. * * * * * i am entirely grateful for your letter, and for all the sweet feelings expressed in it, and am entirely reverent of the sorrow which you feel at my speaking thus. if only all were like you! but the chief sins and evils of the day are caused by the pharisees, exactly as in the time of christ, and "they make broad their phylacteries" in the same way, the bible superstitiously read, becoming the authority for every error and heresy and cruelty. to make its readers understand that the god of their own day is as living, and as able to speak to them directly as ever in the days of isaiah and st. john, and that he would now send messages to his seven churches, if the churches would hear, needs stronger words than any i have yet dared to use, against the idolatry of the historical record of his messages long ago, perverted by men's forgetfulness, and confused by mischance and misapprehension; and if instead of the latin form "scripture" we put always "writing" instead of "written" or "write" in one place, and "scripture" as if it meant our english bible, in another, it would make such a difference to our natural and easy understanding the range of texts. the peacock's feathers are marvelous. i am very glad to see them. i never had any of their downy ones before. my compliments to the bird, upon them, please. i found a strawberry growing just to please itself, as red as a ruby, high up on yewdale crag yesterday, in a little corner of rock all its own; so i left it to enjoy itself. it seemed as happy as a lamb, and no more meant to be eaten. yes, those are all sweetest bits from chaucer (the pine new to me); your own copy is being bound. and all the richard,--but you must not copy out the richard bits, for i like all my richard alike from beginning to end. yes, my "seed pearl" bit is pretty, i admit; it was like the thing. the cascades here, i'm afraid, come down more like seed oatmeal. * * * * * i believe in my hasty answer to your first kind letter i never noticed what you said about aristophanes. if you will indeed send me some notes of the passages that interest you in the "birds," it will not only be very pleasant to me, but quite seriously useful, for the "birds" have always been to me so mysterious in that comedy, that i have never got the good of it which i know is to be had. the careful study of it put off from day to day, was likely enough to fall into the great region of my despair, unless you had chanced thus to remind me of it. please, if another chance of good to me come in your way, in another brown spotty-purple peacock's feather, will you yet send it to me, and i will be always your most grateful and faithful j. r. * * * * * herne hill. what translation of aristophanes is that? i must get it. i've lost i can't tell you how much knowledge and power through false pride in refusing to read translations, though i couldn't read the original without more trouble and time than i could spare; nevertheless, you must not think this english gives you a true idea of the original. the english is much more "english" in its temper than its words. aristophanes is far more dry, severe, and concentrated; his words are fewer, and have fuller flavor; this english is to him what currant jelly is to currants. but it's immensely useful to me. yes, that is very sweet about the kissing. i have done it to rocks often, seldom to flowers, not being sure that they would like it. i recollect giving a very reverent little kiss to a young sapling that was behaving beautifully in an awkward chink, between two great big ones that were ill-treating it. poor me, (i'm old enough, i hope, to write grammar my own way,) my own little self, meantime, never by any chance got a kiss when i wanted it,--and the better i behaved, the less chance i had, it seemed. * * * * * i never thought the large packet was from you; it was thrown aside with the rest, till evening, and only opened _then_ by chance. i was greatly grieved to find what i had thus left unacknowledged. the drawings are entirely beautiful and wonderful, but, like all the good work done in those bygone days, (donovan's own book being of inestimable excellence in this kind,) they affect me with profound melancholy in the thought of the loss to the entire body of the nation of all this perfect artistic capacity, and sweet will, for want of acknowledgment, system, and direction. i must write a careful passage on this matter in my new elements of drawing. your drawings have been sent me not by you, but by my mistress fors, for a text. it is no wonder, when you can draw like this, that you care so much for all lovely nature. but i shall be ashamed to show you my peacock's feather; i've sent it, however. * * * * * it is _very_ sweet of you to give me your book, but i accept it at once most thankfully. it is the best type i can show of the perfect work of an english lady in her own simple peace of enjoyment and natural gift of truth, in her sight and in her mind. and many pretty things are in my mind and heart about it, if my hands were not too cold to shape words for them. the book shall be kept with my bewicks; it is in nowise inferior to them in fineness of work. the finished proof of next "proserpina" will, i think, be sent me by saturday's post. much more is done, but this number was hindered by the revisal of the dean of christ church, which puts me at rest about mistakes in my greek. * * * * * it is a great joy to me that _you_ like the wordsworth bits; there are worse coming; but i've been put into a dreadful passion by two of my cleverest girl pupils "going off pious!" it's exactly like a nice pear getting "sleepy;" and i'm pretty nearly in the worst temper i _can_ be in, for w. w. but what _are_ these blessed feathers? everything that's best of grass and clouds and chrysoprase. what incomparable little creature wears such things, or lets fall! the "fringe of flame" is carlyle's, not mine, but we feel so much alike, that you may often mistake one for the other now. * * * * * you cannot in the least tell what a help you are to me, in caring so much for my things and seeing what i try to do in them. you are quite one of a thousand for sympathy with everybody, and one of the ten times ten thousand, for special sympathy with my own feelings and tries. yes, that second column is rather nicely touched, though i say it, for hands and eyes of sixty-two; but when once the wind stops i hope to do a bit of primrosey ground that will be richer. * * * * * here, not i, but a thing with a dozen of colds in its head, am! i caught one cold on wednesday last, another on thursday, two on friday, four on saturday, and one at every station between this and ingleborough on monday. i never was in such ignoble misery of cold. i've no cough to speak of, nor anything worse than usual in the way of sneezing, but my hands are cold, my pulse nowhere, my nose tickles and wrings me, my ears sing--like kettles, my mouth has no taste, my heart no hope of ever being good for anything, any more. i never passed such a wretched morning by my own fireside in all my days, and i've quite a fiendish pleasure in telling you all this, and thinking how miserable you'll be too. oh me, if i ever get to feel like myself again, won't i take care of myself. * * * * * the feathers nearly made me fly away from all my psalters and exoduses, to you, and my dear peacocks. i wonder when solomon got his ivory and apes and peacocks, whether he ever had time to look at them. he couldn't always be ordering children to be chopped in two. alas, i suppose his wisdom, in england of to-day, would have been taxed to find out which mother lied in saying which child _wasn't_ hers! i've been writing to miss r. again, and miss l.'s quite right to stay at home. "she thinks i have an eagle's eye." well, what else should i have, in day time? together with my cat's eye in the dark? but you may tell her i should be very sorry if my eyes were _no_ better than eagles'! "doth the eagle know what is in the pit"?[ ] _i_ do. [footnote : blake.] * * * * * i hope you will be comforted in any feeling of languor or depression in yourself by hearing that i also am wholly lack lustrous, _de_pressed, _op_pressed, _com_pressed, and _down_pressed by a quite countless pressgang of despondencies, humilities, remorses, shamefacednesses, all overnesses, all undernesses, sicknesses, dullnesses, darknesses, sulkinesses, and everything that rhymes to lessness and distress, and that i'm sure you and i are at present the mere targets of the darts of the ----, etc., etc., and mattie's waiting and mustn't be loaded with more sorrow; but i can't tell you how sorry i am to break my promise to-day, but it would not be safe for me to come. * * * * * i'm a little better, but can't laugh much yet, and won't cry if i can help it. yet it always makes me _nearly_ cry, to hear of those poor working men trying to express themselves and nobody ever teaching them, nor anybody in all england, knowing that painting is an _art_, and sculpture also, and that an untaught man can no more carve or paint, than play the fiddle. all efforts of the kind, mean simply that we have neither master nor scholars in any rank or any place. and i, also, what have _i_ done for coniston schools yet! i don't deserve an oyster shell, far less an oyster. * * * * * kirby lonsdale, _thursday evening_. you won't get this note to-morrow, i'm afraid, but after that i think they will be regular till i reach oxford. it is very nice to know that there is some one who does care for a letter, as if she were one's sister. you would be glad to see the clouds break for me; and i had indeed a very lovely morning drive and still lovelier evening, and full moonrise here over the lune. i suppose it is kirk-by-lune's dale? for the church, i find, is a very important norman relic. by the way, i should tell you, that the _colored_ plates in the "stones of venice" do great injustice to my drawings; the patches are worn on the stones. my _drawings_ were not _good_, but the plates are total failures. the only one even of the engravings, which is rightly done is the (_last_, i think, in appendix) inlaid dove and raven. i'll show you the drawing for that when i come back, and perhaps for the san michele, if i recollect to fetch it from oxford, and i'll fetch you the second volume, which has really good plates. that blue beginning, i forgot to say, is of the straits of messina, and it is really _very_ like the color of the sea. that is intensely curious about the parasitical plant of borneo. but--very dreadful! * * * * * you are like timon of athens, and i'm like one of his parasites. the oranges are delicious, the brown bread dainty; what the melon is going to be i have no imagination to tell. but, oh me, i had such a lovely letter from dr. john, sent me from joan this morning, and i've lost it. it said, "is susie as good as her letters? if so, she must be better. what freshness of enjoyment in everything she says!" alas! not in everything she feels in _this_ weather, i fear. was ever anything so awful? * * * * * do you know, susie, everything that has happened to me (and the leaf i sent you this morning may show you it has had some hurting in it) is _little_ in comparison to the crushing and depressing effect on me, of what i learn day by day as i work on, of the cruelty and ghastliness of the _nature_ i used to think so divine? but, i get out of it by remembering, this is but a crumb of dust we call the "world," and a moment of eternity which we call "time." can't answer the great question to-night. * * * * * i can only thank you for telling me; and say, praised be god for giving him back to us. worldly people say "thank god" when they get what they want; as if it amused god to plague them, and was a vast piece of self-denial on his part to give them what they liked. but i, who am a simple person, thank god when he hurts me, because i don't think he likes it any more than i do; but i can't _praise_ him, because--i don't understand why--i can only praise what's pretty and pleasant, like getting back our doctor. * * * * * _ th november._ and to-morrow i'm not to be there; and i've no present for you, and i am so sorry for both of us; but oh, my dear little susie, the good people all say this wretched makeshift of a world is coming to an end next year, and you and i and everybody who likes birds and roses are to have new birthdays and presents of such sugar plums. crystals of candied cloud and manna in sticks with no ends, all the way to the sun, and white stones; and new names in them, and heaven knows what besides. it sounds all too good to be true; but the good people are positive of it, and so's the great pyramid, and the book of daniel, and the "bible of amiens." you can't possibly believe in any more promises of mine, i know, but if i _do_ come to see you this day week, don't think it's a ghost; and believe at least that we all love you and rejoice in your birthday wherever we are. i'm so thankful you're better. reading my old diary, i came on a sentence of yours last year about the clouds being all "trimmed with swansdown," _so_ pretty. (i copied it out of a letter.) the thoughts of you always trim _me_ with swansdown. * * * * * i never got your note written yesterday; meant at least to do it even after post time, but was too stupid, and am infinitely so to-day also. only i _must_ pray you to tell sarah we all had elder wine to finish our evening with, and i mulled it myself, and poured it out in the saucepan into the expectants' glasses, and everybody asked for more; and i slept like a dormouse. but, as i said, i am so stupid this morning that----. well, there's no "that" able to say how stupid i am, unless the fly that wouldn't keep out of the candle last night; and _he_ had some notion of bliss to be found in candles, and i've no notion of anything. * * * * * the blue sky is so wonderful to-day and the woods after the rain so delicious for walking in that i must still delay any school talk one day more. meantime i've sent you a book which is in a nice large print and may in some parts interest you. i got it that i might be able to see scott's material for "peveril;" and it seems to me that he might have made more of the real attack on latham house, than of the fictitious one on front de boeuf's castle, had he been so minded, but perhaps he felt himself hampered by too much known fact. * * * * * but you gave my present before[ ] a month ago, and i've been presenting myself with all sorts of things ever since; and now it's not half gone. i'm very thankful for this, however, just now, for st. george, who is cramped in his career, and i'll accept it if you like for him. meantime i've sent it to the bank, and hold him your debtor. i've had the most delicious gift besides, i ever had in my life,--the patriarch of venice's blessing written with his own hand, with his portrait. i'll bring you this to see to-morrow and a fresh turner. [footnote : "frondes" money.] * * * * * the weather has grievously depressed me this last week, and i have not been fit to speak to anybody. i had much interruption in the early part of it though, from a pleasant visitor; and i have not been able to look rightly at your pretty little book. nevertheless, i'm quite sure your strength is in private letter writing, and that a curious kind of shyness prevents your doing yourself justice in print. you might also surely have found a more pregnant motto about bird's nests! am not i cross? but these gray skies are mere poison to my thoughts, and i have been writing such letters, that i don't think many of my friends are likely to speak to me again. * * * * * susie's letters. * * * * * the following letters and the little notes on birds are inserted here by the express wish of mr. ruskin. i had it in my mind to pay susie some extremely fine compliments about these letters and notes, and to compare her method of observation with thoreau's, and above all, to tell some very pretty stories showing her st. francis-like sympathy with, and gentle power over, all living creatures; but susie says that she is already far too prominent, and we hope that the readers of "hortus" will see for themselves how she reverences and cherishes all noble life, with a special tenderness, i think, for furred and feathered creatures. to all outcast and hungry things the thwaite is a veritable bethlehem, or house of bread, and to her, their sweet "madonna nourrice," no less than to her teacher, the sparrows and linnets that crowd its thresholds are in a very particular sense "sons of god." a. f. * * * * * _april th, ._ i sent off such a long letter to you yesterday, my dear friend. did you think of your own quotation from homer, when you told me that field of yours was full of violets? but where are the four fountains of _white_ water?--through a meadow full of violets and parsley? how delicious calypso's fire of finely chopped cedar! how shall i thank you for allowing _me_, susie the little, to _distill_ your writings? such a joy and comfort to me--for i shall need much very soon now. i do so thank and love you for it; i am sure i may say so to _you_. i rejoice again and again that i have such a friend. may i never love him less, never prove unworthy of his friendship! how i wanted my letter, and now it has come, and i have told our dr. john of your safe progress so far. i trust you will be kept safe from _everything_ that might injure you in any way. the snow has melted away, and this is a really sweet april day and _ought_ to be enjoyed--if only susie _could_. but both she and her dear friend must strive with their grief. when i was a girl--(i was once)--i used to delight in pope's homer. i do believe i rather enjoyed the killing and slaying, specially the splitting down the _chine_! but when i tried to read it again not _very_ long ago, i got tired of this kind of thing. if _you_ had only translated homer! then i should have had a feast. when a school-girl, going each day with my bag of books into manchester, i used to like don quixote and sir charles grandison with my milk porridge. i must send you only this short letter to-day. i can see your violet field from this window. how sweetly the little limpid stream would _tinkle_ to-day; and how the primroses are sitting listening to it and the little birds sipping it! i have come to the conclusion that bees go more by _sight_ than by scent. as i stand by my peacock with his gloriously gorgeous tail all spread out, a bee comes _right at it_ (very vulgar, but expressive); and i have an alpine primula on this window stone brightly in flower, and a bee came and alighted, but went away again at once, not finding the expected honey. i wonder what you do the livelong day, for i know you and idleness are not acquaintances. i am so sorry your favorite places are spoiled. but dear brantwood will grow prettier and prettier under your care. * * * * * _april th._ i have just been pleased by seeing a blackbird enjoying with school-boy appetite, portions of a moistened crust of bread which i threw out for him and his fellow-creatures. how he dug with his orange bill!--even more orange than usual perhaps at this season of the year. at length the robins have built a nest in the ivy in our yard--a very secure and sheltered place, and a very convenient distance from the crumb market. like the old woman _he_ sings with a merry devotion, and _she_ thinks there never was such music, as she sits upon her eggs; he comes again and again, with every little dainty that his limited income allows, and _she_ thinks it all the sweeter because _he_ brings it to her. now and then she leaves her nest to stretch her wings, and to shake off the dust of care, and to prevent her pretty _ankles_ being cramped. but she knows her duty too well to remain absent long from her precious eggs. now another little note from dr. john, and he actually begins, "my dear 'susie,'"--and ends, "let me hear from you soon. ever yours affectionately." also he says, "it is very kind in you to let me get at once close to you." the rest of his short letter (like you, he was busy) is nearly all about _you_, so of course it is interesting to _me_, and he hopes you are already getting good from the change, and i indulge the same hope. * * * * * _ th april._ brantwood looked so very nice this morning decorated by the coming into leaf of the larches. i wish you could have seen them in the distance as i did: the early sunshine had glanced upon them lighting up one side, and leaving the other in softest shade, and the tender green contrasted with the deep browns and grays stood out in a wonderful way, and the trees looked like spirits of the wood, which you might think would melt away like the white lady of avenel. dear sweet april still looks coldly upon us--the month you love so dearly. little white lambs are in the fields now, and so much that is sweet is coming; but there is a shadow over this house _now_; and also, my dear kind friend is far away. the horse-chestnuts have thrown away the winter coverings of their buds, and given them to that dear economical mother earth, who makes such good use of everything, and works up old materials again in a wonderful way, and is delightfully unlike most economists,--the very soul of generous liberality. now some of your own words, so powerful as they are,--you are speaking of the alp and of the "great builder"--of your own transientness, as of the grass upon its sides; and in this very sadness, a sense of strange companionship with past generations, in seeing what they saw. they have ceased to look upon it, you will soon cease to look also; and the granite wall will be for others, etc., etc. my dear friend, was there ever any one so pathetic as you? and you have the power of bringing things before one, both to the eye and to the mind: you do indeed paint with your pen. now i have a photograph of you--not a very satisfactory one, but still i am glad to have it, rather than none. it was done at newcastle-on-tyne. were you in search of something of bewick's? i have just given the squirrel his little _loaf_; (so you see i am a lady,)[ ] he has bounded away with it, full of joy and gladness. i wish that this were my case and _yours_, for whatever we may wish for, that we have not. we have a variety and abundance of loaves. i have asked dr. j. brown whether he would like photographs of your house and the picturesque breakwater. i do so wish that you and he and i did not suffer so much, but _could_ be at least moderately happy. i am sure you would be glad if you knew even in this time of sorrow, when all seems stale, flat, unprofitable, the pleasure and interest i have had in reading your vol. ["modern painters"]. i study your character in your writings, and i find so much to elevate, to love, to admire--a sort of education for my poor old self--and oh! such beauty of thought and word. even yet my birds want so much bread; i do believe the worms are sealed up in the dry earth, and they have many little mouths to fill just now--and there is one old blackbird whose devotion to his wife and children is lovely. i should like him never to die, he is _one_ of my heroes. and now a dog which calls upon me sometimes at the window, and i point kitchenwards and the creature knows what i mean, and goes and gets a good meal. so if i can only make a dog happy (as you do, only you take yours to live with you, and i cannot do that) it is a pleasant thing. i do so like to make things happier, and i should like to put bunches of hay in the fields for the poor horses, for there is very scant supply of grass, and too many for the supply. [footnote : see "fors clavigera", letter xlv., and "sesame and lilies."] * * * * * _ st may._ i cannot longer refrain from writing to you, my dear kind friend, so often are you in my thoughts. dearest joanie has told you, i doubt not, and i know how sorry you are, and how truly you are feeling for your poor susie. so _knowing that_ i will say no more about my sorrow. there is no need for words. i am wishing, oh, so much, to know how you are: quite safe and well, i hope, and able to have much real enjoyment in the many beautiful things by which you are surrounded. may you lay up a great stock of good health and receive much good in many ways, and then return to those who so much miss you, and by whom you are so greatly beloved. coniston would go into your heart if you could see it now--so very lovely, the oak trees so early, nearly in leaf already. your beloved blue hyacinths will soon be out, and the cuckoo has come, but it is long since susie has been out. she only stands at an open window, but she must try next week to go into the garden; and she is finding a real pleasure in making extracts from your writings, _for you_, often wondering "will he let that remain?" and hoping that he will. do you ever send home orders about your brantwood? i have been wishing so much that your gardener might be told to mix quantities of old mortar and soil together, and to fill many crevices in your new walls with it; then the breezes will bring fern seeds and plant them, or rather sow them in such fashion as no human being can do. when time and the showers brought by the west wind have mellowed it a little, the tiny beginnings of mosses will be there. the sooner this can be done the better. do not think susie presumptuous. we have hot sun and a _very_ cool air, which i do not at all like. i hope your visit to palermo and your lady have been all that you could wish. please _do_ write to me; it would do me so much good and so greatly refresh me. this poor little letter is scarcely worth sending, only it says that i am your loving susie. * * * * * _ th may._ my dearest friend,--your letter yesterday did me so much good, and though i answered it at once, yet here i am again. a kind woman from the other side has sent me the loveliest group of drooping and very tender ferns, soft as of some velvet belonging to the fairies, and of the most exquisite green, and primroses, and a slender stalked white flower, and so arranged, that they continually remind me of that enchanting group of yours in vol. , which you said i might cut out. what would you have thought of me if i had? oh, that you would and could sketch this group--or even that your eye could rest upon it! now you will laugh if i ask you whether harpies[ ] ever increase in number? or whether they are only the "old original." they quite torment me when i open the window, and blow chaff at me. i suppose at this moment, dearest joanie is steaming away to liverpool; one always wants to know now whether people accomplish a journey safely. when the blackbirds come for soaked bread, they generally eat a nice little lot themselves, before carrying any away from the window for their little ones; but bobbie, "our little english robin," has just been twice, took none for himself, but carries beak-load after beak-load for his speckled infants. how curious the universal love of bread is; so many things like and eat it--even flies and snails! you know you inserted a letter from jersey about fish.[ ] a lady there tells me that formerly you might have a bucket of oysters for sixpence and that now you can scarcely get anything but such coarse kinds of fish as are not liked; and she has a sister, a sad invalid, to whom fish would be a very pleasant and wholesome change. this is really a sad state of things, and _here_ the railways seem very likely to carry away our butter, and it is now such a price, quite ex[h]orbitant. why did i put an _h_ in? is it to prove the truth of what you say, that ladies do not spell well? a letter which i once wrote when a girl was a wonderful specimen of bad spelling. [footnote : see "queen of the air,"] [footnote : see "fors clavigera," letter xxx.] * * * * * _ th may._ i have found such lovely passages in vol. this morning that i am delighted, and have begun to copy one of them. you do float in such beautiful things sometimes that you make me feel i don't know how! how i thank you for ever having written them, for though late in the day, they were written for _me_, and have at length reached me! you are so candid about your age that i shall tell you mine! i am astonished to find myself sixty-eight--very near the psalmist's threescore and ten. much illness and much sorrow, and then i woke up to find myself _old_, and as if i had lost a great part of my life. let us hope it was not all lost. i think _you_ can understand me when i say that i have a great fund of love, and no one to spend it upon, because there are not any to whom i could give it _fully_, and i love my pets so dearly, but i _dare not_ and cannot enjoy it fully because--they _die_, or get injured, and then my misery is intense. i feel as if i could tell _you_ much, because your sympathy is so refined and so tender and true. cannot i be a sort of second mother to you? i am sure the first one was often praying for blessings for you, and in this, at least, i resemble her. am i tiresome writing all this? it just came, and you said i was to write what did. we have had some nice rain, but followed not by warmth, but a cruel _east_ wind. * * * * * about wrens. this year i have seen wrens' nests in three different kinds of places--one built in the angle of a doorway, one under a bank, and a third near the top of a raspberry bush; this last was so large that when our gardener first saw it, he thought it was a swarm of bees. it seems a pleasure to this active bird to build; he will begin to build several nests sometimes before he completes one for jenny wren to lay her eggs and make her nursery. think how busy both he and jenny are when the sixteen young ones come out of their shells--little helpless gaping things wanting feeding in their turns the livelong summer day! what hundreds and thousands of small insects they devour! they catch flies with good-sized wings. i have seen a parent wren with its beak so full that the wings stood out at each side like the whiskers of a cat. once in america in the month of june, a mower hung up his coat under a shed near a barn: two or three days passed before he had occasion to put it on again. thrusting his arm up the sleeve he found it completely filled with something, and on pulling out the mass he found it to be the nest of a wren completely finished and lined with feathers. what a pity that all the labor of the little pair had been in vain! great was the distress of the birds, who vehemently and angrily scolded him for destroying their house; happily it was an empty one, without either eggs or young birds. * * * * * history of a blackbird. we had had one of those summer storms which so injure the beautiful flowers and the young leaves of the trees. a blackbird's nest with young ones in it was blown out of the ivy on the wall, and the little ones with the exception of one, were killed! the poor little bird did not escape without a wound upon his head, and when he was brought to me it did not seem very likely that i should ever be able to rear him; but i could not refuse to take in the little helpless stranger, so i put him into a covered basket for a while. i soon found that i had undertaken what was no easy task, for he required feeding so early in a morning that i was obliged to take him and his bread crumbs into my bedroom, and jump up to feed him as soon as he began to chirp, which he did in very good time. then in the daytime i did not dare to have him in the sitting-room with me, because my sleek favorites, the cats, would soon have devoured him, so i carried him up into an attic, and as he required feeding very often in the day, you may imagine that i had quite enough of exercise in running up and down stairs. but i was not going to neglect the helpless thing after once undertaking to nurse him, and i had the pleasure of seeing him thrive well upon his diet of dry-bread crumbs and a little scrap of raw meat occasionally; this last delicacy, you know, was a sort of imitation of worms! very soon my birdie knew my step, and though he never exactly said so, i am sure he thought it had "musick in't," for as soon as i touched the handle of the door he set up a shriek of joy! the bird that we nurse is the bird that we love, and i soon loved dick. and the love was not all on one side, for my bonnie bird would sit upon my finger uttering complacent little chirps, and when i sang to him in a low voice he would gently peck my hair. as he grew on and wanted to use his limbs, i put him into a large wicker bonnet-basket, having taken out the lining; it made him a large cheerful airy cage. of course i had a perch put across it, and he had plenty of white sand and a pan of water; sometimes i set his bath on the floor of the room, and he delighted in bathing until he looked half-drowned; then what shaking of his feathers, what _preening_ and arranging there was! and how happy and clean and comfortable he looked when his toilet was completed! you may be sure that i took him some of the first ripe currants and strawberries, for blackbirds like fruit, and so do boys! when he was fledged i let him out in the room, and so he could exercise his wings. it is a curious fact that if i went up to him with my bonnet on he did not know me at all, but was in a state of great alarm. blackbirds are wild birds, and do not bear being kept in a cage, not even so well as some other birds do; and as this bird grew up he was not so tame, and was rather restless. i knew that, though i loved him so much, i ought not to keep him shut up against his will. he was carried down into the garden while the raspberries were ripe, and allowed to fly away; and i have never seen him since. do you wonder that my eyes filled with tears when he left? letters to the clergy on _the lord's prayer and the church_ by john ruskin, ll.d., d.c.l. with replies from clergy and laity, and an epilogue by mr. ruskin edited, with essays and comments, by the rev. f. a. malleson, m.a. vicar of broughton-in-furness third edition _with additional letters by mr. ruskin_ london george allen, , charing cross road [_all rights reserved_] _printed by_ ballantyne, hanson & co _at the ballantyne press_ introduction the first reading of the letters to the clerical society to which they were first addressed in september , twenty-three clergy being present, was prefaced with the following remarks:-- a few words by way of introduction will be absolutely necessary before i proceed to read mr. ruskin's letters. they originated simply in a proposal of mine, which met with so ready and willing a response, that it almost seemed like a simultaneous thought. they are addressed nominally to myself, as representing the body of clergy whose secretary i have the honour to be; they are, in fact, therefore addressed to this society primarily. but in the course of the next month or two they will also be read to two other clerical societies,--the ormskirk and the brighton (junior),--who have acceded to my proposals with much kindness, and in the first case have invited me of their own accord. i have undertaken, to the best of my ability, to arrange and set down the various expressions of opinion, which will be freely uttered. in so limited a time, many who may have much to say that would be really valuable will find no time to-day to deliver it. of these brethren, i beg that they will do me the favour to express their views at their leisure, in writing. the original letters, the discussions, the letters which may be suggested, and a few comments of the editor's, will be published in a volume which will appear, i trust, in the beginning of the next year. i will now, if you please, undertake the somewhat dangerous responsibility of avowing my own impressions of the letters i am about to read to you. i own that i believe i see in these papers the development of a principle of the deepest interest and importance,--namely, the application of the highest standard in the interpretation of the gospel message _to_ ourselves as clergymen, and _from_ ourselves to our congregations. we have plenty elsewhere of doctrine and dogma, and undefinable shades of theological opinion. let us turn at last to practical questions presented for our consideration by an eminent layman whose field of work lies quite as much in religion and ethics, as it does, reaching to so splendid an eminence, in art. a man is wanted to show to both clergy and laity something of the full force and meaning of gospel teaching. many there are, and i am of this number, whose cry is "_exoriare aliquis_." i ask you, if possible, to do in an hour what i have been for the last two months trying to do, to divest myself of old forms of thought, to cast off self-indulgent views of our duty as ministers of religion, to lift ourselves out of those grooves in which we are apt to run so smoothly and so complacently, persuading ourselves that all is well just as it is, and to endeavour to strike into a sterner, harder path, beset with difficulties, but still the path of duty. these papers will demand a close, a patient, and in some places, a few will think, an indulgent consideration; but as a whole, the standard taken is, as i firmly believe, speaking only for myself, lofty and christian to the extent of an almost ideal perfection. if we do go forward straight in the direction which mr. ruskin points out, i know we shall come, sooner or later, to a chasm right across our path. some of us, i hope, will undauntedly cross it. let each judge for himself, [greek: tô telei pistin pherôn]. preface to the third edition having been urged to bring out a new edition of the volume first edited by me in , and having willingly accepted the invitation to do so, it will naturally be expected that i should give some account of the circumstances which have led me to take the somewhat unusual step of reviving a book which has for twelve years been lying in a state of suspended animation. on the first conception of this volume i applied to messrs. strahan, to produce it before the reading and thinking world. i should have done more wisely, no doubt, had i offered the publication to mr. george allen, mr. ruskin's well-known publisher. it avails not to explain why i chose a different course, of which subsequent events only too soon showed me the error; for after the first edition had been sold off in a week, and while the second was partly sold and partly in preparation, messrs. strahan's failure was announced, greatly to my surprise; my somewhat isolated position in the north country so far from london keeping me very imperfectly informed as to what was passing in the literary world. reasonable, business-like people would ask, why did i not make an effort to rescue my little barque out of the general wreckage, and why did i not, remembering that mr. ruskin had with much kindness freely bestowed the copyright on me, save the second edition and arrange with another publisher to carry the work on? but i was failing at the time with the illness which was effectually cured only by a long sojourn amidst or very near to the ice and snow of the alps. i was incapable of much exertion, and, in fact, did not much care. besides which i am not a professed literary man, being chiefly interested in the work of my rural parish on the borders of the lake district, and should not think it fair, or even possible, if i may use an equestrian metaphor, to attempt to ride two horses at once. so mr. ruskin's letters, etc., as edited by the present writer, came to be entirely laid by, though not forgotten by the hosts of mr. ruskin's friends, followers, and admirers, who regretted the suspension of so valuable a work and so rich in great thoughts, teachings, and suggestions. so things remained until august , when a new friend, mr. smart, gave me the pleasure of a visit, and we talked over the circumstances just narrated. passing over several very pleasant meetings in london, let it be sufficient to mention that under the impulse of mr. george allen's encouragement, and cheered by the valuable assistance and co-operation of another friend, mr. t. j. wise, i agreed to carry forward this third edition with the full approbation and consent of mr. ruskin himself, though it should be said that on account of the state of his health, i have been unable to consult him on any of the details of the publication. but it will not be exactly the same volume. mr. allen and mr. wise, having gone over much of my correspondence with mr. ruskin, were good enough to express a desire that some of those letters addressed to myself as a friend should be embodied in the present volume, as being strongly illustrative of his views on the subjects dealt with in his more formal letters to the clergy. i may claim pardon for a feeling of great satisfaction with the circumstance that in the course of so long and so delicate a correspondence as is contained in this volume, never has a cloud overshadowed our paths in this matter, never has a cold blast from the east sent a shiver through my system, nor, i presume, his. for had mr. ruskin felt any resentment at anything i wrote, with his usual downright frankness he would not have been backward for an hour in expressing in vehement language what he felt. but from first to last my intercourse with that kind and eminently distinguished friend has been kept bright and happy by his unvarying serenity. the letters from clergy and laity in this third edition occupy much less space than in the original one. it was mr. ruskin's wish that they should be subjected to some process of abridgment; besides which the allowing of space for the new feature of additional ruskin letters made a curtailment in another direction necessary. the plan which seemed to me the least discourteous to my numerous correspondents of that time has been to make a selection of passages from a certain number of the letters. f. a. malleson. the vicarage, broughton-in-furness, _january ._ contents page introduction v preface to the third edition xi mr. ruskin's letters-- letter i. " ii. " iii. " iv. " v. " vi. " vii. " viii. " ix. " x. " xi. essays and comments. by the editor extracts of letters from clergy and laity letters from brantwood-on-the-lake to the vicarage of broughton-in-furness epilogue by mr. ruskin appendix mr. ruskin's letters i brantwood, coniston, lancashire, _ th june, _. dear mr. malleson,--i could not at once answer your important letter: for, though i felt at once the impossibility of my venturing to address such an audience as you proposed, i am unwilling to fail in answering to any call relating to matters respecting which my feelings have been long in earnest, if in any wise it may be possible for me to be of service therein. my health--or want of it--now utterly forbids my engagement in any duty involving excitement or acute intellectual effort; but i think, before the first tuesday in august, i might be able to write one or two letters to yourself, referring to, and more or less completing, some passages already printed in fors and elsewhere, which might, on your reading any portions you thought available, become matter of discussion during the meeting at some leisure time, after its own main purposes had been answered. at all events, i will think over what i should like, and be able, to represent to such a meeting, and only beg you not to think me insensible of the honour done me by your wish, and of the gravity of the trust reposed in me. ever most faithfully yours, j. ruskin. the rev. f. a. malleson. ii brantwood, coniston, _ rd june, _. dear mr. malleson,--walking, and talking, are now alike impossible to me;[ ] my strength is gone for both; nor do i believe talking on such matters to be of the least use except to promote, between sensible people, kindly feeling and knowledge of each other's personal characters. i have every trust in _your_ kindness and truth; nor do i fear being myself misunderstood by you; what i may be able to put into written form, so as to admit of being laid before your friends in council, must be set down without any question of personal feeling--as simply as a mathematical question or demonstration. [ ] in answer to the proposal of discussing the subject during a mountain walk. the first exact question which it seems to me such an assembly may be earnestly called upon by laymen to solve, is surely axiomatic: the definition of themselves as a body, and of their business as such. namely: as clergymen of the church of england, do they consider themselves to be so called merely as the attached servants of a particular state? do they, in their quality of guides, hold a position similar to that of the guides of chamouni or grindelwald, who being a numbered body of examined and trustworthy persons belonging to those several villages, have nevertheless no chamounist or grindelwaldist opinions on the subject of alpine geography or glacier walking: but are prepared to put into practice a common and universal science of locality and athletics, founded on sure survey and successful practice? are the clergymen of the ecclesia of england thus simply the attached and salaried guides of england and the english, in the way, known of all good men, that leadeth unto life?--or are they, on the contrary, a body of men holding, or in any legal manner required, or compelled to hold, opinions on the subject--say, of the height of the celestial mountains, the crevasses which go down quickest to the pit, and other cognate points of science,--differing from, or even contrary to, the tenets of the guides of the church of france, the church of italy, and other christian countries? is not this the first of all questions which a clerical council has to answer in open terms? ever affectionately yours, j. ruskin. iii brantwood, _ th july, _. my first letter contained a layman's plea for a clear answer to the question, "what is a clergyman of the church of england?" supposing the answer to this first to be, that the clergy of the church of england are teachers, not of the gospel to england, but of the gospel to all nations; and not of the gospel of luther, nor of the gospel of augustine, but of the gospel of christ,--then the layman's second question would be: can this gospel of christ be put into such plain words and short terms as that a plain man may understand it?--and, if so, would it not be, in a quite primal sense, desirable that it should be so, rather than left to be gathered out of thirty-nine articles, written by no means in clear english, and referring, for further explanation of exactly the most important point in the whole tenor of their teaching,[ ] to a "homily of justification,"[ ] which is not generally in the possession, or even probably within the comprehension, of simple persons? ever faithfully yours, j. ruskin. [ ] art. xi. [ ] homily xi. of the second table. iv brantwood, _ th july, _. i am so very glad that you approve of the letter plan, as it enables me to build up what i would fain try to say, of little stones, without lifting too much for my strength at once; and the sense of addressing a friend who understands me and sympathizes with me prevents my being brought to a stand by continual need for apology, or fear of giving offence. but yet i do not quite see why you should feel my asking for a simple and comprehensible statement of the christian gospel as startling. are you not bid to go into _all_ the world and preach it to every creature? (i should myself think the clergyman most likely to do good who accepted the [greek: pasê tê ktisei] so literally as at least to sympathize with st. francis' sermon to the birds, and to feel that feeding either sheep or fowls, or unmuzzling the ox, or keeping the wrens alive in the snow, would be received by their heavenly feeder as the _perfect_ fulfilment of his "feed my sheep" in the higher sense.) that's all a parenthesis; for although i should think that your good company would all agree that kindness to animals was a kind of preaching to them, and that hunting and vivisection were a kind of blasphemy to them, i want only to put the sterner question before your council, _how_ this gospel is to be preached either "[greek: pantachou]" or to "[greek: panta ta ethnê]," if first its preachers have not determined quite clearly what it _is_? and might not such definition, acceptable to the entire body of the church of christ, be arrived at by merely explaining, in their completeness and life, the terms of the lord's prayer--the first words taught to children all over the christian world? i will try to explain what i mean of its several articles, in following letters; and in answer to the question with which you close your last, i can only say that you are at perfect liberty to use any, or all, or any parts of them, as you think good. usually, when i am asked if letters of mine may be printed, i say: "assuredly, provided only that you print them entire." but in your hands, i withdraw even this condition, and trust gladly to your judgment, remaining always faithfully and affectionately yours, j. ruskin. the rev. f. a. malleson. v [greek: pater hêmôn ho en tois ouranois.] _pater noster qui es in cælis._ brantwood, _ th july, _. my meaning, in saying that the lord's prayer might be made a foundation of gospel-teaching, was not that it contained all that christian ministers have to teach; but that it contains what all christians are agreed upon as first to be taught; and that no good parish-working pastor in any district of the world but would be glad to take his part in making it clear and living to his congregation. and the first clause of it, of course rightly explained, gives us the ground of what is surely a mighty part of the gospel--its "first and great commandment," namely, that we have a father whom we _can_ love, and are required to love, and to desire to be with him in heaven, wherever that may be. and to declare that we have such a loving father, whose mercy is over _all_ his works, and whose will and law is so lovely and lovable that it is sweeter than honey, and more precious than gold, to those who can "taste" and "see" that the lord is good--this, surely, is a most pleasant and glorious good message and _spell_ to bring to men--as distinguished from the evil message and accursed spell that satan has brought to the nations of the world instead of it, that they have no father, but only "a consuming fire" ready to devour them, unless they are delivered from its raging flame by some scheme of pardon for all, for which they are to be thankful, not to the father, but to the son. supposing this first article of the true gospel agreed to, how would the blessing that closes the epistles of that gospel become intelligible and living, instead of dark and dead: "the grace of christ, and the _love_ of god, and the fellowship of the holy ghost,"--the most _tender_ word being that used of the father! vi [greek: hagiasthêtô to onoma sou.] _sanctificetur nomen tuum._ brantwood, _ th july, _. i wonder how many, even of those who honestly and attentively join in our church services, attach any distinct idea to the second clause of the lord's prayer--the _first petition_ of it--the first thing that they are ordered by christ to seek of their father? am i unjust in thinking that most of them have little more notion on the matter than that god has forbidden "bad language," and wishes them to pray that everybody may be respectful to him? is it any otherwise with the third commandment? do not most look on it merely in the light of the statute on swearing? and read the words "will not hold him guiltless" merely as a passionless intimation that however carelessly a man may let out a round oath, there really _is_ something wrong in it? on the other hand, can anything be more tremendous than the words themselves--double-negatived: "[greek: ou gar mê katharisê ... kurios]"? for _other_ sins there is washing;--for this--none! the seventh verse (exod. xx.), in the septuagint, marking the real power rather than the english, which (i suppose) is literal to the hebrew. to my layman's mind, of practical needs in the present state of the church, nothing is so immediate as that of explaining to the congregation the meaning of being gathered in his name, and having him in the midst of them; as, on the other hand, of being gathered in blasphemy of his name, and having the devil in the midst of them--presiding over the prayers which have become an abomination. for the entire body of the texts in the gospel against hypocrisy are one and all nothing but the expansion of the threatening that closes the third commandment. for as "the name whereby he shall be called is the lord our righteousness,"--so the taking that name in vain is the sum of "the deceivableness of _un_righteousness in them that perish." without dwelling on the possibility--which i do not myself, however, for a moment doubt--of an honest clergyman's being able actually to prevent the entrance among his congregation of persons leading openly wicked lives, could any subject be more vital to the purposes of your meetings than the difference between the present and the probable state of the christian church which would result, were it more the effort of zealous parish priests, instead of getting wicked _poor_ people to _come_ to church, to get wicked rich ones to stay out of it? lest, in any discussion of such question, it might be, as it too often is, alleged that "the lord looketh upon the heart," etc, let me be permitted to say--with as much positiveness as may express my deepest conviction--that, while indeed it is the lord's business to look upon the heart, it is the pastor's to look upon the hands and the lips; and that the foulest oaths of the thief and the street-walker are, in the ears of god, sinless as the hawk's cry, or the gnat's murmur, compared to the responses, in the church service, on the lips of the usurer and the adulterer, who have destroyed, not their own souls only, but those of the outcast ones whom they have made their victims. it is for the meeting of clergymen themselves--not for a layman addressing them--to ask further, how much the name of god may be taken in vain, and profaned instead of hallowed--_in_ the pulpit, as well as under it. ever affectionately yours, j. ruskin. vii [greek: elthetô hê basileia sou.] _adveniat regnum tuum._ brantwood, _ th july, _. dear mr. malleson,--sincere thanks for both your letters and the proofs sent. your comment and conducting link, when needed, will be of the greatest help and value, i am well assured, suggesting what you know will be the probable feeling of your hearers, and the point that will come into question. yes, certainly, that "his" in the fourth line[ ] was meant to imply that eternal presence of christ; as in another passage,[ ] referring to the creation, "when his right hand strewed the snow on lebanon, and smoothed the slopes of calvary;" but in so far as we dwell on that truth, "hast thou seen _me_, philip, and not the father?"[ ] we are not teaching the people what is specially the gospel of _christ_ as having a distinct function, namely, to _serve_ the father, and do the father's will. and in all his human relations to us, and commands to us, it is as the son of man, not as the "power of god and wisdom of god," that he acts and speaks. not as the power; for _he_ must pray, like one of us. not as the wisdom; for he must not know "if it be possible" his prayer should be heard. [ ] in a proof sheet of a book of the editor's at that time in the press. [ ] referring to the closing sentence of the third paragraph of the fifth letter, which _seemed_ to express what i felt could not be mr. ruskin's full meaning, i pointed out to him the following sentence in "modern painters:"-- "when, in the desert, jesus was girding himself for the work of life, angels of life came and ministered unto him; now, in the fair world, when he is girding himself for the work of death, the ministrants came to him from the grave; but from the grave conquered. one from the tomb under abarim, which _his_ own hand had sealed long ago; the other from the rest which he had entered without seeing corruption." on this i made a remark somewhat to the following effect: that i felt sure mr. ruskin regarded the loving work of the father and of the son as _equal_ in the forgiveness of sins and redemption of mankind; that what is done by the father is in reality done also by the son; and that it is by a mere accommodation to human infirmity of understanding that the doctrine of the trinity is revealed to us in language, inadequate indeed to convey divine truths, but still the only language possible; and i asked whether some such feeling was not present in his mind when he used the pronoun "his" in the above passage from "modern painters" of the son, where it would be usually understood of the father; and as a corollary, whether, in the letter, he does not himself fully recognise the fact of the redemption of the world by the loving self-sacrifice of the son being in entire concurrence with the equally loving will of the father. this, as well as i can recollect, is the origin of the passage in the second paragraph in this seventh letter.--editor of letters. [ ] "yet hast thou not known me, philip? he that hath seen me hath seen the father" (john xiv. ).--editor. and in what i want to say of the third clause of his prayer (_his_, not merely as his ordering, but his using), it is especially this comparison between _his_ kingdom, and his father's, that i want to see the disciples guarded against. i believe very few, even of the most earnest, using that petition, realize that it is the father's--not the son's--kingdom, that they pray may come,--although the whole prayer is foundational on that fact: "_for_ thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory." and i fancy that the mind of the most faithful christian is quite led away from its proper hope, by dwelling on the reign--or the coming again--of christ; which, indeed, they are to look for, and _watch_ for, but not to pray for. their prayer is to be for the greater kingdom to which he, risen and having all his enemies under his feet, is to surrender _his_, "that god may be all in all." and, though the greatest, it is that everlasting kingdom which the poorest of us can advance. we cannot hasten christ's coming. "of the day and the hour, knoweth no man." but the kingdom of god is as a grain of mustard-seed:--we can sow of it; it is as a foam-globe of leaven:--we can mingle it; and its glory and its joy are that even the birds of the air can lodge in the branches thereof. forgive me for getting back to my sparrows; but truly in the present state of england, the fowls of the air are the only creatures, tormented and murdered as they are, that yet have here and there nests, and peace, and joy in the holy ghost. and it would be well if many of us, in reading that text, "the kingdom of god is not meat and drink," had even got so far as to the understanding that it is at least _as much_, and that until we had fed the hungry, there was no power in us to inspire the unhappy. ever affectionately yours, j. ruskin. i will write my feeling about the pieces of the life of christ[ ] you have sent me in a private letter. i may say at once that i am sure it will do much good, and will be upright and intelligible, which how few religious writings are? [ ] the life and work of jesus christ. ward and lock. viii [greek: genêthêtô to thelêma sou, hôs en ouranô, kai epi gês.] _fiat voluntas tua sicut in coelo et in terra._ brantwood, _ th august, _. i was reading the second chapter of malachi this morning by chance, and wondering how many clergymen ever read it, and took to heart the "commandment for _them_." for they are always ready enough to call themselves priests (though they know themselves to be nothing of the sort), whenever there is any dignity to be got out of the title; but, whenever there is any good, hot scolding or unpleasant advice given them by the prophets, in that self-assumed character of theirs, they are as ready to quit it as ever dionysus his lion-skin, when he finds the character of herakles inconvenient. "ye have wearied the lord with your words;" (yes, and some of his people too, in your time), "yet ye say, wherein have we wearied him? when ye say, every one that doeth evil is good in the sight of the lord, and he delighteth in them; or, where is the god of judgment?" how many, again and again i wonder, of the lively young ecclesiastics supplied to the increasing demand of our west ends of flourishing cities of the plain, ever consider what sort of sin it is for which god (unless they lay it to heart) will "curse their blessings, and spread dung upon their faces;" or have understood, even in the dimmest manner, what part _they_ had taken, and were taking, in "corrupting the covenant of the lord with levi, and causing many to stumble at the law." perhaps the most subtle and unconscious way in which the religious teachers upon whom the ends of the world are come, have done this, is in never telling their people the meaning of the clause in the lord's prayer, which, of all others, their most earnest hearers have oftenest on their lips: "thy will be done." they allow their people to use it as if their father's will were always to kill their babies, or do something unpleasant to them; and following comfort and wealth, instead of explaining to them that the first and intensest article of their father's will was their own sanctification; and that the one only path to national prosperity and to domestic peace, was to understand what the will of the lord was, and to do all they could to get it done. whereas one would think, by the tone of the eagerest preachers nowadays, that they held their blessed office to be that, not of showing men how to do their father's will on earth, but how to get to heaven without doing any of it either here or there! i say, especially, the most eager preachers; for nearly the whole missionary body (with the hottest evangelistic sect of the english church) is at this moment composed of men who think the gospel they are to carry to mend the world with, forsooth, is that, "if any man sin, he hath an advocate with the father;" while i have never yet, in my own experience, met either with a missionary or a town bishop who so much as professed himself "to understand what the will of the lord" was, far less to teach anybody else to do it; and for fifty preachers, yes, and fifty hundreds whom i have heard proclaiming the mediator of the new testament, that "they which were called might receive the promise of eternal inheritance," i have never yet heard so much as _one_ heartily proclaiming against all those "deceivers with vain words" (eph. v. ), that "no covetous person which is an idolater, hath _any_ inheritance in the kingdom of christ, or of god;" and on myself personally and publicly challenging the bishops of england generally, and by name the bishop of manchester, to say whether usury was, or was not, according to the will of god, i have received no answer from any one of them.[ ] [ ] fors clavigera, letter lxxxii., p. . _ th august._ i have allowed myself, in the beginning of this letter, to dwell on the equivocal use of the word "priest" in the english church (see "christopher harvey," grosart's edition, p. ), because the assumption of the mediatorial, in defect of the pastoral, office by the clergy fulfils itself, naturally and always, in their pretending to absolve the sinner from his punishment, instead of purging him from his sin; and practically, in their general patronage and encouragement of all the iniquity of the world, by steadily preaching away the penalties of it. so that the great cities of the earth, which ought to be the places set on its hills, with the temple of the lord in the midst of them, to which the tribes should go up,--centres to the kingdoms and provinces of honour, virtue, and the knowledge of the law of god,--have become, instead, loathsome centres of fornication and covetousness--the smoke of their sin going up into the face of heaven like the furnace of sodom, and the pollution of it rotting and raging through the bones and the souls of the peasant people round them, as if they were each a volcano whose ashes broke out in blains upon man and upon beast. and in the midst of them, their freshly-set-up steeples ring the crowd to a weekly prayer that the rest of their lives may be pure and holy, while they have not the slightest intention of purifying, sanctifying, or changing their lives in any the smallest particular; and their clergy gather, each into himself, the curious dual power, and janus-faced majesty in mischief, of the prophet that prophesies falsely, and the priest that bears rule by his means. and the people love to have it so. brantwood, _ th august_. i am very glad of your little note from brighton. i thought it needless to send the two letters there, which you will find at home; and they pretty nearly end all _i_ want to say; for the remaining clauses of the prayer touch on things too high for me. but i will send you one concluding letter about them. ix [greek: ton arton hêmôn ton epiousion dos hêmin sêmeron.] _panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie._ brantwood, _ th august_. i retained the foregoing letter by me till now, lest you should think it written in any haste or petulance: but it is every word of it deliberate, though expressing the bitterness of twenty years of vain sorrow and pleading concerning these things. nor am i able to write, otherwise, anything of the next following clause of the prayer;--for no words could be burning enough to tell the evils which have come on the world from men's using it thoughtlessly and blasphemously, praying god to give them what they are deliberately resolved to steal. for all true christianity is known--as its master was--in breaking of bread, and all false christianity in stealing it. let the clergyman only apply--with impartial and level sweep--to his congregation the great pastoral order: "the man that will not work, neither should he eat;" and be resolute in requiring each member of his flock to tell him _what_--day by day--they do to earn their dinners;--and he will find an entirely new view of life and its sacraments open upon him and them. for the man who is not--day by day--doing work which will earn his dinner, must be stealing his dinner; and the actual fact is, that the great mass of men calling themselves christians do actually live by robbing the poor of their bread, and by no other trade whatsoever; and the simple examination of the mode of the produce and consumption of european food--who digs for it, and who eats it--will prove that to any honest human soul. nor is it possible for any christian church to exist but in pollutions and hypocrisies beyond all words, until the virtues of a life moderate in its self-indulgence, and wide in its offices of temporal ministry to the poor, are insisted on as the normal conditions in which, only, the prayer to god for the harvest of the earth is other than blasphemy. in the second place. since in the parable in luke, the bread asked for is shown to be also, and chiefly, the holy spirit (luke xi. ), and the prayer, "give us each day our daily bread" is, in its fulness, the disciples' "lord, evermore give us _this_ bread,"--the clergyman's question to his whole flock, primarily literal, "children, have ye here any meat?" must ultimately be always the greater spiritual one: "children, have ye here any holy spirit?" or, "have ye not heard yet whether there _be_ any? and, instead of a holy ghost the lord and giver of life, do you only believe in an unholy mammon, lord and giver of death?" the opposition between the two lords has been, and will be as long as the world lasts, absolute, irreconcilable, mortal; and the clergyman's first message to his people of this day is--if he be faithful--"choose ye this day, whom ye will serve." ever faithfully yours, j. ruskin. x [greek: kai aphes hêmin ta opheilêmata hêmôn, hôs kai hêmeis aphiemen tois opheiletais hêmôn.] _et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris._ brantwood, _ rd september_. dear mr. malleson,--i have been very long before trying to say so much as a word about the sixth clause of the pater; for whenever i began thinking of it, i was stopped by the sorrowful sense of the hopeless task you poor clergymen had, nowadays, in recommending and teaching people to love their enemies, when their whole energies were already devoted to swindling their friends. but, in any days, past or now, the clause is one of such difficulty, that, to understand it, means almost to know the love of god which passeth knowledge. but, at all events, it is surely the pastor's duty to prevent his flock from _mis_-understanding it; and above all things to keep them from supposing that god's forgiveness is to be had simply for the asking, by those who "wilfully sin after they have received the knowledge of the truth." there is one very simple lesson, also, needed especially by people in circumstances of happy life, which i have never heard fully enforced from the pulpit, and which is usually the more lost sight of, because the fine and inaccurate word "trespasses" is so often used instead of the simple and accurate one, "debts." among people well educated and happily circumstanced, it may easily chance that long periods of their lives pass without any such conscious sin as could, on any discovery or memory of it, make them cry out, in truth and in pain, "i have sinned against the lord." but scarcely an hour of their happy days can pass over them without leaving--were their hearts open--some evidence written there that they have "left undone the things that they ought to have done," and giving them bitterer and heavier cause to cry and cry again--for ever, in the pure words of their master's prayer, "dimitte nobis _debita_ nostra." in connection with the more accurate translation of "debts," rather than "trespasses," it would surely be well to keep constantly in the mind of complacent and inoffensive congregations, that in christ's own prophecy of the manner of the last judgment, the condemnation is pronounced only on the sins of omission: "i was hungry, and ye gave me no meat." but, whatever the manner of sin, by offence or defect, which the preacher fears in his people, surely he has of late been wholly remiss in compelling their definite recognition of it, in its several and personal particulars. nothing in the various inconsistency of human nature is more grotesque than its willingness to be taxed with any quantity of sins in the gross, and its resentment at the insinuation of having committed the smallest parcel of them in detail. and the english liturgy, evidently drawn up with the amiable intention of making religion as pleasant as possible to a people desirous of saving their souls with no great degree of personal inconvenience, is perhaps in no point more unwholesomely lenient than in its concession to the popular conviction that we may obtain the present advantage, and escape the future punishment, of any sort of iniquity, by dexterously concealing the manner of it from man, and triumphantly confessing the quantity of it to god. finally, whatever the advantages and decencies of a form of prayer, and how wide soever the scope given to its collected passages, it cannot be at one and the same time fitted for the use of a body of well-taught and experienced christians, such as should join the services of a church nineteen centuries old,--and adapted to the needs of the timid sinner who has that day first entered its porch, or of the remorseful publican who has only recently become sensible of his call to a pew. and surely our clergy need not be surprised at the daily increasing distrust in the public mind of the efficacy of prayer, after having so long insisted on their offering supplication, _at least_ every sunday morning at eleven o'clock, that the rest of their lives hereafter might be pure and holy, leaving them conscious all the while that they would be similarly required to inform the lord next week, at the same hour, that "there was no health in them"! among the much rebuked follies and abuses of so-called "ritualism," none that i have heard of are indeed so dangerously and darkly "ritual" as this piece of authorized mockery of the most solemn act of human life, and only entrance of eternal life--repentance. believe me, dear mr. malleson, ever faithfully and respectfully yours, j. ruskin. xi [greek: kai mê eisenegkês hêmas eis peirasmon, alla rhusai hêmas apo tou ponêrou; hoti sou estin hê basileia kai hê dunamis kai hê doxa eis tous aiônas; amên.] _et ne nos inducas in tentationem; sed libera nos a malo; quia tuum est regmum, potentia, et gloria in sæcula sæculorum. amen._ brantwood, _ th september, _. dear mr. malleson,--the gentle words in your last letter referring to the difference between yourself and me in the degree of hope with which you could regard what could not but appear to the general mind utopian in designs for the action of the christian church, surely might best be answered by appeal to the consistent tone of the prayer we have been examining. is not every one of its petitions for a perfect state? and is not this last clause of it, of which we are to think to-day--if fully understood--a petition not only for the restoration of paradise, but of paradise in which there shall be no deadly fruit, or, at least, no tempter to praise it? and may we not admit that it is probably only for want of the earnest use of this last petition, that not only the preceding ones have become formal with us, but that the private and simply restricted prayer for the little things we each severally desire, has become by some christians dreaded and unused, and by others used faithlessly, and therefore with disappointment? and is it not for want of this special directness and simplicity of petition, and of the sense of its acceptance, that the whole nature of prayer has been doubted in our hearts, and disgraced by our lips; that we are afraid to ask god's blessing on the earth, when the scientific people tell us he has made previous arrangements to curse it; and that, instead of obeying, without fear or debate, the plain order, "ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full," we sorrowfully sink back into the apology for prayer, that "it is a wholesome exercise, even when fruitless," and that we ought piously always to suppose that the text really means no more than "ask, and ye shall _not_ receive, that your joy may be _empty_"? supposing we were first all of us quite sure that we _had_ prayed, honestly, the prayer against temptation, and that we would thankfully be refused anything we had set our hearts upon, if indeed god saw that it would lead us into evil, might we not have confidence afterwards that he in whose hand the king's heart is, as the rivers of water, would turn our tiny little hearts also in the way that they should go, and that _then_ the special prayer for the joys he taught them to seek, would be answered to the last syllable, and to overflowing? it is surely scarcely necessary to say, farther, what the holy teachers of all nations have invariably concurred in showing,--that faithful prayer implies always correlative exertion; and that no man can ask honestly or hopefully to be delivered from temptation, unless he has himself honestly and firmly determined to do the best he can to keep out of it. but, in modern days, the first aim of all christian parents is to place their children in circumstances where the temptations (which they are apt to call "opportunities") may be as great and as many as possible; where the sight and promise of "all these things" in satan's gift may be brilliantly near; and where the act of "falling down to worship me" may be partly concealed by the shelter, and partly excused, as involuntary, by the pressure, of the concurrent crowd. in what respect the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of _them_, differ from the kingdom, the power, and the glory, which are god's for ever, is seldom, as far as i have heard, intelligibly explained from the pulpit; and still less the irreconcilable hostility between the two royalties and realms asserted in its sternness of decision. whether it be indeed utopian to believe that the kingdom we are taught to pray for _may_ come--verily come--for the asking, it is surely not for man to judge; but it is at least at his choice to resolve that he will no longer render obedience, nor ascribe glory and power, to the devil. if he cannot find strength in himself to advance towards heaven, he may at least say to the power of hell, "get thee behind me;" and staying himself on the testimony of him who saith, "surely i come quickly," ratify his happy prayer with the faithful "amen, even so, come, lord jesus." ever, my dear friend, believe me affectionately and gratefully yours, j. ruskin. essays and comments on the foregoing letters by the editor essays and comments feeling deeply, and anxiously, the greatness of the responsibility laid upon me to act, as it were, the part of an envoy between so eminent a teacher as mr. ruskin and my brethren in the ministry, i have thought that it might not be taken amiss if i prefaced my account of the origin of the series of letters placed in my hands for publication (see letter th july, )[ ] with just a mere allusion to one written to me four years ago. [ ] no. iv. one or two imperfect conversations, leading up to the subject of the resurrection, which had been broken off by accidental circumstances, together with the letter alluded to, had stimulated in me a feeling of something more than curiosity--rather one of anxious interest--to learn more of mr. ruskin's views upon matters which are at the present day giving rise to a good deal of agitated discussion among intellectual men. i am thankful to be able to avow that, for my own part, i am a firm and conscientious, not a thoughtless and passive, believer in the doctrines of the church of christ as held by the majority of serious-minded religious men in the established church. mr. ruskin was mistaken in his much too ready assumption that i (simply because i am a clergyman) am a believer on compulsion; that for the peace of my soul i have only to thank religious anæsthetics, and that i ever preach against the wickedness of involuntary doubt. god forbid that i should ever take on myself to denounce as wilful sin any scruples of conscience which owe their origin to honest inquiries after truth. i trust that he knows me better now. feeling thus decided and certain as to the ground i stand upon, and earnestly desirous on every account to investigate the nature of mr. ruskin's doubts, whatever they might be, in a most fraternal spirit, as a kindly-favoured friend and neighbour (for, in our lake and mountain district, an interval of a dozen miles does not destroy neighbourhood between spirits with any degree of kinship), i sought for a more lengthened conversation, and obtained the opportunity without difficulty. the occasion was found in a very delightful summer afternoon on the lake, and up the sides of the old man of coniston, to view a group of remarkable rocks by the desolate, storm-beaten crags of goat's water,[ ] that saddest and loneliest of mountain tarns, which lies in the deep hollow between the mountain and its opposing buttress, the dow crags. this most interesting ramble in the undivided company of one so highly and so deservedly valued in the world of letters and of art and higher matters yet, served to my mind for more purposes than one, while we wandered amidst impressive scenes, passing from the sweet and gentle peaceful loveliness of the bright green vale of coniston and its charming lake to the bleak desolation, the terrible sublimity of the mountain tarn barriered in by its stupendous crags, amongst which lay those singular-looking, weather-beaten, and lightning-riven rocks which were the more immediate object of our visit. [ ] "deucalion," p. . but to myself the chief and happiest result of our conversation was the firm conviction that neither the censorious and unthinking world, nor perhaps even mr. ruskin himself, knows how deeply and truly a christian man, in the widest sense of the word, mr. ruskin is. it is neither the time nor the place, nor indeed would it be consistent with propriety, to analyze before others the convictions formed on that memorable summer afternoon. it must suffice for the present to say that the opinions then formed laid the foundation of a friendship on a happier basis than that which had heretofore been permitted me, and prepared my way to enter with confidence upon the plan of which the present volume is the fruit. last june, in the course of a short visit to brantwood, i proposed to mr. ruskin to come to address the members of a northern clerical society, a body of some seventy or eighty clergy, who have done me the honour to appoint me their honorary secretary, now for about nine years, since its foundation. on the ground of impaired health, the legacy left behind it by the serious illness which had, two years before, threatened even his life, mr. ruskin excused himself from appearing in person before our society; but proposed instead to write letters to me which might serve as a basis for discussion amongst us. letter i. will explain the origin of the series that come after. on letter ii the question laid down in this letter, cleared of all metaphorical ornament, is, as is perfectly natural and instinctive with mr. ruskin, one which goes down to the foundation of things--here, the character and mission of the christian ministry. are we (mr. ruskin implies, are we _not_?) bound to believe and to teach after certain formulæ, which, being many of them peculiar to ourselves, separate us from the national churches of france and italy? are we free, or are we bound? or do we enjoy a reasonable amount of liberty and no more? on the platform we occupy do we allow none but english churchmen to stand? must we keep all other christians at arm's length? do the conditions attached to the emoluments we receive prohibit us from holding or teaching any other opinions than those we have subscribed to? it is a question not to be approached without a tremor. but no abstract answer can well be given. human nature replies for itself in the spectacle of the clergy of the church of england divided and subdivided; here deeply sundered, there of different complexions amicably blending together, holding every variety of opinion which the church allows or disallows within her borders. human nature absolutely refuses to be shackled in its positive beliefs. authority may try, or even appear to perform, the feat of fettering thought and making men march in step to one common end in orderly ranks; but she has invariably at last to confess her impotence.[ ] [ ] the clergyman who subscribes still whispers to himself, or soon will, "nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri." the ministers of the church cannot safely be set free by act of parliament to teach whatever seems good to each. some respect must be shown to congregations too. if the clergy claim on their side the right of independent thought, which they are quite justified in doing, the congregations on their side have a much greater right to a consistent teaching, which shall not distract their minds with strange and unwonted forms of christianity. mr. ruskin, as he often does, is going _too deep_. he asks for that which we shall never see in this world,--the simple, pure religion of the bible to be taught in all singleness and simplicity of mind by men whose only commission is held from god, by or without the channel of human authority, to show men, women, and children the way "to the summit of the celestial mountains," and to set an awful warning by conspicuous beacons against the "crevasses which go down quickest to the pit." but who shall say that he is wrong? nay, rather, it is we that are wrong in resting satisfied with our low views of things, while ruskin soars above our heads. on letter iii i would preface the few remarks i wish to make upon this letter by an extract from a letter just received from a dear good friend: "i have already read these deeply interesting letters five times. they are like 'the foam-globes of leaven.' i must say they have exercised my mind very much. things in them which at first seem rather startling, prove on closer examination to be full of deep truth. the suggestions in them lead to 'great searchings of heart.' there is much with which i entirely agree; much over which to ponder. what an insight into human nature is shown in the remark that though we are so ready to call ourselves 'miserable sinners' we resent being accused of any special fault! "s. b." by the side of this, it will be instructive, though strange, if i place an extract from another note from one whom i have long known and highly esteemed; and it will be seen what a singular "discerner of hearts" and "divider of spirits" is this series of letters:-- "if they are really meant _au sérieux_, i could not express any opinion of them without implying a reflection upon you also, as you seem to endorse them so fully. i prefer, therefore, to say merely that, as a whole, they offer one of the most remarkable instances i ever met with of the old adage, 'ne sutor ultra crepidam.'"[ ] [ ] let me say here, once for all, that i have already three times had this proverb quoted against mr. ruskin; and no proverb could be more remote from the purpose. for while it is the shoemaker's business, _as a livelihood_, to make shoes, a painter's to paint pictures, the merchant's to sell goods, and perhaps mr. ruskin's to write books which every one reads, _religion is everybody's business_. christian men and women, of all classes and professions, make the bible their study, because of its inestimable importance; and who shall say that they are not absolutely right? for my part i should be very glad to hear that my bootmaker was a religious man: his boots would be none the worse for it. i hope the _sutor_ will be brought in no more, unless he can appear with a better grace. in spite of this i retain all my old high opinion of the writer of these lines, and feel convinced that he will soon think very differently. yes, it is as my first correspondent has said, "things which at first seem startling, on examination prove to be full of deep truth." in the short compass of this letter iii. lies enfolded a vast question, which, in the midst of the friction and conflict of ages of strife, has been shuffled away into odd corners, to be brought out into life only now and then, when a man is born into the world who sees what few will even glance at, and who will say out that which ought to be spoken, though but few may listen. what is the question which is put here so tersely and so pointedly? it is this, which i am only putting a little differently, not with the most distant idea of improving upon mr. ruskin's felicitous touches; but, because expressed in twofold fashion, what has escaped one may strike another in a different form. is a clergyman of the church of england a teacher of the doctrine and practice and discipline of the church of england within her limits only, narrow as they are, when compared with christendom? or is there not rather a wider, more comprehensive church yet--that of christ upon earth--which he must serve, which he must preach, in forgetfulness of the limited boundaries within which by his education and his ordination vows he is _apparently_ bound to remain? is there not enough of christianity common to all the christian nations upon earth, and which ought to be made the subject of teaching to the ignorant and the castaway? is it quite a right thing that the natives of madagascar, for instance, should see parties of missionaries arriving amongst them: one, in all the gorgeous trappings and with all the elaborate ritual of rome; another in rusty black coats and hats and dirty white neckties, repudiating all but the very barest necessary ceremonial; a third, possibly disunited in itself, coming as high churchmen or low churchmen, with differing peculiarities? is this an edifying spectacle for the malagasy? and can the gospel be preached as effectually in this highly diversified fashion as it would be with the simplicity of a reasonable and just sufficiently elastic uniformity? coming before many people of infinite diversity of mind, it cannot be doubted that christianity must necessarily take a variety of forms, to suit different intelligences, and adapt itself to differing situations. but in all this large variety of forms of religion, ranging from mere paganism at one end, just a little unavoidably altered by the contact of christianity, and at the other extremity a pure religion, but refined and intellectual, i do not see exactly what is the form of christianity which the church of england is to preach to the masses at home and abroad. as long as england takes the gospel to the ignorant in such infinitely diversified forms, it is as if an incapable general were to divide his forces preparatory to an assault upon a compact and well-defended stronghold. it is enough to make one weep with vexation and humiliation to see what sort of religion would be presented to the world if some who claim to have all truth on their side could have their own way. i say to have the truth on their side,--which is a very different thing from being on the side of truth. there is even a new religion--for it is certainly not the old--growing popular with "thinkers," who write and read in the three great half-crown monthlies, which is evolved in the most curious variety out of their inner consciousness by religion-makers, whose fertile brains are the only soil that can bring forth such productions. what is the vast uneducated world to do with these extraordinary forms of religion which are as many-sided and many-faced as their inventors? now mr. ruskin and many others see this state of things with pity and compassion, and ask, "cannot this gospel of christ be put into such plain words and short terms as that a plain man may understand it?" why is there no such easy summary provided by authority to teach the poor and simple? the apostles' creed is good for its own end and purpose, but it requires great expansion to be made to include gospel teaching, and it contains nothing practical. the thirty-nine articles are not even intended (as mr. ruskin by some oversight seems to think they are) to be a summary of the gospel. we have no concise and plain, clear and intelligible form of sound words to answer this most important end. the church catechism, from old associations, belongs to childhood. every reasonable person must agree with mr. ruskin, that there could be no harm, but much good, in christians making a little less of their churchmanship, and a little more of their broad christianity. on letter iv mr. ruskin pleads in this letter with touching eloquence for the guidance of the law of love, that irresistible law, one effect of which is to give to the highest probability the force of a sufficient certainty, and establishes in the man the mental habit best described as _certitude_. in cardinal newman's "history of my religious opinions," p. , he quotes some beautiful passages from keble's conversations with himself (disagreeing with him all the time), in which he had quoted, "i will guide thee _with mine eye_" (psalm xxxii. ), as the expression of the gentle suasive power that directs the steps of the child and friend of god, as distinguished from "the bit and bridle" laid upon horse and mule, who represent unwilling slaves recognising no law but that of force or coercion. it is an eye whose gaze is ever fixed on us, the "eye of god's word," "like that of a portrait uniformly fixed on us, turn where we will."[ ] and keble is right so far as concerns the true children and friends of god, subject, as their highest control, to the law of love. pure and exalted minds ever strain for, and yearn after, a general and outward manifestation of the witness that man is "the image and glory of god" ( cor. xi. ). [ ] "christian year," st. bartholomew's day, with quotations from miller's bampton lectures. unhappily, we are not so constituted by nature. the inroads and ravages of sin are but too evident, as well in those upon whom episcopal hands have been laid, as in the ranks of the laity. are not wilfulness and pride of intellect and glorification of self ever exercising such a power in the earth, that checks and restraints are found absolutely necessary to curb and control the determination of many of the ministers of the church not only to _think_ as seems good to them (which they have a perfect right to do), but openly to _teach and to preach_ whatever doctrines they may have conceived in their own minds, or have learnt from others, contrary to the received doctrines of the church of england; which they have no right to do as long as they remain ministers of the church whose doctrines they impugn? mr. ruskin correctly assumes that the terms of the lord's prayer, being in the very words of christ, do contain a body of divine doctrine; and they would be the fittest to adopt as a standard of christian teaching, _if_ only all men were as candid, sincere, and straightforward as himself. but because there is no certainty that any large and preponderating body of men will exhibit these graces of christianity in themselves, and combine with them gentleness, tolerance, and forbearance, therefore they _must_ be held in "with bit and bridle,"--that is, with articles and creeds and declarations,--"lest they fall upon thee," and fill the church more full of sedition, disaffection, and disquiet than it already is. cardinal newman himself is an example of the necessity of the restraints of creeds, as well, indeed, as of their general inefficiency to maintain unity. his "history of my religious opinions," at least in its beginning, is but the story of a long succession of phases of belief and disbelief, originating in--what? in study of the word of god? in divine contemplation, or in devout and thoughtful meditation? no, indeed; but in walks and conversations, now with one friend, now with another, now round the quadrangle of oriel, then in christ church meadows; in fanciful, and apparently causeless, changes in his own mind, of which sometimes he can give the exact date, sometimes he has forgotten it, but which lead him out of one set of opinions into another in a helpless kind of way, as if he knew of no motive power but the influence of other men's minds or the momentary and fitful fluctuations of a spirit ever too much given to introspection to maintain a steady and uniform course. what a contrast between the downright, manly straightforwardness of a ruskin and the fluttering, uncertain flights of a newman, ending in the cold, dead fixity of the roman faith, whereof to doubt is to be damned! on letter v the next paragraph to the last in this letter, contains a statement which at first might seem to be rashly expressed. but i was not long in apprehending that when mr. ruskin alludes to a scheme of pardon "for which we are supposed to be thankful, not to the father, but to the son," he was far from impugning that doctrine of the atonement in which, as it is generally understood among christian people, the whole plan of salvation centres. but there seems to have been a fatality about this sentence. numbers have read it and commented upon it, myself amongst the number, as if mr. ruskin were here expressing _his own view_; instead of which, he is here quoting other men's opinions, to condemn them with severity. the _record_ called it some of mr. ruskin's dross; but it is other people's dross, for which he would offer us pure gold. i happened, a very short time previous to receiving this letter, to have had my attention attracted by the following passage of mr. ruskin's own:--"when, in the desert, he was girding himself for the work of life, angels of life came and ministered to him; now, in the fair world, when he is girding himself for the work of death [at the transfiguration], the ministrants came to him from the grave. but from the grave conquered. one from that tomb under abarim, which his own hand had sealed long ago; the other from the rest which he had entered without seeing corruption." pleased with the truthful eloquence of this passage, i placed it at the head of the chapter on the transfiguration in my book on the life and work of christ (still in the press). having done so, it struck me that mr. ruskin, whether intentionally or undesignedly, had made the pronoun "his" to apply either to god the father, or to god the son. it may grammatically refer to either. from this i drew the conclusion which i expressed in a short letter to my friend, that, discarding the strictly human uses of language, which, from its unavoidable poverty, lacks the power of marking the true nature of the difference between the divine persons of the holy trinity, he had spoken of the father and of the son indiscriminately or indifferently, _i.e._, without a difference. and so it really is. how shall a man, though at the highest he be "but a little lower than the angels," know and comprehend the godhead in its true and exact nature? the names father and son express an earthly relation perfectly well understood when belonging to ourselves, but when applied to the supreme divine being, they must of necessity fall far short of expressing their true connexion with one another. they are, when applied to heavenly beings, merely anthropomorphic terms used in compassion to our infirmities, and conveying to us only an approximation to the ideas intended. we say the father sent the son; the son suffered for our sins. but since father and son are one, we are plainly expressing something short of the exact state of the case when we speak of our thankfulness to the son as if we had no reason to be equally thankful to the father. the athanasian creed makes no great demand upon our mental powers when it requires of us, in speaking of the trinity, neither to confound the persons nor to divide the substance; for, in truth, i suppose we are equally incapable of doing either. these are divine matters, of which, while the simplest may know enough, the wisest can never fathom the whole depth. for the divine power and love, knowledge and compassion, will never be fully comprehended until we know even as we are known. but, as i am abstaining from questioning mr. ruskin as to his meaning in any passage, if it happens to be slightly obscure, awaiting his reply at the close of the book, i may here say that i believe that this sentence refers to a wild and unscriptural kind of preaching, happily becoming less common, in which undue stress is laid upon the wrathfulness of god, as contrasted with the mercy of the saviour, as if we had only the son to thank, and not our loving father in heaven, for the blessed hope of eternal life. some there are, and always will be, who habitually err in not rightly dividing the word of god, and giving undue prominence to a dark portion of doctrine, which is true enough in itself, but would be relieved of much of its gloom, if due prominence were given to other parts of the truth of god. i do not mean to praise caution at the expense of courage. i have a constitutional aversion to that caution allied to timidity and cowardice which prompts a man to look to his safety, comfort, and worldly repute as the first social law that concerns _him_. i admire rather the brave man who is ready to sacrifice all that, if he can, by so doing, gain the desired right end. but in the case before us, it is not so. men talk as if all we had to do to convert a sinner from the error of his way was to give him a good talking, forgetting that we have not a plastic material to work upon, but a most stubborn and intractable one, wherever interest is concerned; and that a bold bad man is generally proof against talk, and yields to no power but the grace of god exercised directly, and seconded by his heavy judgments. have we not all seen, with shame and astonishment, the "wicked rich" regularly in their places at church, much oftener than the "wicked poor," who have less interest in playing the hypocrite? and have we not felt our utter powerlessness, whether by public preaching or by private monition, to find a way to those case-hardened hearts? what are we to do with such a man as tennyson describes in "sea dreams," who "began to bloat himself, and ooze all over with the fat affectionate smile that makes the widow lean;" when his victim-- "pursued him down the street, and far away, among the honest shoulders of the crowd, read rascal in the motions of his back, and scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee." here is all that we can do--told us in the last sweet lines:-- "'she sleeps: let us too, let all evil, sleep. he also sleeps--another sleep than ours. he can do no more wrong: forgive him, dear, and i shall sleep the sounder!' then the man, 'his deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come; yet let your sleep for this one night be sound: i do forgive him.' 'thanks, my love,' she said, 'your own will be the sweeter;' and they slept." on letter vi as is the manner of our friend, he concludes a letter which was begun with thoughtful wisdom, with a proposal which, if gravely made, will seem to most of us both unpractical and impracticable. very forcible and very true is the emphatic declaration here made of the deep, perhaps unpardonable sinfulness of taking in vain the holy name of god. but, to my mind, the irremediable fault in the latter proposition in this letter is the assumption that every honest clergyman of average capacity, and of ordinary experience of life, is, of course, wise enough to discern men's characters and to judge them with that unerring sagacity that will enable him to pronounce without favour or distinction of persons the severe sentence: "you shall not enter this house of god. i interdict your presence here. the comforts and privileges of religion are for other than thou. i deny thee the prayers, the preaching, and the sacraments of the church." more briefly--"i excommunicate thee." even in the case of a very bad man this would be found impossible to accomplish without the direst danger to the clergyman's usefulness and influence, to say nothing of his peace. for our experience abundantly shows that let a bad man but be audacious, and even ruffianly enough, helped by his position, he will always find plenty of support among the powerful and influential. the poor and honest clergyman, if he has attempted to enforce church discipline, will be gravely rebuked for his want of charity, for his sad lack of discretion or tact, for his utter want of worldly wisdom; he will very soon find, to use the familiar phrase, the place too hot for him, and he may be thankful if he escapes with some small remainder of respect or compassion from the nobler-minded of his flock, who are always in a very small minority. i know not how it really was in the time when the rubrics of the communion services were framed. one would think, judging from these, that the clergyman possessed unlimited power to judge and punish with spiritual deprivation, and that he was alone to unite in himself all the various offices of accuser and police, counsel, jury, and judge. we are required to say every ash wednesday that we regret the loss of the godly discipline of the primitive church--under which, "at the beginning of lent, all such persons as stood convicted of notorious sin were put to open penance; and that it is much to be wished that the said discipline may be restored again." but few can seriously view a realization of that wish without fear for the certain consequences. the truth is, the world moves on. human nature may remain the same; but the laws and usages of society are subject to changes which it is useless to withstand. at the present day, great, rather too great, perhaps, are the claims of _charity_. we are told to hope for the best in the worst of cases; we are to forgive all, even the still hardened and unrepenting; we are to smile upon heresy and schism; we are to treat the rude, the churlish, the hard of heart, amidst our flocks, as if we had the greatest regard for them! i am not prepared to say that this is in every way to be regretted; for these are errors that lean perhaps to virtue's side. but i certainly do think that often a little more fearlessness in rebuking vice would not come amiss. but, on the other hand, suppose for a moment the clergy to have the undisputed power to bar out both the wicked rich and the wicked poor from their churches, this power would be of very little use; nay, it would be full of mischief and danger, without a sound judgment, a fearless spirit, and a heart little used to the melting mood. the clergy, as a class, may perhaps be a trifle superior to the laity in moral character, in spiritual knowledge, and in judgment in dealing with people, because their profession has early trained (or at any rate, ought to have trained) them in the constant and imperative exercise of self-examination and self-control, and the careful discernment of character in their intercourse with men. but that superiority, if it exists at all, is so trifling as to make very little impression on the laity, who would naturally be ready at any step to dispute the wisdom or expediency of the judicial acts of the clergy. further, again: given both the wisdom to judge and the power to doom, would it be desirable to establish a rule that the open and notorious sinner (though there would always be differences of opinion upon what he really is, even among the clergy themselves) should be prevented from coming where he might, above all other places, be most likely to hear words that would touch his heart and bring him to a better mind? from the pulpit, words of counsel, of holy doctrine, and of heart-stirring precepts of the gospel, fall with a power and weight which are rarely to be found in private conversations. many an open and notorious sinner has first yielded up his heart to god under the powerful influence of preaching. when jesus sat in the pharisee's house, all the publicans and sinners drew near to hear him; and the orthodox sinners, the pharisees, made bitter complaints that he received and ate with the scorned and rejected sinners. god forbid that the day should ever come when spiritual pride and exclusiveness shall shut out even the hardest of sinners from the house of god; for who can tell where or when the word may be spoken which shall break the stony heart, and replace it with the tender heart of flesh, soon to be filled with love and devotion to god the saviour and redeemer? but, as this is a subject of great importance, may i also say a word in support of mr. ruskin's own view that the wicked should be discouraged, or even forbidden, to enter the house of god? we have cor. vi. - , which seems to point out that, in the primitive church, the wicked were not allowed in the assemblies of the faithful. and we remember david's "i have hated the congregation of evil doers, and will not sit with the wicked" (psalm xxvi. ). is not mr. ruskin, perhaps, after all, only advocating a return to primitive usage? mr. ruskin says in the preface to his selected works: "what i wrote on religion was painstaking, and i think forcible, as compared with most religious writing; especially in its frankness and fearlessness." unfortunately he adds, "but it was wholly mistaken."[ ] he is still equally outspoken, frank, and fearless; but what he wrote upon religion, as far as i know it, in the days which he now condemns, will live and do good, as long as the noble english language, of which he is one of the greatest masters, lives to convey to distant generations the great thoughts of the sons that are her proudest boast. [ ] "sesame and lilies," p. iii., . additional remarks on the censures of the church. by the editor. since writing my notes on letter vi., in which mr. ruskin gives such vehement expression to his desire to see the ancient discipline of the church restored, i have in conversation with himself learned this to be one of the objects he has most at heart in writing these letters; and i have also read in the life of bishop selwyn, by the rev. h. w. tucker (vol. i., p. ) that admirable prelate's view of this disregarded question. i believe selwyn to have been the greatest uninspired missionary since the days of st. paul (if indeed we can with truth consider so great a man wholly uninspired). but the great bishop of the south seas, in the charge from which copious extracts are there given, distinctly recommends the revival of spiritual discipline and the censures of the church upon unrepenting offenders. he refers for authority to apostolic example and precept, and to the discipline rubrics of the communion service, and adds the undeniable fact that our anglican communion is the only branch of the christian church where such discipline is wanting. i must ask leave to refer my readers to mr. tucker's book for the grounds in detail of the bishop's wishes. i am not aware that any english prelate has ventured upon so hazardous an experiment; one, i should rather say, so certain to fail disastrously. the infancy of the christian church, and the divine guidance directly exercised, rendered such discipline in the first centuries both practicable and effective.[ ] but i do not remember that any parish priest of the reformed church has ever attempted to enforce the communion rubrics, except, as we have learned from the public papers, in recent times, with disastrous consequences to the promoters. and what kind of wickedness is to be so visited? to prove drunkenness, or impurity, or fraudulent practices, or false doctrine (canon ), a judicial inquiry must be resorted to. rebukes for lesser offences would certainly lead to disputes, if not even to recrimination! the irresistible circumstances of the age would entirely defeat any such endeavours. in towns, parochial limits are practically unknown or ignored, and families, or individuals, attend whatever church or chapel they please, no one preventing them, thus making all exercise of sacerdotal authority impracticable. in the country, even where only the parish church is within reach, it is highly probable that an offender would meet priestly excommunication by the easy expedient of cutting himself off from communication with his clergyman and his church; and even if he did not, it would be a very new state of things if the sentence were received with submission on the part of the offender, and acquiescence on that of the congregation. [ ] as these sheets are passing through the press, i happen to meet with these words of bishop wilberforce:--"the more i have thought over the matter, the more it seems to me that it was providentially intended that discipline, in the strictest sense of that word, should be the restraint of the early church, and that it should gradually die out as the church approached maturity, or rather turn from a formal and external rule to an inner work in the spirit--should run into the opening of god's word and its application to the individual soul and life."--_life_, vol. i., p. . in short, the thing is simply impossible; and i do not find that even bishop selwyn himself visited immorality with ecclesiastical censures, or supported his clergy in doing so; and i am using the word "immorality" in its full and proper sense, and not with that restricted meaning which confines it to a particular sin. it is true, as he says, that our church stands alone in refraining from the exercise of such power. but in other religious bodies, the discretionary power to use such dangerous weapons is not left to individuals however gifted. it rests in a constituted body, on whom the whole responsibility would lie. but the isolation of the english clergyman in his church and parish forbids him thus to risk his whole usefulness and his social existence. who would confirm him in his judgment? who would stand by him in the troubles which he would assuredly entail upon himself? would his churchwardens, his rural dean, his archdeacon, or his bishop? i think there would be little comfort to be found in any of these quarters. on letter vii excellent as is canon gray's letter (p. ), i do not at all concur in his somewhat severe censure on the second paragraph in this letter, in which mr. ruskin, as i conceive, with complete theological accuracy, points out how in his human nature our lord accepted and received some, perhaps many, of the deficiencies of our nature, human frailty and weakness, even human _liability_ to sin, without, however, once yielding to its temptations. i have everywhere in my "life of christ" endeavoured to give reasons for my faith in this view, which, even if held, i know is not often professed. if christ had been perfectly insensible to the allurements of sin, where would be his fellow-feeling with us? it would be a mere outward semblance; nor would there then be any significance in the statement that "he was in all points tempted like as we are," if he had been able to view with calm indifference the inducements presented to him from time to time to abandon his self-sacrificing work and consult his safety. the captain is not to go securely armour-plated into the fight while the private soldier marches in his usual unprotected apparel. nor will the captain of our salvation protect himself against the dangers which he invites us to encounter. if he knew nothing of sin from experience of its power, how could he be an example to us? therefore i believe mr. ruskin to be perfectly right in affirming that in the words of jesus we listen not to one speaking entirely in the power and wisdom of god, but to the son of man, bowed down, but not conquered, by afflictions, firm and unbending in his great purpose to bear in his own body the sin of the world--son of man, yet god incarnate. nor does it seem to me "a hard way of speaking" when mr. ruskin rightly and plainly affirms the perfect humanity of christ, which, however, canon gray correctly points out to be assumed and borne in accordance with his own will as perfect god. i am afraid that, good and kind as he is, it is canon gray himself who is a little hard in unconsciously imputing thoughts which had no existence in the writer's mind! i cannot help being amused at the gravity with which certain critics shake their heads ominously over the last paragraph in this letter, and seriously ask, what can mr. ruskin mean by the "peace and joy in the holy ghost" enjoyed by the birds? the poet laureate would hardly care to be brought to book for each poetical flight with which he charms his many appreciative readers, and to be asked to explain exactly what he means by each of those noble thoughts which are only revealed from soul to soul, and dissolve into fluid, like the beautiful brittle-star of our coasts, under the touch of a too curious hand. how do we know but that the animal existence of these charming companions of our quiet hours is not accompanied by a spiritual existence too, as much inferior to our own spiritual state as their corporeal to ours? and therefore shall we boldly dare to say that they perish altogether and for ever? we may neither believe nor disbelieve in matters kept so completely secret from us. but we must be pardoned for leaning to a belief that the feathered creatures which spend most of their brief life in singing loud praises to the loving creator and giver of all good, do not live quite for nothing beyond the dissolution of their little frames. there are no means of ascertaining this by scientific experiments, or even by the most ingenious processes of induction carefully recorded and duly referred to as occasion may arise. but certainly it is a harmless fancy which many have indulged in before mr. ruskin, without being charged with such unsoundness in doctrine as denying the personality of the holy ghost! by-and-by it may be found that what men have believed in half in sport will be realized wholly in earnest. just outside the churchyard wall of ecclesfield may be seen (at least i saw it a few years ago) a little monumental stone to a favourite dog, with the text, "thou, lord, preservest man and beast." and in kingsley's "prose idylls" i have just met most _àpropos_ with the following beautiful passage, which many will read with pleasure, perhaps some with profit:-- "if anyone shall hint to us that we and the birds may have sprung originally from the same type; that the difference between our intellect and theirs is one of degree, and not of kind, we may believe or doubt: but in either case we shall not be greatly moved. 'so much the better for the birds,' we will say, 'and none the worse for us. you raise the birds towards us: but you do not lower us towards them.' what we are, we are by the grace of god. our own powers and the burden of them we know full well. it does not lessen their dignity or their beauty in our eyes to hear that the birds of the air partake, even a little, of the same gifts of god as we. of old said st. guthlac in crowland, as the swallows sat upon his knee, 'he who leads his life according to the will of god, to him the wild deer and the wild birds draw more near;' and this new theory of yours may prove st. guthlac right. st. francis, too--he called the birds his brothers. whether he was correct, either theologically or zoologically, he was plainly free from that fear of being mistaken for an ape, which haunts so many in these modern times. perfectly sure that he himself was a spiritual being, he thought it at least possible that birds might be spiritual beings likewise, incarnate like himself in mortal flesh; and saw no degradation to the dignity of human nature in claiming kindred lovingly with creatures so beautiful, so wonderful, who (as he fancied in his old-fashioned way) praised god in the forest, even as angels did in heaven. in a word, the saint, though he was an ascetic, and certainly no man of science, was yet a poet, and somewhat of a philosopher; and would possibly--so do extremes meet--have hailed as orthodox, while we hail as truly scientific, wordsworth's great saying-- 'therefore am i still a lover of the meadows and the woods and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth; of all the mighty world of eye and ear--both what they half create, and what perceive; well pleased to recognize in nature and the language of the sense, the anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, the guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul of all my moral being.'" _charm of birds._ on letter viii what generous and enlightened spirit will not be stirred to its innermost depths by these words, burning as they are with a well-grounded indignation? i dare say some of the clergy will have a word to say on their claim to the priesthood as implying a sacrificial and mediatorial character. on this point i will say nothing at present. but it is an awfully solemn consideration put before us here, whether instead of the pure blessings and the bright countenances intended to be ours, our accursed blessings and defiled faces are not the natural consequences of our wilful misunderstanding of what the will of the lord is. "thy will be done" is a petition which can be offered up in two quite distinct senses. in the one, it is an expression of resignation to the father's afflictive dispensations; in the other, the heartfelt desire to work out the revealed will of god in all the many-sided aspects of life. in the first sense, when sorrow or death has entered our door, our first impulse, if we are christians, is to give evidence of, and expression to, our resignation by recognizing the _will of god_. hence mr. ruskin interposes: "are you so sure that it _was_ the will of god that your child should die, or that you should have got into that trouble?" i look in my local paper in the column of deaths, and see in a neighbouring large town how extraordinary a proportion of deaths are those of children. i have taken occasional cemetery duty in one of the busiest centres of industry in yorkshire, and was shocked at the large numbers of funerals in white. am i to believe it was the _will of god_ that so many young children should perish, especially as i look to my own beautiful parish, with its sweet sea and mountain breezes mingled, where the deaths of children are comparatively rare? and am i not forced to believe that, even without the assistance of destitution--neglect and overcrowding, and "quieting mixtures" and ardent spirits, and kicks and blows have filled most of those little graves? i fear that the will of satan is here being accomplished vastly to his satisfaction. and seldom does the government do more than touch the fringe of these monstrous evils. of course they say "we cannot interfere," or "legislation in these matters is impracticable." but can we not all remember when it was just as certain that free trade in food was impracticable? but who does not see that it is saving us from famine this dark year ?--that compulsory education was revolutionary and full of unimaginable perils to the country, and yet who are so glad as the poor themselves, now that it has been carried into effect? it used to be thought that if people chose to kill themselves with unwholesome open drains before their doors, there was no power able to prevent them. but we are wiser now. legislators have generally been, or chosen to appear, like cowards till the time for action came, very late, and then they were decided enough. now let us hope that a way may be found to save infant life from premature extinction by wholesale. let me use this opportunity of saying that in the letters we are now considering there is a feature which ought not to escape those who are desirous of deriving good from them; and that is that in their very condensed form no time is taken for explanation or expansion. mr. ruskin speaks as unto wise men, and asks us to judge for ourselves what he says. but my own experience, after frequent perusal of them, shows me that there is a vast fund of truth in them which becomes apparent only after patient consideration and reflection. without desiring at all to bestow extravagant praise on my kind friend, or any other distinguished man, it is only fair and just to own that the truth that is in these letters shines out more and more the more closely they are examined. it is a gift that god has given him, which has cost him far more pain, worry, and vexation, through all kinds of wilful and envious, as well as innocent and unconscious misrepresentation, than ever it has gained him of credit or renown. this principle leads me to view _now_ with approbation what i could not read at first without an unpleasant feeling. the sentence: "nearly the whole missionary body (with the hottest evangelical section of the english church) is at this moment composed of men who think the gospel they are to carry to mend the world with, forsooth, is this, 'if any man sin, he hath an advocate with the father.'" and when i first read it to my reverend brethren, hard words were spoken of this passage, because in its terseness, in its elliptic form, it easily allows itself to be misunderstood. yet the paragraph contains the essence of the gospel expressed with a faithful boldness not often met with in pulpit addresses. "if any man sin, we have an advocate with the father." we have here a solemn and momentous truth, expressed in few words, as clearly and as briefly as any geometrical definition. but is this _all_ the gospel? will this alone "mend the world, forsooth"? now the extreme men of one particular school in the english church do really preach little else beside this. when they are entreated to preach upon good works, too, and unfold a little of their value and beauty,--if they have any at all,--the answer is always to the effect, "oh, of course; faith in christ must of necessity beget the love of good works. these are the signs of that. preach christ crucified, and all the rest will be sure to follow." and this is what is exclusively called "preaching the gospel." the preacher who teaches us to love our enemies, to live pure lives, to be honourable to all men and women, to bring up our families in the truth, is frowned upon as a "legal preacher." as a clergyman myself, i am not afraid of saying that i look upon this so-called gospel-preaching as fraught with not a little of danger. god knows, wicked sinners are found in every congregation and class of men, kneeling to pray, and singing praises, exactly like good men. now i can hardly conceive a style and matter of preaching more calculated to excuse and palliate, and almost encourage sin, than this narrow and exclusive so-called gospel-preaching. neither christ nor his apostles taught thus at all. the whole sermon on the mount is moral in the highest and purest sense. every epistle has its moral or _legal_ side. "woe is me if i preach not the gospel!" and i cannot be preaching the gospel unless, along with the great proclamation, "if any man sin, we have an advocate with the father," i also do my utmost to teach "what the will of the lord is" concerning a pure, holy, and blameless life, full of active, good works, done in deep humility and self-abasement; because christ loved me and died for me, and asks me, in love to him, to walk in his steps. on letter ix i fancy i can still hear the murmur of angry dissent pass round as i read to my reverend brethren this indignant plea for a higher interpretation of the petition for daily bread than that which passes current with the unthinking, self-indulgent world. nevertheless, this manifestation of feeling was not general, and i thoroughly agree with mr. ruskin that the world has, from the first, used this prayer thoughtlessly and blasphemously; and probably will continue to do so to the end, when the thoughts and imaginations of all men's hearts shall be revealed, and no more disguises shall be possible; when the masked hypocrite's smile shall be torn from him and reveal the covetousness that breeds in his heart to its core; when the honourable man shall no longer be confounded with thieves, nor the usurer and extortioner be courted and bowed to like an honest man. the veil that hid the true christ, as mr. ruskin has well remarked, was removed in the breaking of bread with the disciples at emmaus. as the master, so the true disciples. they too may be known both by the spiritual breaking of the bread of life in the holy communion (though the canting hypocrite too may be found polluting that holy rite); but more especially in the union of the sacred ordinance with obedience to the scarcely less sacred command of christian love and charity to the poor. there may be the empty profession, but there will be none of the reality of the religion of the gospel, unless we are partakers of the bread broken at the lord's table, or unless we eat the bread earned by the honest labour of our hands or of our brains, or share some of our bread with those, the lord's brethren, whom he has left for us to care for in his name. the absence of either of these three essential conditions just lays us open to the charge of flaunting before the world a false and spurious christianity. in the plain words of our friend, our bread not being fairly got or fairly used, is stolen bread. but i would willingly believe that it is only by a strong figure of speech that we clergy are here again emphatically called upon to act the part of inquisitors by pointedly demanding of every member of our flock a precise account of the manner in which he earns his livelihood. still, if the answer was not a surprised and indignant stare, i believe the great mass of men would probably be able to give an answer which should abundantly satisfy themselves and us, until mr. ruskin threw his own light upon the answer and demonstrated that the notions of modern civilized society are not in accordance with the highest teaching. according to our ideas, the artisan, the tradesman, the merchant, the members of the learned and the military and naval professions, all those engaged in the various departments of government work, from the cabinet minister down to the last office clerk,--all these use the labour of body or of mind, and in return receive the necessaries or the luxuries of life for themselves and their households. men who are, if they please, exempt altogether from such labour, as large landed proprietors, are certainly under a temptation to lead a life of ease and leisure. but it is very seldom that we are offended with the sight of a landlord so unmindful of social duties as to take no personal active interest in the welfare and conduct of his tenants, or forgetful of the responsibilities to his country imposed upon him by his rank and position. it is to be hoped that mr. ruskin does not in all solemn seriousness really expect that after a fair examination of the modes of life of all these people, "an entirely new view of life and its sacraments will open upon us and them." is it indeed a fact that "the great mass of men calling themselves christians do actually live by robbing the poor of their bread, and by no other trade whatsoever"? mr. ruskin is always terribly in earnest in whatever he says, and we must look for an explanation of this sentence in the very decided views he holds upon interest of money, which he calls usury. mr. ruskin classes usury and interest together. here are some of his strong words upon this subject: "there is absolutely no debate possible as to what usury is, any more than what adultery is. the church has only been polluted by indulgence in it since the th century. usury is any kind whatever of interest on loan, and it is the essential modern force of satan." this was written september th of this year. in "fors clavigera," letter lxxxii., p. , he challenged the bishop of manchester to answer him the question, whether he considered "usury to be a work of the lord"?[ ] in the same letter, to place his heavy denunciation against the wickedness of usury in the best possible company, he pleads: "plato's scheme was impossible even in his own day,--as bacon's new atlantis in _his_ day,--as calvin's reform in _his_ day,--as goethe's academe in his; but of the good there was in all these men, the world gathered what it could find of evil." [ ] see _contemporary review_, february . let us look a little closer into this matter. it is not because a man with fearless frankness breasts the full torrent of popular persuasion and universal practice that he is to be thrust aside as a fanatic, with hard words and unfeeling sneers concerning his sanity. here, again, i avow my persuasion that mr. ruskin is, in one sense, too far in advance, and, in another, too far in the rear of the time; and while i attempt an explanatory justification of the modern practice, i admit that it is only "for the hardness of our hearts" and because the golden age is still far off. the mosaic law was severe against usury and increase, forbidding it under heavy threatenings among the faithful israelites, but allowing it in lending to strangers. "if thy brother be waxen poor, then thou shalt relieve him ... take thou no usury of him, or increase" (lev. xxv. , ). "thou shalt not lend upon usury to thy brother; usury of money, usury of victuals, usury of anything that is lent upon usury. _unto a stranger_ thou mayest lend upon usury; but unto thy brother thou shalt not lend upon usury" (deut. xxiii. , ). "lord, who shall abide in thy tabernacle? ... he that putteth not out his money to usury" (psalm xv. , . see ezek. xviii. , etc.) and to come to the christian law, we have the mild general principle: "if ye lend to them of whom ye hope to receive, what thank have ye? for sinners also lend to sinners, to receive as much again.... lend, hoping for nothing again, and your reward shall be great" (luke vi. , ). so far the law of moses and the gospel. but our lord, in the parable of the talents, appears to actually sanction the practice of loans upon interest: "thou oughtest, therefore, to have put my money to the exchangers, and then at my coming i should have received mine own with usury" (matt. xxv. ). the preceding verse, the th, may well be understood to be a question--didst thou indeed think so? it does not even indirectly attribute hardness and oppression to our lord.[ ] i am quite aware that it may be replied that this is an instance of those strong audacious metaphors, where the fact used by way of illustration is instinctively overleaped by the mind of the hearer to arrive at the lesson which it marks and emphasizes; as when the lord is represented as an unjust judge, or paul speaks of grafting the wild olive branch upon the good, or james refers to the rust and canker upon gold and silver, or milton speaks of certain bishops as "blind mouths."[ ] but in all these cases, the hyperbole is manifest; it is an untruth or a disguise, which not only does not deceive, but teaches a great truth. our lord's reference to money-lenders or exchangers appears to lend an indirect sanction to a familiar practice. [ ] the owners of five talents and of two talents are commended for making cent. per cent. of their money; but the man who hid away his one talent, as french peasants do, and brought it to his lord untouched and undiminished, received a severe rebuke. [ ] lycidas. see "sesame and lilies," p. . the law of moses, therefore, rebuking the practice of lending for increase among brethren and encouraging it in dealing with strangers, combined with the well-known avarice of the jews to make them money-lenders on a large scale, and at high rates of interest, to the prodigals and spendthrifts, the bankrupt barons and needy sovereigns of the middle ages. money was rarely lent for commercial purposes, and to advance the real prosperity of the borrower. it was generally to stave off want for the time; and principal and interest, when pay-day came, had generally to be found in the pastures or strongholds of the enemy. high interest was charged, on account of the extraordinary precariousness of what was called the security. grinding and grasping undoubtedly the money-lenders would be, from the hardship of their case. reckless extravagance and lavish profusion were, in those non-commercial ages, highly applauded. the spendthrift and the prodigal was the favourite of the multitude; the rich money-lender was hated and abused, while his money-bags were sought after with all the eagerness of hard-driving poverty. they reviled the careful and economical israelite; they looked with horror upon his vast accumulations of capital, and never remembered to thank him for the safety they owed to him from the violent hands of their own soldiers and retainers. all this went on until the sixteenth or seventeenth century. i have before me a very curious old book, lent to me by mr. ruskin, entitled, "the english usurer: or, usury condemned by the most learned and famous divines of the church of england. collected by john blaxton, preacher of god's word at osmington, in dorsetshire, ." the language throughout the book is of extreme violence against all manner of usury. the compiler gives a collection of the most emphatic testimonies of the greatest preachers of the day against this "detestable vice." bishop jewell calls it "a most filthy trade, a trade which god detesteth, a trade which is the very overthrow of all christian love." there is, it must be admitted, no sort of argument attempted in the long extract from bishop jewell's sermon to demonstrate the wickedness of the practice against which he launches his fierce invectives, but he certainly brings his sermon to a conclusion with a threat of extreme measures "if they continue therein. i will open their shame and denounce excommunication against them, and publish their names in this place before you all, that you may know them, and abhor them as the plagues and monsters of this world; that if they be past all fear of god, they may yet repent and amend for worldly shame." this was bishop jewell preaching in the middle of the th century; and such were the strong terms very generally employed by good and thoughtful men at that day. bacon (essay ) says that one of the objections against usury is that "it is against nature for money to beget money!" antonio, in "the merchant of venice," asks: "when did friendship take a _breed_ of barren metal of his friend?" and his practice was "neither to lend nor borrow by taking nor giving of excess," which brought upon him the malice and vindictiveness of the jew-- "that in low simplicity he lends out money gratis, and brings down the rate of usance here with us in venice." philip, in tennyson's "brook "--a simple man in later times-- "could not understand how money breeds, thought it a dead thing." but there were men, too, who saw that the taking of moderate interest was a blameless act. calvin was a contemporary of bishop jewell, and his mind exhibits a curious mixture of feelings upon the subject. blaxton triumphantly places a sentence from calvin's "epistola de usura" as a battle-flag in his title-page:-- "in republica bene constituta nemo fænerator tolerabilis est; sed omnino debet e consortio hominum rejici." "an usurer is not tolerable in a well-established commonwealth, but utterly to be rejected out of the company of men." so again, in his commentary on deuteronomy. but again, in a passage quoted from the same author, without reference, in dugald stewart's preliminary dissertation (encyd. brit.) we come across a different view. "'money begets not money!'--what does the sea beget? what the house for which i receive rent? is silver brought forth from the walls and the roof? but that is produced from land, and that is drawn forth from the sea, which shall produce money; and the convenience of a house is paid for with a stipulated sum. now if better profit can be derived from the letting out of money than by the letting of an estate, shall a profit be made by letting perhaps some barren land to a farmer, and shall it not be allowed to him who lends a sum of money? he who gets an estate by purchase, shall he not from that money derive an annual profit? whence then is the merchant's profit? you will say, from his diligence and industry. does anyone suppose that money ought to lie idle and unprofitable? he who borrows of me is not going to let the loan lie idle. he is not going to draw profit from the money itself, but from the goods bought with it. those reasonings, therefore, against usury are subtle, and have a certain plausibility; but they fall as soon as they are examined more narrowly. i therefore conclude that we are to judge of usury, not from any particular passage of scripture, but by the ordinary rules of justice and equity." to come at once to modern days and practical views. let us suppose lending on interest forbidden by the church and the law. then sums of money required for good and legitimate business purposes must be begged as a great favour. no honourable man would do this. the instinctive repugnance felt by an independent man to place himself under pecuniary obligations which he could not reciprocate would stop many a promising young man of slender means from going to college, many a good man of business from using the most favourable opportunities. i am not speaking of borrowing money to gain temporary relief from pecuniary embarrassment, but of money honourably desired to realize advantages of apparent life-value. so the necessitous would be doomed to remain in hopeless necessity until some benevolently-minded person with a mass of loose unemployed capital came to his rescue, and such men are not to be met with every day. so far for the man who would like to borrow, but that the law will not allow it except as a free loan or gift. then for the willing lender, if he dared. he has, say, a few thousands in hand, which he does not wish to spend. he looks round, if he is anxious to use it for good, for an object of his charity who seems least likely to disappoint him. does our experience of human nature teach that a sense of gratitude for benefits received is a good security for honourable conduct? alas! in a multitude of cases--i fear the majority--the lender would only be met with cold and alienated looks when he expected to receive his own again, if indeed he found anywhere at all the object of his kindness. the memory of past ingratitude, the fear of worse to come, would dry the sources of benevolence, and make the upright and honest to suffer equally with the swindler and the hypocrite. but there is no such fear now. the recognized system of lending upon approved security for a fair and moderate rate of interest removes the irksome, galling sense of obligation, and enables any man to borrow with a feeling that if he receives an obligation he is also conferring one; that if he makes ten per cent. by trading, or a good stipend by his degree, he will divide his profits fairly with the man who served him, and that he is helping him in his turn to keep his money together for the sake of his children after him. take away these benefits, and what good is done by free lending? not any that we can see with ordinary eyes, but a good deal of suspicion, disappointment, ingratitude, and loss. an honourable man would a hundred times rather accept a loan as a matter of profit to the lender than as a charity to himself. the right result of an honourable system of borrowing and lending with equal advantage to both, _is_ the will of god, and not contrary to sanctification. the result of a compulsory system of charitable loans would lead only to the destruction of credit and mutual confidence, and the sacrifice of a multitude of christian graces and virtues. we cannot help observing with what vehemence mr. ruskin constantly thrusts the thief, the adulterer, and the usurer all into the same boat to be tossed against the breakers of his wrath. now i would ask some one of those numerous disciples of his, whose affection almost prompts them to say to him, "i will follow thee whithersoever thou goest," "pray, my good friend, what is your own practice? providence has blessed you with ease and affluence far more than you need for daily bread. what do you do with your money? of course you would never think of investing in consols, in railway shares, or dock-bonds, would you? you would not lend money upon mortgage, or exact rent for your household and landed property? i see that you hesitate a little; you have something to confess. come! what is it?" and my amiable friend replies, "oh, but you see all the world is gone after interest of money; all our mutual relations are so intimately bound up with that accursed, abominable practice, that i have no alternative. _i have_ large sums lodged in various safe investments, and employ an agent to collect my rents and settle with my tenants." and so i am forced to exclaim, "what! you who are persuaded that usury, and theft, and adultery, are all of equal blackness, if you find that one sin is unavoidable, what about the other two? would you then invite the robber and the licentious to sin with impunity, as you practise your own convenient iniquity, with the applause of the world and your own acquiescence?" positively i see no escape from this argument. it is the _argumentum ad hominem_,--generally an uncivil mode of address; but here, at any rate, it is impersonally used. these are my views frankly stated. if i am wrong, even by the highest standard of christian ethics, i shall be thankful for mr. ruskin's corrections. on letter x the letters which i have received up to the present time (october st) in reply to mr. ruskin's have not failed to bring me not a little of disappointment. on the one hand, i see a man noble and elevated in his aims, and with highest aspirations, desiring nothing so fervently as to see the world and its pastors and teachers rising to the highest attainable level of religious and moral excellence; fearlessly rebuking the evils he sees so clearly; clothing thoughts that consume him in words that stir our inmost hearts; and yet i see him unavoidably missing his aim as all men are liable to do, through the defect of possessing human language alone as the channel to convey divine meanings; and, moreover, who cannot at every turn stay the course of their reasoning to explain that that which they speak apparently, and from the necessities of language, to _all_, is, as the most ordinary apprehension would perceive, really addressed to _some_. on the other side, while i hear many expressing their thankfulness that things are now being said that "wanted saying," and are being spoken out with uncompromising boldness, others receive them with impatience, with irritation, with exasperation. i have been gravely advised to recommend mr. ruskin to withdraw these letters, to wash my hands of them, etc. sometimes this arises from unfamiliarity with mr. ruskin's most famous works; sometimes from entire unacquaintance with their number and their nature; as when a friend wrote to me before he saw or heard a word of the letters:-- "if mr. ruskin thinks we have generally read his _publication_ (_sic_) i think he is mistaken; all i know of _it_ is that i have occasionally seen _it_ quoted in newspapers, from which i gather that he holds peculiar opinions." a lady, who looked well to the ways of her household, but knew very little of books, once asked me if mr. ruskin had not written a book called the "old red sandstone." i hinted that probably she meant the "stones of venice," which was indeed the case. she knew it was something about stones! but she was an excellent creature nevertheless! these two traits may fairly be paired together. it should be observed, by clergymen especially who read these letters attentively, that they contain just what we clergy ought to be told sometimes by laymen, to whom we preach with perfect impunity, but who as a rule rarely make reply. i have just read lord carnarvon's excellent address on preaching, delivered at the winchester diocesan conference, and thank him as i thank, and for the same reason that i thank, mr. ruskin. we need to be told wholesome though unpalatable truths sometimes, when we have descended from our castle-pulpits to meet, it may be, the eyes, and hear the voices, of impatient, irritated, and prejudiced critics. i do not remember that so bold an attack, and yet so friendly, has ever before been made upon our weak points in modern times; and i may justly claim for mr. ruskin's letters a calm, self-searching, and, if need be, a self-condemning and self-sacrificing, examination. we are all too apt to cry "peace, peace, where there is no peace." why should the shepherds of britain claim for themselves a more indulgent regard than the shepherds of israel, whom ezekiel, by the word of the lord, addressed in the rd and th chapters of his prophecy? concerning the letter before us on the forgiveness of sins--each other's sins or debts, and our sins before god--it is not a question of theology, but of simple moral right and wrong; and i defy mr. ruskin's bitterest censors to deny, that, in this wicked world, men are more in earnest in deceiving, injuring, and swindling their friends than they are in seeking the love of their enemies. has not our lord told us long ago that "the children of this world are wiser" (that is, more earnest, consistent, and thorough-going) "in their generation than the children of light"? it is of extreme difficulty to _understand_ the clause, says mr. ruskin. replies some slow-witted preacher: "where is the difficulty? i both understand it and explain it with perfect ease!" what! understand the precious conditions on which forgiveness will be extended to us! the question of god's forgiveness is not a _simple_ question. it is complicated by its relation to men's mutual forgiveness of each other, and that again by the practical difficulty of knowing when we can, and when, from the very nature of the case, we cannot, forgive. here are surely elements of difficulty quite sufficient to justify the remark that "the clause is one of such difficulty that, to understand it, means almost to know the love of god which passeth knowledge." but we may, at any rate, guard our people against _misunderstanding_ it; and they are guilty, and full of guilt, who live in sin,--sins of avarice, of ill temper, of calumny, of hatred, of sensuality, and of unforgivingness, and yet daily ask to be forgiven, because, forsooth, they are innocent of any bad intention! no man or woman who sins with the knowledge that it _is_ sin can have god's forgiveness. it is no use to plead the frailty of the flesh. it is wilful, knowing, deliberate sin; and it will not be forgiven without a very living, earnest, and working faith indeed. i question much whether we preachers of the gospel say enough upon this point,--not at all that we underrate its importance, nor that we overrate the importance of that which we are apt to call gospel preaching [greek: kat' exochên], namely, the doctrine of the atonement by the blood of christ, which is the brightness and glory of the gospel message, but is no more all of it than that the sum of the lord's prayer is contained in one of its clauses. "as we forgive them that trespass against us." shall i be pardoned for venturing here upon a remark which seems needful to make in the presence of so much that appears to be erroneous on the subject of human forgiveness? and it is more especially necessary to be understood in the case of the clergy, because such large demands are made upon their forgiveness as it is impossible to satisfy. i do not at all say that there are trespasses which men cannot forgive,--sins, i mean, of the ordinary type, and not crimes. but i do say that there are times and circumstances under which forgiveness is a moral impossibility. and yet the world expects a clergyman to be ever walking up and down in society with forgiveness on his lips and forgiveness in both his hands. our lord said, "if thy brother trespass against thee, rebuke him; and _if he repent_, forgive him" (luke xvii. ); and forgiveness is to follow each successive profession of repentance. and in matt. xviii. , though repentance is not named, it is manifestly implied. in cor. ii. , again, sorrow for the sin is a condition of forgiveness. this, then, is the rule and condition of forgiveness, that our brother _repent_; and manifestly it must be so; for the act of forgiveness requires a correlative disposition to seek and receive forgiveness, just as a gift implies not only a giver but a receiver, or it cannot be a gift, do what we will. i think this is extremely apt to be overlooked even by the larger, that is, the more emotional and impulsive part of the world, though not, of course, by the more thoughtful; and clergymen especially are asked to speak fair, and sue for peace, and all but ask for forgiveness of those who are habitually and obstinately bent upon doing them all the wrong and injury in their power, and using them with the most intolerable harshness. what, then, does true religion require of us if such circumstances make forgiveness impossible? to be ever ready, ever prepared to forgive; to seek every opening, every avenue to peace without sacrifice of self-respect and manly independence; to watch for opportunities to do kindnesses to the most inveterate enemy,--even where a change of heart appears hopeless. this is possible to a christian, and this is what christ demands. but he does not demand impossibilities. he does not ask us to do more than our heavenly father himself, who forgives the returning sinner even "a great way off," if his face be but homeward; but says nothing of forgiveness to him whose back is towards his home, and whose heart dwells far away. i am sure mr. ruskin does not mean that no clergyman is sensible of the guilt of sins of omission. but he is speaking as a layman, who has heard in his time a great many preachers, and it is very probable indeed that he has not heard many dwell long and forcibly on the fact, which is indeed a fact, that the guilt of sins of omission is the burden of christ's teaching, and that more parables and more preaching are directed against the sin of doing nothing at all than against the positive and active wickedness of bad men. if we will be candid, we must agree with him that in our general teaching we do lay much less emphasis on such sins than our lord does in _his_ teaching. but in the paragraph which follows, i confess that, following up a charge which is sadly too true, that there is a grotesque inconsistency "in the willingness of human nature to be taxed with any quantity of sins in the gross, and its resentment at the insinuation of having committed the smallest parcel of them in detail," there comes a sentence in which the christian philosopher loses himself in the caustic satirist, and that this vein continues to the end of the letter. in satire, such is its very essence, truth is ever travestied. it is truth still, but the truth in unfamiliar, and, for the most part, unacceptable guise. there is just an undercurrent of truth, and no more, in the statement, not very seriously made, one would suppose, that the english liturgy was "drawn up with the amiable intention of making religion as pleasant as possible, to a people desirous of saving their souls with no great degree of personal inconvenience." if the whole naked truth were spoken with the deepest gravity that the awful pressure of our sins demands, the english liturgy would be a continuous wail of grief and repentance. for if anything is great, and loud, and urgent, it is the cry of our sins. but co-extensive with our sins is the love of our father; and, therefore, our mourning is changed into rejoicing and thankfulness, and this picture of the sinner "dexterously concealing the manner of his sin from man, and triumphantly confessing the quantity of it to god," is merely a satire. the next paragraph is more bitter still; but happily for the cause of sober truth, it is satire again; and nothing can be more obvious than the fact that prayer, to be common prayer, cannot at the same time suit every condition of mind, the calm and the agitated, the strained and the relaxed, the rejoicing and the sorrowful. but we are not dependent upon public worship for the satisfaction of our spiritual wants, as long as we can resort to private prayer and family prayer. and, indeed, it requires no wonderful stretch of our powers of adaptation to use the most strenuous private prayer in the midst of the congregation; and the "remorseful publican" and the "timid sinner" are not bound to the words before them, or if they do follow these words, i am sure there is enough depth in them to satisfy the views of the most conscience-stricken. common prayer is calm to the calm, and passionate to the passionate. it is all things to all men, just according to their frame of mind at the time. but alas for my good kind friend! as we get nearer to the end of the letter, the satire waxes fiercer, and the adherence to the truth of nature grows fainter. does mr. ruskin seriously, or only sarcastically, tell us that the assaults upon the divine power of prayer gain any force from the circumstance that we are constrained to pray daily for forgiveness, never getting so far as to need it no longer? from the first day that we lisped at our mother's knee, "forgive us our trespasses," until, bowed with age, we _still_ say, "forgive us our trespasses," we have never stood, and never will stand, one day less in need of forgiveness than another day--or our lord would have provided a thanksgiving and a prayer for the perfected. i believe everywhere else i recognize, even in the most startling passages, an element of truth. but in the latter half of this letter, not even the large amount of acrimony and severity allowed to the mode of address called satire can quite reconcile us to its marvellous asperity. on letter xi i cannot but feel astonished and grieved at the perversity of those who[ ] persist in looking upon mr. ruskin as altogether a noxious kind of a scribbler, and likely to do much injury by the unflagging constancy with which he perseveres in pointing his finger at all our weak and sore places. and yet it cannot be said that even if he does "lade men with burdens grievous to be borne," he himself "touches not the burdens with one of his fingers." [ ] it was but yesterday that a voice reached me from one of the remotest of our ultima thules amongst these mountains, affirming, with something like self-gratulation, that he "cared less than nothing for anything mr. ruskin might write outside the subject of art!" yet one of the best of our bishops--and we have many good ones--wrote by the same post: "mr. ruskin's letters are full of suggestive thoughts, and must do anyone good, if only in getting one out of the ruts." but, alas! against this i must needs set the dictum of another dignitary of the church, an intensely practical man: "i have a great reverence for mr. ruskin's genius, and for what he has written in time past, and on this account i would rather not say a single word in comment upon these letters;" and again--"i really could not discuss them seriously." but let us consider this last letter. is not every word of it true--severely and austerely true,--but still true? but yet here still the fault remains (though i say it with the utmost deference, remembering that, after all, i have infinitely more to learn than i have to teach), the fault remains that the truth is put too keenly, too incisively, to be classed with practical truths. yes, the petitions of the lord's prayer are for a perfect state in this life. we do pray for a paradise upon earth, where either temptation shall no longer exist, or where sin shall have lost its power to injure by losing its power to allure. but will the most incessant prayer, individual, combined, or congregational, ever bring us to perfection? alas! my friend, you would gladly persuade us so; you would lead the way yourself, but that the first half-dozen steps you take would have, or have long ago, proved to you that sin is ever present, even in the best and purest of men. i trust they are very few indeed who are so easily persuaded by the conceited self-sufficiency of the "scientific people" to cease from prayer under the belief that all things move on under the control of inflexible laws, which neither prayer nor the will of god, if god has a will, can change or modify. magee[ ] has a valuable note on the subject of the "consistency of prayer with the divine immutability," in which he puts this truth in a mathematical form. he says, "the relation of god to man + prayer is different from the relation of god to man - prayer. yet god remains constant. it is man who is the better or the worse for prayer or no prayer." [ ] on the atonement. it is pleasant to reflect that with the simple-minded christian the belief in christ, because he knows that christ loved him and died for him, is exceedingly little moved by these so-called scientific doubts. the propounders of these entangling questions move in a region where he would feel cold and his life would be crushed out of him, and he declines to follow science at so great a cost, believing besides that science might often be better termed nescience, for he has no faith in such science. instead of being presented with clear deductions, drawn from observation and experience, he sees but too plainly that, as each philosopher frames his own belief out of his inner consciousness, there cannot fail to come out a very large variety of beliefs, and that, if the religion of the bible were exploded and became an obsolete thing, its place would be usurped by a motley crowd of infinitely varied creeds of every shape and hue, each claiming for itself, with more or less modesty and reserve, but with just equal rights, the supremacy over men's consciences. and in the meanwhile, women and children and the poor, and in fact all who are not altogether highly, transcendentally intellectual, must, for want of the requisite faculties and opportunities, do without any religion at all. i suppose most people can see this, and therefore will pay a very limited attention to the claims and pretensions of science-worship. i come to a sentence where once more the proclivity for satire breaks out for a minute: "but in modern days the first aim of all christians is to place their children in circumstances where the temptations (which they are apt to call opportunities) may be as great and as many as possible; where the sight and promise of 'all these things' in satan's gift may be brilliantly near." i was reading this from the ms. to a mother, accomplished and amiable, who of course thought in a moment of her own little flock of sons and daughters, all the objects of the tenderest care and solicitude; and she felt that she at least had not deserved this stroke. but the truth is that we must read this sentence as we read our lord's, "think not that i am come to send peace on earth: i came not to send peace, but a sword" (matt. x. ). the sword was not the object of our lord's coming, but the unhappy result through sin. he came to bring peace on earth, yet was he "set for the fall of many in israel." the wisest and best of parents place their sons in the profession or position in life where temptations abound, not because they desire to see them bow before satan, and become the possessors of "all these things" which he promises "i will give thee," but because there is no position in the active life of the world that is free from temptations; and those temptations are the strongest and most numerous often just where the real and undoubted advantages are the greatest and most numerous. mr. ruskin, with a strong and legitimate figure of speech, is simply putting an inevitable result as the work of apparent design. if the distinction between the glory and the power of the kingdom of god and the false lustre of earthly power and worldly allurements is not sufficiently dwelt upon in our pulpits, none will regret it more than the earnest preachers in whom the modern church of england abounds. if it be granted, as i think it must be granted, that the highest wisdom is not always exercised in the choice and preparation of our subjects of preaching, every true-hearted and loyal churchman must be grateful for the fearless candour of the writer of the letters we have been considering, in pointing out to us our prevailing deficiencies, even if he does not, which is not his province, point out how to attain perfection. f. a. malleson. letters from clergy and laity (from the first edition) the following letters have been entrusted to me for publication in this work. the writers of twenty-two of them are clergymen, of whom sixteen are members of three clerical societies, all of whom have read their letters before the societies to which they belong, except in the case of one society, where it was impracticable. the remaining six have been kind enough to write in acceptance of the invitation in the _contemporary review_ for december, . the remaining letters are from members of the laity, attracted by the same proposal. many others have been received; but it would not have been possible to include them all in a volume of moderate size, some of them besides being of great length; and i was therefore, with regret, obliged to decline them. it was not originally intended that the invitation to discuss these questions should be extended to laymen. but several so understood it from the preface in the _contemporary_, and when i came to examine the letters sent on this understanding, i felt a conviction that a true and safe light would be thrown upon the subject by their assistance; and, using the discretionary power allowed me by mr. ruskin, i thought it, on the whole, best to give admission to a certain number of communications from laymen. besides, as they themselves are, in great measure, the subjects of the discussion, and, therefore, must feel a lively interest in it, it seems but fair that they too should have a voice in the matter. another reason yet had considerable weight with me, that their letters evince a larger and more liberal sympathy with mr. ruskin himself than those of some of my clerical brethren, in whose letters there is but too perceptible a degree of irascibility, not unnatural to us, perhaps, in finding ourselves rather sharply lectured by a layman--the shepherds by the sheep. and i hoped that a more fraternal spirit would be promoted by my free acceptance of their ready offer. the same consenting spirit is all but universal in the notices of the press upon mr. ruskin's letters. but i do not wish to anticipate the judgment of "the church and the world" upon the whole series of letters here presented. notwithstanding the peculiar and sometimes rather bewildering effect of a variety of "cross lights," they appear to myself to be invested with singular interest as a faithful reflection of the opinions of the clergy and the laity upon some of the most stirring religious questions of the day. moreover, it will, i am sure, please readers who have endeavoured in vain to extract some meaning out of many of the sometimes tedious and unintelligible essayists of the day, to observe that the discussion in this volume at least is carried on in language perfectly clear and within the reach of ordinary understandings. at any rate, i hope it will not be said of any of the writers who have together made up this little volume: "who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge?" before the sheets are sent to press they will be perused by mr. ruskin, who will then use his privilege of replying, thus bringing the volume to a conclusion. i could not undertake to classify these letters; and have, therefore, as the simplest mode, arranged them in the alphabetical order of the writers' names. f. a. malleson. _from the rev._ charles bigg, d.d., _rector of fenny compton_. mr. ruskin compares the clergyman with an alpine guide, whose business it is simply to carry the traveller in safety over rocks and glaciers to the mountain top. he is not to trouble himself or his charge with needless refinements of doctrine. he is not to exaggerate the dignity of his office, or to give himself out as anything but a guide. in particular, he is not to assume anything of a mediatorial character. he is to preach the gospel--not of luther nor of augustine, but of christ; in plain words and short terms. he is to proclaim aloud, boldly and constantly, "this is the will of the lord,"--to apply, that is, the morality of the gospel, stringently and authoritatively, to the lives of his people. to effect this application with more power, he is to exercise a rigid discipline, and exclude from his congregation all who are not acting up to what he conceives to be the gospel ideal. he is not to hamper himself with any set and formal liturgy, which can never be copious or flexible enough to meet the varied needs of a number of men differing widely in knowledge and attainment. every one will feel what a crowd of perplexities start up here at every sentence. in what sense is a clergyman like a chamouni guide? there is a resemblance, no doubt, but not of a kind on which it would be possible to build any argument. it is not the business of the alpine guide to exercise any supervision over the morals of his employers, or to ask how they earned the money with which he is paid. again, what is meant by the gospel of christ not according to anybody? it is easy to reject the authority of st. paul or st. john, or of luther or augustine, but there is one commentator whose influence cannot be shaken off, and that is ourselves. and our experience of those who have professed to preach the gospel pure and simple is not reassuring. does mr. ruskin mean that we are to burn all our theology,--even apparently the epistles of st. paul,--and to forget all church history since the day of the crucifixion? does he mean that we are each to set up a theology--a church of his own? it would be but a poor gain to most of us to exchange the great lamps of famous doctors for the uncertain rushlights of our own imaginations. then again, what is this new and more than genevan discipline that the clergyman is to enforce? he is to take more pains to get wicked rich men to stay out of the church than to persuade wicked poor ones to enter it. after putting his own interpretation upon the gospel, he is to lay under an interdict all whom his own fire-new formula--for a formula he must still have--excludes. he is to force, by the method of procrustes, the visible church into co-extension with the invisible. no community of christians has ever attempted such a task. any zealous (surely over-zealous) parish priest who should so narrow the limits of his fold, who should exclude the "usurer" from the ordinary means of grace, for fear lest he should take god's name in vain by joining in the public prayers, would expose himself, may we not think? to the reproach of being less merciful than he who sends rain on the just and the unjust. nor, as he looked round upon his carefully-selected congregation, could he easily flatter himself that he was preaching the gospel "to every creature." again, what is the will of the lord, and what does mr. ruskin mean by proclaiming it? that he loves righteousness and hates iniquity we know. the difficulty is in applying this general rule in detail. what is its bearing upon the policy of the government, upon any particular trade strike, upon the tangled web of good and evil motives which makes up the moral consciousness of an average shopkeeper? i conceive mr. ruskin to be thinking of preachers like bernard, savonarola, or latimer, of denunciations like those of isaiah, or of our lord. he seems to mean that the clergyman should stand on a clear mountain summit, looking down over the whole field of life, discerning with the eye of a prophet every movement of evil on a small scale or on a large. there have been such teachers in whose hands science, economy, politics, seemed all to become branches of theology, members of one great body of divine truth. but not every man's lips are thus touched with the coal from the altar. many an excellent and most useful preacher would make but wild work if he took to denouncing social movements or the spirit of the age. a singular illustration of the danger that besets these sweeping moral judgments is to be found in mr. ruskin's own denunciation of usury, that is, of taking interest for money. few people will agree either with the particular opinion that every old lady who lives harmlessly on her railway dividends ought to be excommunicated, or with the general principle implied in this opinion, that every prohibition in the old testament is still as valid as ever under social circumstances altogether different. people who need denouncing do not, as a rule, come to church to be denounced. and it would be a great error to conclude, from our lord's language to the pharisees and sadducees, that the tone in which he addressed the individual sinner was harsh or scathing. the preacher must remember that he is a physician of souls, and the physician's touch is gentle. think for a moment what worldliness is--how easy it is to say bitter things about it!--and then picture to yourselves a little tradesman with a wife and seven or eight children to keep on his scanty profits. what wonder if he sets too high a value on money? how difficult for him to understand the words which bid him take no thought for the morrow! there is a time, no doubt, for fierce language, but it does not often come. the preacher is no more exempt than other people from the golden rule to put himself in his neighbour's place, and try to see things with his neighbour's eyes. another difficulty arises out of the manner in which mr. ruskin speaks of the relation of his chamouni guides to dogmatic teaching. they ought not, he says, to be compelled to hold opinions on the subject, say, of the height of the celestial mountains, the crevasses which go down quickest to the pit, and other cognate points of science, differing from, or even contrary to, the tenets of the guides of the church of france. it is difficult in the extreme to know exactly what is here meant. no doubt it is needless for a guide to drop a plumb-line down every crevasse that he has to cross. it would be great waste of time to lecture his travellers on the laws that regulate the motion of glaciers or the dip of the mountain strata. but what are the doctrines that stand in this relation, or this no-relation, to the spiritual life? is it meant that all theology should be swept away like a dusty old cobweb? i would go myself as far as this, that the fewer and simpler the doctrines that a clergyman preaches, the better; that all doctrines should be required to pass the test of reason and conscience, which are also in their degrees divine revelations, so far, at least, as this, that no doctrine can be admitted which is demonstrably repugnant to either one or the other. and in the third place, the greatest care should be taken to discriminate matters of faith, real axioms of religion, from pious opinions or venerable practices which have no vital connection with the christian faith; which, to use burke's phrase, all understandings do not ratify, and all hearts do not approve. a grave responsibility rests upon those who neglect this discrimination. it is also a point of the highest importance that when most doctrinal a clergyman should be least dogmatic; that he should remember that all doctrine, by the necessity of the case, is cast into an antithetical, more or less paradoxical shape; that he should never lose sight of the harmony and balance between intersecting truths, or of that unfortunate tendency of the human mind to seize upon and appropriate points of difference in their crudest and most antagonistic form, to the exclusion of points of agreement; that he should always do his best to show the reasonableness of the christian teaching, its analogy and harmony with all the works of god; that where his knowledge fails, he should frankly confess that it does fail, and not try to eke it out by guesses, or to disguise its insufficiency by rhetoric. but after all these allowances it remains a fact that the clergyman is not a guide only, but a teacher, an ambassador. he is to teach his people all that he knows about god and his relation to the soul of man. he is to study and meditate himself, and to set forth the conclusion he has reached fully and fearlessly. and if he discharges this duty reasonably and zealously, he need not be afraid of finding that there is a gulf fixed between doctrine and practice. these two must go together. there can be no conduct deserving the name without a philosophy of conduct, and that philosophy is a sound divinity. even the loftiest and most abstruse doctrines must have an influence upon life. it is a common remark that scientific truth should be pursued for its own sake, and that the most valuable practical results have often followed from investigations carried out with a single eye to the truth. it is an equally common remark that those teach the simplest things best whose range of knowledge and belief is widest. we might point to mr. ruskin himself as a striking illustration of this. what is simpler than beauty? what more universally apprehended? what at first sight more incapable of analysis? yet as we listen to the great critic, what wonderful laws does he point out--what a wealth of knowledge does he bring to bear--how clear he makes it to us that the power of feeling (still more the power of creating) beauty is the hard-won fruit of labour, study, and devotion. so it is with life: those who would create a beautiful life must know the laws of spiritual beauty,--and those laws are theology. but criticism is a thankless task. it is a more gracious and, towards a great man, a more respectful office to note those points on which our debt to mr. ruskin is acknowledged, and our sympathy with him unalloyed. these letters are, in spirit at any rate, not unworthy of the man who has exercised a deeper and wider influence upon the morality of our time than any other, except perhaps thomas carlyle. and the great lesson of each of these eloquent teachers is the duty of reality. there are many points in which we do not agree with them: let us be all the readier to acknowledge the debt that we owe. both laymen,--like amos, neither prophets nor sons of prophets,--they have done a work which, perhaps, under the altered circumstances of society, no professional preacher could have achieved. any one who considers the earnestness and reverence of modern intellectual literature; the anxious desire even of the agnostic to lay the foundations of his moral life as deep as possible; the manifold efforts, while denying all religion, yet to maintain the union of imagination and reason, without which there can be no loftiness of character, no nobility of aspiration, yet which nothing but religion can consecrate and fructify,--and compares all this with the sneering, self-satisfied flippancy of gibbon and voltaire, will feel how vast is the change for the better; and these two writers have been the chief instruments in bringing that change about. let me notice briefly two points on which mr. ruskin insists in these letters with great force and beauty. the first is the love of the father. no text is more familiar than that which tells us that "god is love." it is not indeed inconsistent with that other text which tells us that he is "a consuming fire." but if its meaning is fully imbibed and allowed to bear its natural fruit, it must result in the abandonment of those forensic views of our blessed lord's atonement, which all the subtlety of canon mozley cannot bring into harmony with the dictates of our consciences. if the father is love, there can be no division, no antithesis between the father and the son. if he is love, then the idea of sacrifice, which is of the essence of love, must enter into our conception of the father also. i say no more about this, because any one who chooses to do so may find the fatherhood of god, and all that it implies, treated of with great fulness and a marvellous depth of spiritual insight in the letters of erskine of linlathen. it can hardly be doubted that the kind of language which protestants of a certain class have been, and still are, in the habit of using, about the "scheme of redemption," constitutes a most serious stumbling-block in the way of many an earnest spirit. there are few preachers probably, and few congregations now,--in the establishment at any rate,--who would not revolt against the hideous calmness with which jonathan edwards contemplates the "little spiders" dropping off into the flames. but a great deal of mischief remains to be undone. those who are acquainted with the biographies of shelley, of james and of john stuart mill, know well what effect the fierce doctrines of calvinism have produced upon minds which for the issues of morality and, surely, even of religion, were "finely touched." and who can tell what horror and indignation have been wrought in some minds, what agonies of despair in others, who, when at last the blessed work of repentance began to stir within them, and they turned their eyes for comfort to the cross, were met by the terrible warning that none but the select few can call god their father, and that in all probability their own eternal tortures were decreed before ever they entered the world? the other point to which i must briefly advert is mr. ruskin's protest against the use of words which imply--which leave the least possibility of hoping for--a mechanical absolution, a pardon of sins that have not been abandoned. i do not indeed think that the reproach of using such language falls upon those who are fond of the title of priests alone, for the doctrines of calvinism are far more liable to abuse. nor do i think that any preaching of our clergy on this subject can be said to have "turned our cities into loathsome centres of fornication and covetousness." but here, if anywhere, we ought never to forget the danger of even seeming to set theology against reason and conscience, of allowing the least pretext for thinking that a mere intellectual assent to abstract truths on the one hand, a mere acceptance of ecclesiastical ordinances on the other, can wipe away sins; or that a heart unpurified by charity and obedience, could be at rest even in the kingdom of heaven. _from the rev._ canon cooper, _vicar of grange-over-sands_. thank god, all good men are broader and better than their creed,--better and broader, i mean, than those parts of their creed which they insist upon most, because they distinguish them from other people. (these distinguishing points are always of the least importance, in my opinion.) and with my experience of sermons for nearly forty years (for i was very early "called upon to hear sermons"), i am not conscious of such universal omissions on the part of the "priests" of the church of england as mr. ruskin affirms. the universality of the _love_ of god the _father_, embracing even the "_wicked rich_" as well as the "wicked poor," is largely dwelt upon by all "schools." the kingdom of god _in this present sinful world_ is preached and is laboured for. in the present, however, it is more correctly described as the _kingdom of christ_. when "the end comes," "he shall deliver up the kingdom to god, _even the father_" ( cor. xv. , and _seqq._) as for denouncing the sins of the rich, this is largely done, and especially by "lively young ecclesiastics" in great towns. and as to preaching forgiveness without amendment, no man of common sense can do that; but mr. ruskin may say that common sense is rare among the clergy; and some may be afraid to preach morality, because of an old-fashioned superstition that _morality_ is opposed to the _gospel_. however, i do not hear much of such preaching. as for the duty of every man to do something of the work of the world for his daily bread, that is largely taught; and i believe that the kingdom of god is coming in that respect. a great deal of the drudgery of the world is done by big men now. also i think that the sinfulness of _omission_ is much insisted on by the clergy, as it is abundantly noticed in the prayer book, in accordance with the clear teaching of christ. and the same may be said upon the _personal guilt_ of sin. a good clergyman never allows his people to shelter themselves _in a crowd_. i do not feel the force of the taunt about our saying every week, "there is no health in us," because the most "healthy" christian finds out always fresh failings as his conscience grows more healthy (not morbidly sensitive), and he is always ready to join in the general confession to his dying day. there is some value in the remark about christian parents putting their children into situations where they will be tempted to worship the devil in order to win the kingdom of the world; but here, as elsewhere, the exaggeration, for the sake of being forcible, is too marked. _from the rev._ henry m. fletcher. "yes," i should say, "it is possible to put the gospel of christ into such plain words and short terms as that a plain man may understand it, and plain men do understand it. and it is not left to be gathered out of (any of) the thirty-nine articles, which are meant not for simple but for clerkly people." you seem to have felt it startling that mr. ruskin should ask for a simple and comprehensible statement of the christian gospel--at least mr. ruskin represents the case so. what christ's ministers are bidden to go into all the world and preach is--the good news that god has reconciled the world unto himself in jesus christ his son; and that whosoever will accept this jesus as his lord and saviour shall have eternal life through him. you could not, i think, arrive at a definition of what the gospel of christ is by explaining the terms of the lord's prayer. you must tell first about _jesus_, our lord, and what he has done, before child or man can have any proper notion of "the gospel." the gospel is a message from "our father which is in heaven," of his love, and of what his love--the love of father, son, and holy ghost--has devised and executed for the redemption and glorification (through sanctification) of his rebellious children. there can be small objection taken to mr. ruskin's proposal to make the lord's prayer "a foundation of gospel teaching, as containing what all christians are agreed upon as first to be taught," if the "gospel teaching" is understood to be "teaching the truth to _christians_." but "the gospel teaching or preaching," which is spoken of by mr. ruskin, is "gospel preaching" to the world not yet christian, either jewish or heathen; and the lord's prayer cannot properly be taken as a foundation of gospel teaching to it. it must be told first of jesus and his work, and must have owned him "lord," before it can rightly be taught from _his_ prayer. this prayer can have no _authority_ but to those who have become his disciples. those who are already his disciples learn naturally from him their relation and their duty to his father and their father. st. paul, in preaching to the athenians, dwells not on the fatherhood _of god_, but on the need of repentance as a preparation for the judgment which awaits all. "jesus and the resurrection" was what they heard of first from this model preacher. _from the rev._ a. t. davidson. my dear sir,--permit me to say one thing with regard to the correspondence which has passed between mr. ruskin and yourself. profitable as it is to listen to mr. ruskin, the student of mr. maurice's writings will merely find in these remarkable letters an additional plea on behalf of those truths for which mr. maurice so bravely and so passionately contended. it is most refreshing to find two such teachers in accord; and probably there will be many who will learn from mr. ruskin what they never would have learnt, or even sought for, from mr. maurice. it is, of course, for the truth, and not for his individual statement of it, that mr. ruskin, even as mr. maurice did, contends. it will, i am sure, be a matter of small moment to him so long as the truth be sought for, whether it be arrived at by means of these letters, or by means of mr. maurice's books on "the lord's prayer," "the prayer book," and "the commandments." believe me, my dear sir, to be yours faithfully. _from the rev._ edward geoghegan. bardsea vicarage, ulverston. "open rebuke is better than secret love. faithful are the wounds of a friend. let the righteous smite me, it shall be a kindness: and let him reprove me, it shall be an excellent oil, which shall not break my head." it is in the spirit which is expressed in these words that i desire to offer the following notes on mr. ruskin's letters. among the charges which he brings against the clergy are the following:-- that we have no clear idea of our calling, or of the gospel of christ (letters iii. and iv.) that we profane the name of god in the pulpit (letter vi.) that we teach that every one that doeth evil is good in the sight of the lord, and he delighteth in them (letter viii.) that we hold our office to be that, not of showing men how to do their father's will on earth, but how to get to heaven without doing any of it either here or there (letter viii.) that we neither profess to understand what the will of the lord is, nor to teach anybody else to do it (letter viii.) that we pretend to absolve the sinner from his punishment, instead of purging him from his sin (letter viii.) that we patronize and encourage all the iniquity of the world by steadily preaching away the penalties of it (letter viii.) that we gather, each into himself, the curious dual power and janus-faced majesty in mischief of the prophet that prophesies falsely, and the priest that bears rule by his means (letter viii.) that we do not exercise discipline by keeping wicked people out of church (letter vi.) that we do not require each member of our flocks to tell us what they do to earn their dinners (letter ix.) that we encourage people in hypocrisy, by inviting them to the authorized mockery of a confession of sin (letter x.) i cannot examine the evidence which mr. ruskin possesses in support of these charges, as he has not produced it in these letters. neither can i attempt to refute the accusations. to prove a negative is always difficult; it becomes an impossible task when the indictment is laid not against any individuals mentioned by name, but against a whole order. i will only observe, that even if all these charges be true, the people of england are not in such evil case as mr. ruskin fancies. the laity of england possess the inestimable advantage of not being dependent on the sermons of their clergy for either doctrine, or correction, or instruction in righteousness. even though a clergyman should never utter certain doctrines of christ from the pulpit, or reprove certain sins, he is obliged to do so at the font, at the lectern, and at the altar. although from the pulpits of the fifty hundreds of clergy whom mr. ruskin heard, he never heard so much as _one_ clergyman heartily proclaiming that no covetous person, which is an idolater, hath any inheritance in the kingdom of god, he must have often heard this proclamation from the altar, in the epistle for the third sunday in lent, and from the lectern whenever the fifth chapter of the epistle to the ephesians is read for the lesson. again, if any clergyman teaches from the pulpit that for the redemption of the world people ought to be thankful, not to the father, but to the son (letter v.), he is obliged to publicly contradict his own teaching as often as he says the general thanksgiving, and the collects in the book of common prayer. again, if any clergyman teaches from the pulpit that any one who does evil is good in the sight of the lord, or that there is any other salvation except a salvation from sin, he is obliged to publicly contradict that teaching by everything which he says in the church out of the pulpit. again, if any clergyman preaches away the penalties of sin (letter viii.), he is obliged to publicly contradict his preaching every ash wednesday, when he reads the general sentences of god's cursing against impenitent sinners. mr. ruskin asks (letter iii.), "can this gospel of christ be put into such plain words and short terms as that a plain man may understand it?" i answer that the english church has tried to do this in the catechism, in which every baptized child is taught in very simple and plain words the gospel, or good news, that god the father has, in his son jesus christ, adopted him or her into his family, and therein offers him or her the continual help of the holy ghost. mr. ruskin complains that the clergy do not teach the people the meaning of the lord's prayer (letter vi.) he must assume that the clergy neglect to teach children the church catechism, in which is an answer to the question, "what desirest thou of god in this prayer?" it is an answer which would probably satisfy mr. ruskin. he would see that "hallowed be thy name" does not merely mean that people ought to abstain from bad language. and in the explanation of the third commandment, he would see that something more is forbidden than letting out a round oath (letter vi.) mr. ruskin complains that the clergy do not prevent the entrance among their congregations of persons leading openly wicked lives (letter vi.) before this can be charged on the clergy as a sin, he should show that they have power and authority to do this. in the service for ash wednesday he will find that the clergy express their desire for a restoration of the godly discipline of the primitive church, which mr. ruskin also desires. but he ought to know that such restoration must be the work not of the clergy only, but of the whole body of the faithful. mr. ruskin insinuates that the clergy have no clear idea of their calling (letter iii.) if this be so, it is certainly not the fault of the church, seeing that the nature of the calling of a clergyman is plainly set forth in the offices for the ordering of bishops, priests, and deacons. but if one may form an opinion from many published sermons by english clergymen of various schools of thought, and from their speeches in church congresses and elsewhere, and from their pastoral work as parish priests, i should be inclined to think that they are not quite so ignorant of the nature of their calling and of the gospel of christ as mr. ruskin supposes them to be, and that of some of the sins, negligences, and ignorances which, in these letters, he lays to their charge, they may plead not guilty, or at least not proven by mr. ruskin. bardsea, ulverston, _november rd, _. dear mr. malleson,--i thank you for your letter, which i received this morning. second thoughts are not always the best. your own first thought about the motto which i prefixed to my notes was right; your second thought was wrong. it never occurred to me that anyone could possibly suppose that that motto was by me intended to be applied to myself, inasmuch as in these notes there is no "wound" inflicted on mr. ruskin, or even any "rebuke." on the contrary, i assume that he has evidence in support of his charges, although he has not produced it. the "rebuke" to which i alluded was _mr. ruskin's_ rebuke. _he_ is the "friend" whose wounds are faithful, and whose smitings are a kindness. for i have not the least doubt of his good-will towards the clergy, or of his earnest desire to see them all performing their sacred duties with zeal and knowledge. and it was as my acknowledgment of this that i prefixed the motto. with you i firmly believe that the standard which he takes is "lofty and christian," and that it is one towards which we ought all of us to aim. the object of my notes was to show that the laity of england have, in the authorized teaching of the church, a sufficient safeguard against any erroneous teaching which they may possibly hear from the pulpit or in the private ministrations of the clergy, and also a supplement to any defective teaching. very truly yours, edward geoghegan. _from_ joseph gilburt, esq. _christmas day_, . the words "thy will be done" are generally coupled with resignation, and very often with patience under chastisement. it is always to us a sad-coloured sentence, and a sentimental illuminator of the lord's prayer would in all probability make it so. now, if we think for a moment what the state of things would be if the will of the lord were done, we shall see it should be the brightest sentence we could conceive. god's will is our weal. aspiration, not resignation, is the characteristic of its doing. there would certainly be no death,--that is decidedly contrary to his will; and by-and-by, when his will is done, there will be none. for the present, while his will is not yet done, we have the sure and certain hope that death will be--nay, is--conquered by anticipation. if his will were done, all beautiful things would flourish, and all minds would answeringly rejoice in them. our men of the piercing eye--turners, hunts, ruskins, etc.--show us, till we almost worship the state of things in cloud and mountain, river and sea, in hedgerow and wayside, even in cathedral and campanile, where god's will is done, and we are enchanted with their beauty. it is god's will that stones should be laid truly and carven well, and aptly described. and our men of the probe and the lens, the scientific openers of nature's secrets, are daily demonstrating new beauties in which the will of the lord is done in the formation of bodies and working of forces. it is mere truism to add to this that the will of the lord being done, none of the ills that are all of them indirectly or directly the result of not doing it could occur, and resignation would have no scope for exercise. there was one who always did it, and he for three years made sundry parts of palestine a heaven,--with what results a many quondam poor folk testified. this leads me to say that i like to look upon the word heaven as a participle instead of a noun, as the state of being heaved or raised, rather than a place: and for this reason. the experience of every one of us suffices to prove that we are never so _heaven_, or raised in true happiness, moral dignity, and worth, as when we are in the company of one greater, wiser, or better than ourselves. those who lead a humdrum life among mean persons, can testify what a heaven it is to be transplanted for ever so short a time to the company of a great and good man. now the culminating, indeed all-absorbing, attraction of the heaven we all look to, is the presence and the companionship of the greatest and best; and the experience of ourselves tallies with the promise of st. john that it will have the effect of making us "like him," when "we shall see him as he is." surely being _heaven_, or raised like that, is superior to any mahomet's paradise that we can invent or distil out of the poetical parts of the scriptures. _from the rev._ archer gurney. mr. ruskin's view as to the duty of basing all upon the father's love is essentially sound and orthodox; and he is also right in bidding all men lead self-denying lives,--in this sense, that they should give up time and labour to the endeavour to help their brethren; but he fails utterly, hopelessly, to realize the incarnation and its glorious consequences, how all human life and love,--how art, science, knowledge, enjoyment, are sanctified by god's becoming man; sharing this human life of ours,--not to trample upon it as an unholy thing, but to consecrate it to god's service. such is our call. we must enjoy the beautiful to vindicate enjoyment. we do not please god by casting all his choicest gifts away. to give all we have to feed the poor is the way to make men poor, and is false charity. use rather the mammon of this world to god's honour and glory, and when ye fail, the good works that you have done shall plead for your entrance into everlasting habitations; for the way to clothe the naked and feed the hungry, permanently, is to teach men and women to help themselves, and to find employment and reward for the exercise of their powers and energies. _from the rev._ j. h. a. gibson, _brighton_. to mr. ruskin, then, asking us to define ourselves as a body, i reply, we are presbyters and deacons, deriving our authority from the episcopate, who themselves form links in that spiritual chain which binds both ourselves and them, by perpetual succession, in one communion and fellowship, with the apostles, and to whom has been committed the office of consecrating and sending forth labourers to work in the lord's vineyard. but mr. ruskin proceeds, "and our business as such." our business as such! well, if we have in any satisfactory manner proved our first point--_that_ is, the authority with which we act--we may fairly say to mr. ruskin, "do you put this question, 'what is your business?' to your lawyer or doctor?" does he ask the same question of the clergy of any other portion of the catholic church? we shall not wish to insult mr. ruskin by attempting to explain to him the duties of the priesthood, with which, doubtless, he is well acquainted. but he asks, "do we look upon ourselves as attached to any particular state, and bound to the promulgation of any particular tenets?" we are undoubtedly attached to the particular sphere to the which we are sent by those whose office is to provide the various parts of god's vineyard with labourers. the anglican church is the legitimate representative of the catholic church of christ in england; and we, as clergy of this church, minister for the most part to our countrymen at home, and only in other countries as the necessities of our colonists and others may require. and, as subscribers to the prayer book and priests of the church of england, we are certainly bound to teach faithfully and honestly her doctrines, neither adding to them nor taking away from them according to our own individual idiosyncrasies. _from the rev._ canon gray. wolsingham, _october th, _. my dear penrhyn,--will you please to thank mr. malleson on my behalf for the letters on the lord's prayer? i have ever admired ruskin, and learn much even when i most differ from him. but if i had the good fortune to be with you to-morrow, i fear that i should constantly be demurring to his teaching,--_e.g._ (letter iii.) his supposition that the thirty-nine articles were meant to include a summary of the gospel; (letter v.) his belief that there is need now to warn men against being thankful not to the father but only to the son,--a remnant of the teaching of his youth; (p. ) his hard way of speaking as to the son of man, whose human soul, as that of perfect man, received its knowledge in steps according to his own will as perfect god; (letter vii.) his confused distinction between the kingdom of god and the kingdom of christ (see eph. v. in the greek, and remember "_tradendo tenet_" on cor. xv. ); his belief that because no one knoweth the hour of christ's coming, it cannot be hastened by prayer; (letter viii.) his seeming identification of claiming interest from a poor man who is in need and necessity, and from a railway company who borrow money to make more,--speaking, as far as i can see, of money as if it had no market value like other things; (letter x.) the belief that we clergy are not awake to the guilt of sins of omission; (letter x.) the inability to see that the nearer and nearer by god's grace we come, in answer to prayer, to purity and holiness, the more we _realize_ our distance from them; and that his objection to our liturgy might be adapted into one against the lord's prayer, in which we pray daily for forgiveness of sins, and deliverance from evil, showing that we never shall be so delivered as no longer to need forgiveness; (letter xi.) the supposition that any one state of life is necessarily more full of temptations than another, as though the fruit of a tree were not to eve what the glory of the world was to the son of man, at least in the eye of the tempter. i am ashamed to jot down thus obscurely the points on which i should have liked to speak, and i know that our brethren can fully deal with them. on the other hand (letter viii.) there is much to move us, and lead to searchings of heart. as to the timidity and coldness with which the church is attacking the crying sins of our day, one often feels how we need some among us to speak as the prophets did to the men of their generation, and we may be thankful to have our shortcomings brought home to us by words like ruskin's. i wish i were not writing so hurriedly. remember me most affectionately to all my old and true friends who are with you to-morrow. [note.--_march th, _:-- mr. malleson has kindly brought this letter of mine again before me. hasty and concise as it was, i have no wish to expand it, as mr. ruskin's letters are now _publici juris_, and in the hands of many a critic, who will rejoice to deal with them according to his wisdom. i should be thankful, however, for leave to add a few words on one point. i cannot help having misgivings as to whether i was right in demurring without hesitation to "the supposition that one state of life is necessarily more free from temptations than another," for i well know that in favour of such a supposition there is a strong _consensus_ of just men. i am, however, one of those who believe that the shorter beatitude, "blessed be ye poor," (luke vi. ) is explained by the longer, "blessed are the poor in spirit." i see, also, that the difficulty with which "they that have riches" enter the kingdom of god is reasserted with a qualification in the very next verse, which speaks of those "who trust in riches" (st. mark x. , ). "who then can be saved?" asked the disciples, who, poor men indeed themselves, first heard of this difficulty, instinctively perceiving, it may be, that it has its root in temptations from which in one shape or other no one is free. i read that "the cares of this world," as well as "the deceitfulness of riches," choke the word; and i am sure that into the number of those "who will be rich," or "who are wishing to be rich," and so "fall into temptation," a poor man may but too easily find his way. i like to remember that when "the beggar died," he was carried into the bosom of one who had been "very rich in cattle, in silver, and in gold;" and i think that very deep and far-stretching may be the meaning of the words of the wise man, "the rich and poor meet together, and the lord is the maker of them all."] _from the rev._ h. n. grimley, _norton rectory, bury st. edmunds_. mr. ruskin's letters have already been closely scrutinized. what have seemed to be blemishes in them have been commented on. they have been spoken of as somewhat random utterances--as utterances such as are pardonable in a layman, but would be inexcusable in a clergyman who should endeavour to instruct his brethren. it has been said of them that they manifest a want of knowledge of teaching constantly being given from church of england pulpits. it would be quite possible for the present paper to be devoted to a continuation of the like free criticism of the letters. i might ask, for instance, whether mr. ruskin, after (in letter v.) speaking with condemnation of a plan of salvation which sets forth the divine son as appeasing the wrath of the father in heaven, does not himself give expression to words, as to the love of the father, which almost imply that in his estimation the divine mind is not in unity in itself? i might further ask for mr. ruskin to put more definiteness into his remarks on usury, and to particularize the special forms of that condemnable practice which the clergy should boldly denounce. the few hints which he throws out on this subject show that to his own thoughts there is present an exalted socialism. he himself in previous writings, while shadowing forth a social system based on unselfishness, has carefully deprecated any revolutionary attempt to hasten the establishment of such a system, and would prefer that it should be waited for while it quietly and with orderliness evolves itself out of the present imperfect order of things. is it not so evolving itself? does not the co-operative movement, now steadily advancing, spring out of the recognition of the fact that mutual welfare is a far more excellent thing to be attained than the enrichment of the few at the expense of the many? and if, with regard to the land question, any readjustment of relations is made, will it not be made in the light of the same beneficent principle? if, however, the clergy were to give heed to mr. ruskin's words, and at once proceed to the indiscriminate excommunication of usurers, would they not be initiating a social revolution, altogether different from that orderly upgrowth of a better state of things which has commended itself aforetime to mr. ruskin himself? my own impression is that i shall be giving voice to a wish that will spring up wherever mr. ruskin's letters may be read, if i say that a clearer, more definite utterance on the usury question would be welcomed. the clergy everywhere would receive with thankfulness any hints as to how they might hasten the coming of the day when the church of christ will no longer embrace within her borders the few, with a useless excess of wealth, and around them the unhappy many, hopelessly, squalidly destitute; along, too, with a vast number of toiling teachers, clergy, artists, and literary workers, living mostly on the verge of pennilessness--men of whose existence mr. ruskin has, in earlier writings, expressed himself as keenly and sympathetically conscious. but i will not linger on such parts of mr. ruskin's letters as may seem to display inconsistency, or to need more precision of language before they can be practically useful. i will proceed to speak of those for which, as it seems to me, the clergy may unhesitatingly be very grateful to mr. ruskin for laying them before them. and first, i think we cannot be other than thankful to mr. ruskin for sounding at the outset a note of catholicity. he asks the clergy of the english church (let me say he asks us,--he asks you and me), whether we look upon ourselves as the clergy of a mere insular church, or as the clergy of the church universal. is the teaching we are continually giving utterance to as to the conduct of life in harmony with, or different from, the teaching of the christian churches on the continent of europe? mr. ruskin's tone, in asking these questions, is such as implies that it would be no satisfaction to him to hear from us that we rejoice in considering ourselves as severed from the clergy of the christian church abroad. indeed, he goes on to assume that we, with one consenting voice, admit our fellowship with the rest of christendom--that we recognize as our brothers the clergy of the church of france, and of the church of italy, and of the church everywhere. mr. ruskin thus does not lend the support of his name to any useless protestantism. there are senses in which the whole christian church must ever be a protestant church, and in which even individual members may from time to time raise protesting voices. the church must ever lift up her protest against all influences that work in the world for evil--against whatsoever tends to overthrow the christian ideals of individual, family, social, national, and international life. she must protest against all hindrances, even though they may spring up within her own borders, which tend to prevent her from putting any beneficent impress upon human handiwork and upon manifestations of human genius. she must protest against the very protestantism in her midst which has served to paganize art and to demoralize the drama, by banishing both to an outer region of darkness which gospel rays cannot be expected to illumine. she must protest vigorously against the mischievous protestantism which impoverishes the intellect and chills the affections, by causing men to devote the whole energies of their lives to protesting against systems of thought with which they are very imperfectly acquainted, and to maintaining an attitude of perpetual suspicion as to others' aims and motives. under the influence of such protestantism as this, many have been possessed with the assurance that a vast number of the clergy of christendom live for no other end than to conspire against freedom, to disseminate falsities, and to work ruin amongst human souls. this protestantism is fast ceasing to have any power amongst us; still, as it is not quite extinct, it is comforting to find that mr. ruskin does not attribute it to the main body of those whom he addresses. to me it seems that an habitual protesting attitude on the part of those who are called upon to be the teachers of the church implies that they have not themselves properly entered the temple of christian truth. he to whom christian doctrine has revealed itself in all its wondrous harmony cannot do other than devote himself to unfolding to others what is ever present to his own mind, so that he may aid in building up their thoughts consistently and symmetrically, and thus help to establish them firmly in the christian faith. we may, then, it seems to me, express our thankfulness that mr. ruskin has spoken, though ever so briefly, a word of encouragement to the clergy of the english church amongst whom the thought of a future of reunion for christendom has been welcomed. mr. ruskin is familiar with the practical working of the christian church in italy and elsewhere on the continent, and seeing, as he has seen, that her influence is exerted towards securing an orderly and healthy state of social life, he does not give circulation to the indiscriminate calumnies which were once wont to be uttered, and which were alike at variance with the truth and provocative of a mischievous severance of christians from one another. but we must, i think, be more especially grateful to mr. ruskin for his calling widespread attention to the great christian doctrine of the fatherhood of god. there is especial need for this being uplifted before the thoughts of men at the present day, and it is being so uplifted. the more it is upheld, the more fully will it be discerned. it cannot be said that the doctrine is not accepted within the english church. still, it has not yet been received in all its fulness. amongst the separatists outside the borders of our church, the doctrine that god is the father of all humanity, and the loving father too, is rejected in two extreme ways. the set of "believers" who adopt the one extreme view consider that the lord's prayer--so luminous, as mr. ruskin reminds us, with the thought of god's fatherly love--should be used only by the elect, such as themselves, and that all others have no right to address god as their father. the other set of so-called "believers" considers with a deplorable pharisaism that they have arrived at such a stage of perfection as to be beyond the need for using words which require them to ask every day for forgiveness of their trespasses. why should they ask for such, they say, when their trespasses are non-existent? if they are children of the father they are not so in the same sense as those who conscientiously use the prayer addressed to the father in heaven. i regret that mr. ruskin's facile pen has betrayed him into writing some words with reference to our liturgy which bring him momentarily into sympathy with these self-righteous ones who have no need to confess that they want more health of soul. but the doctrine of the loving fatherhood of god, as revealed to us in christ, is one that is unfolding itself more and more clearly to the christian world. if it has unfolded itself to us we may aid in its increased discernment. it is one that involves the acceptance of the thought that all human life and every sphere of human endeavour are under divine patronage. god is in every way our father. all human excellences whatsoever exist in their fulness and perfection in him. as they are manifested in us and in our brothers and sisters around us, they are divine excellences becoming incarnate on the realm of humanity. childhood, for instance, as it manifests its sweetness and winsomeness in christian homes, is an outcome of the eternal childhood which dwells in god, and which was manifested supremely to the world in the life of the divine child at bethlehem and nazareth. so that the doctrine of the loving fatherhood of god has sheltering beneath it the thought of the divineness of childhood. clustering with it are many kindred thoughts. there is the divineness of youth, the frankness of christian boyhood, the tender grace of christian girlhood,--these are manifestations of the eternal youth abiding in the divine lord of humanity. i might speak to you in like manner of the divineness of manhood and of womanhood, and of the divineness of old age. all womanly excellences, as well as all manly virtues, reside in the divine one. i might speak to you of the divineness of wedded life, the divineness of christian fatherliness and motherliness. the divineness of the student's life and of the teacher's life might also be dwelt upon. the divineness of the ministry of reconciliation, in which ministry all may take part who help others to separate themselves from sin and selfishness and to enter into union with god and his life of love,--this i present to you as a fruitful thought. the divineness of all efforts tending towards the solace and comforting of suffering human souls,--that too is one of the beneficent thoughts involved in the great christian truth that god is the father of humanity. but the same great truth leads us to the discernment of other useful thoughts. i might speak of them as connected with the divineness of all toil which has for its object the increase of human knowledge, the gathering together of the stored-up lessons of the past, the beautifying of the daily life, the refining and spiritualizing of the daily thoughts of the great brotherhood and sisterhood. it would thus be quite justifiable to speak of the divineness of scientific toil, inasmuch as that has for its aim the unfolding of the thoughts of god, of which all appearances of the material world are the outcome and manifestation. thus too i might speak of the divineness of the work of those who enable us to see the results of the divine guidance bestowed on the world in the ages past. i might speak of the divineness of the work of the artist who devotes himself to acquiring skill in subtly entangling in the colours he puts on canvas the sentiment underlying the landscape he reverently looks at, which to him is a manifestation of a heaven of beauty unseen by heedless eyes. i might also speak of the divineness of the labours of the christian poet, who presents to the world truth in its feminine and most winning aspects. when i should have spoken of all these things they could all be summed up into one phrase--the divineness of humanity. and this is what i have faintly attempted to show necessarily springs up for recognition as the doctrine of the fatherhood of god presents itself to us in all its impressiveness. i must hasten to a close. i have said that mr. ruskin in what he asks us with reference to our relation to the church in other countries sounds a note of catholicity. in what i have myself said as to protestantism i have urged nothing inconsistent with a thorough loyalty to the principle of christian individualism. but individualism in utter revolt against authority leads only to confusion and to a multiplicity of tyrannies. individualism thrives best under the protection of a generous all-embracing authority. individualism before taking up the attitude of revolt should consider that it, by brave patience and a reverent submissiveness to all higher influences around it, may contribute beneficently to the authority of the future, and increase the generousness and catholicity of its sway. i will further remark that mr. ruskin's words as to the fatherhood of god are also a catholic utterance. for the fatherhood of god when pondered upon helps us to see that no sphere of human effort is beyond his control; that his house is one of many mansions of thought and affection and loving toil; that his heavenly kingdom is one including all domains on which human energies can be directed, over which human thoughts can roam, on which human love can lavish itself. _from the rev._ canon e. h. m'neile, _liverpool_. what is the exact question asked in letter ii.? is it whether the clergy are or are not teachers of universal science? if so, we answer, yes, we are teachers of the science most universal of all, namely, the knowledge of god, which is eternal life: and of the way to attain it, which is holiness; and the principles of this science, which are universal, are not, as in other sciences, discovered by human research, but are revealed by god. does the question imply that there are points of science on which it is of no consequence what opinions a teacher holds? and if so, does it further mean that all matters of doctrine, such as are defined in the thirty-nine articles, are of this nature? if so, i answer that it is only the theories or speculations of scientific investigators about which variety of opinion is immaterial, not the essential principles of the science; and that we cannot exclude all questions of doctrine from among those principles. i do not know what is meant by holding different opinions on points of science. about the facts of science there can be no difference of opinion; but there may be about the bearings, and the inferences to be drawn from them. letter iii here is a definite question. my answer is, yes, but we do not refer to the thirty-nine articles for a statement of the gospel, but rather to the apostles' creed, which contains the simplest summary of the facts on which the gospel rests. (see cor. xv. , etc.) letter iv here i answer, no. the lord's prayer was not intended to be a statement of the gospel, but the language of those who have accepted it. no doubt the terms of the prayer may be so explained as to bring in a definition of the gospel, working backwards; but a complete explanation would be longer than the thirty-nine articles. there seems to be a serious confusion of thought here between the offer of salvation to sinners estranged from god, and the utterance towards god of his reconciled children. letter v the lord's prayer is elementary teaching for christians, but it is not the first thing to be taught to those outside the family of god. the truth that we have a father in heaven is a fundamental part of the gospel. it is assumed in the lord's prayer; and so is the further truth that our father of his tender love towards us has given his son to die for us, that we may be delivered from the "consuming fire" which sin, not god, has kindled; and thus we have indeed a blessed scheme of pardon for which we are to be thankful to _both_ the father and the son. this makes _all_ the clauses of the apostolic blessing intelligible and living. letter vi page : "for _other_ sins," etc. i think this is an incorrect comment. the force of the threat is positive, not comparative. the language of the law is similar towards every sin. in what is said about the abomination of hypocrisy in prayer we cordially agree. god give us grace to avoid it ourselves, and to warn our brethren faithfully against it! but in what follows there is an assumption of a power of discipline which the clergy do not possess, and which i fear the laity would be most unwilling to concede to them. mr. ruskin seems also to slip into the old error of the servants in the parable of the tares. letter vii on page st. john xiv. is incorrectly cited, and it is difficult to know the exact drift of the writer. i object to the statement that "in all his relations to us and commands to us," etc. (see, _e.g._, st. matt. xxviii. - .) as to his not knowing whether his prayer could be heard, see st. john xi. , . i think it is incorrect to say that our lord himself _used_ the prayer he gave us, at least in its entirety as it stands. pages , : mr. ruskin seems to me to draw most strongly the very comparison to which he objects. surely the kingdom of christ _is_ the kingdom of his father. (rev. xi. , xii. ; eph. v. .) does not an unwillingness to accept the true divinity of our lord underlie this passage? letter viii page : there is surely a mistake here. personal sanctification and national prosperity are very different things. a nation has no existence except in this world; therefore its prosperity is the chief end to be aimed at; and this is no doubt promoted by the holiness of its people. but a man has another life hereafter; and comfort and wealth are not the end of his being. if granted, they are means to his sanctification, not _vice versâ_. it seems to me that mr. ruskin in this letter writes somewhat recklessly, and that he must have been singularly unfortunate in his experience of preachers if he has never heard a faithful sermon against covetousness, which is the idolatry of our age. on page he seems to fall into a great error in supposing that the proclamation of a free pardon for sin tends to encourage it. if a man is to be delivered from the power of his sins, he must first be delivered from the guilt of them. no doubt the grace of god has been abused by some; and st. paul himself felt that his doctrine was open to such abuse (rom. vi. , ). it is not, i think, just to attribute the corruption of our great cities to the teaching of the clergy. it is rather to be ascribed to the absence of that teaching. letter x whatever justice there may be (and no doubt there is much) in mr. ruskin's accusations against us clergy, he is surely under an entire misapprehension in the charge which he here makes against our liturgy. our prayer book is doubtless constructed for the use of believing christians, and is not fitted for the impenitent; but its adaptation to the needs of the repentant publican and of the advanced christian is most wonderful. and that a form of prayer may be so adapted is surely proved by the lord's prayer itself, which mr. ruskin says is the _first_ thing to be taught to all, and which, with all his practice in thinking, he feels that he cannot adequately expound. surely the repetition of a confession of unholiness casts no slur upon the efficacy of our prayers for holiness when we recognize that holiness is progressive, and that spiritual growth may express itself not merely in new words, but in a heartier utterance of the old ones. as to the particular expression, "there is no health in us," it needs either the explanation of st. paul--"i know that in me, _that is, in my flesh_, dwelleth no good thing,"--or else to be understood according to the old meaning of "health," viz., "_saving health_," _salvation_, _deliverance_ (psalm cxix. , prayer book; isa. lviii. ; jer. viii. ). it needs further to be remarked that repentance is not only a single definite act, but a state of mind. i think that underlying all these comments of mr. ruskin on the lord's prayer is a failure to recognize the truth of man's fall. human nature is a ruin, not to be restored by a rearrangement of its fragments. god has provided a remedy, by sending his son to be the foundation of a new spiritual building; and every man who is to be built upon that foundation must himself become a new creature by the operation of the holy ghost. all efforts to improve humanity in the mass, without the renewal of each separate soul, must fail; and no doubt the clergy often fall into this mistake. the lord's prayer is not the prayer of all mankind as they are by nature. it is a prayer to the possession of which they are brought by regeneration, and to the enjoyment by conversion. e. h. m'neile. _from the rev._ p. t. ouvry. on the meaning of usury, i would add a few words. i start with this proposition. there is nothing contrary to the will of god for one free man to buy from another free man anything he wants. i have two houses,--one i live in, one i let. my tenant pays the market rent of houses to me, and so both parties are benefited. i have two thousand pounds. i have no capacity, or opportunity, or desire to use more than one thousand pounds in trade on my own account. my neighbour has energy and activity to use more money than he has in trade. he gladly offers me five per cent. for my spare thousand pounds. i willingly lend it on those terms. he makes ten per cent. by using it. he gives me five pounds and has five pounds for himself. if this be usury, it is lawful and right. a number of small cultivators of land have no capital. a money-lender supplies what they require on condition that they sell their crops to him at a price which he is able to fix. from the circumstances of the case the money-lender makes an enormous profit. the cultivator has barely the necessaries of life. this is usury, in the bad sense of the term, but is more correctly called oppression or extortion. again, a man lends money to ignorant inexperienced youths, on promise of repayment when they come of age. this, too, is oppression or extortion. similar oppression is witnessed when bad houses are let to poor people at high rents. it is not, then, that usury, in the sense of oppression or extortion, is inherent in money-lending; but it belongs equally to every transaction between man and man, where any unrighteous dealing is practised. p. t. ouvry. grange-over-sands, _october st, _. dear mr. malleson,--i protested strongly yesterday against our remarks, made on the spur of the moment, being printed and submitted to mr. ruskin's criticism, and what i said then i feel as strongly still. but i have no objection to send, as a comment on his letters, a volume of sermons which i published last year, because i think that, in that upon the hallowing of god's name, i have not taken the restricted view which mr. ruskin accused the clergy of taking, and i think also that (except in the sermon upon the doctrine of the trinity, which was written before the others, and is tinged with the prejudices of early training), i have set forth god the father as a being of infinite, tender, fatherly love. so far as snails may follow in the footsteps of greyhounds, and bats look in the same direction as eagles, i think some of us clergymen are getting our feet and our eyes into the same track as mr. ruskin's. it seems to me that all of us who think upon religious matters, laity or clergy, whether men of genius or commonplace people, are feeling our way at present to something better and truer. men like mr. ruskin, like steamships, dart on to their destination; and feebler minds, like sailing vessels, are a good deal at the mercy of the _popularis aura_ and the winds of doctrine, but both are on their way to the same point. i send the volume by the same post as this letter. yours very faithfully, h. r. s. _from the rev._ a. g. k. simpson, _brighton_. we are convinced that the love of god is the originating cause of all his dealings with mankind, and are glad to meet him on the broad platform of "our father which art in heaven;" only premising that it is a platform not new to us, but on which we have long taken our stand. but beyond these somewhat general statements of our faith, i doubt whether it would be possible to put divine truth into such plain words as would meet with general acceptance. in proportion to the _minuteness_ would be the _disagreement_. to take one great truth (perhaps the greatest of all), would it be possible to put forth a plain and simple statement, such as all, or the majority, would receive, of the atonement? such a mind as mr. ruskin's would not be content with the forensic view more popular some years ago than now. wiser, it seems to me, it is to accept some such teaching as that of coleridge in "aids to reflection." "the mysterious act, the operative cause," he says, "is transcendent." "_factum est_," and beyond the information contained in the enunciation of the fact, it can be characterized only by its consequences. it is these consequences which (according to coleridge) are illustrated by the four metaphors:-- . sin-offering or expiation. . reconciliation. . redemption. . payment of a debt. now, would not a plain, a simple statement, be apt to press the metaphor too far, and attempt to put into words one aspect of the truth as though it were the whole? such a reverent mind as bishop butler's reproved the curiosity which sought to find out the manner of the atonement. "i do not find," he said, "that it is declared in the scriptures." and yet the atonement is only _one_, though perhaps the _chief_, of the many points of which a true and simple statement must take cognizance. it would be comparatively easy for the private clergyman to put into words his thoughts on this subject or that, but then he would be continually liable to have it urged against him that he had not sufficiently considered some given point--had not walked round it, and seen it in all its bearings; that his view was inadequate and incomplete; and, being fallible and human, some of the objections would doubtless be true, and the simple and plain statement be, in that respect at least, misguiding. _from the rev._ g. w. wall, _bickerstaffe_. letter ii this letter professes to contain an "exact question," which is somewhat singularly inexactly put. in its strict grammatical form it asks for a definition of the members of a clerical council, and their business as such. this "exact question" is in fact an illustration of the fallacy of asking two questions in one, though a question demanding to be answered with "mathematical" precision should have been set with mathematical accuracy. but here at the outset a protest must be entered against being called upon to answer a question set in ambiguous words and misleading phrases, and based upon assumptions which those questioned would reject. it is impossible to deal with a so-called "axiomatic" question which instantly passes into a cloudy rhetorical illustration. "the attached servants of a particular state." does that expression mean, "england, with all thy faults, i love thee still"? or, is it used in the same sense as "attached to the staff"? but are there many of the clergy who would say, "i am an attached and salaried servant of the state, and nothing more?" are there many who would allow that they were "salaried" by the state at all? are there many who would grant that they had been "examined" and "numbered" and admitted into a "body of trustworthy persons" either by the state or by its agents? and yet all these previous questions must be answered before we can consider at all the "axiomatic" question which the clergy are "earnestly called upon" to solve. the question set down for solution implies some such inquiries as these: is not the church of england merely a department of the state of england? does not a clergyman belong to the ecclesiastical service just as an _employé_ of the treasury, or the home office, or the post office, belongs to the civil service? for example, the authorities at chamouni examine and approve of certain men as guides for mountaineering: does not the english state similarly examine and approve of certain men as guides for england and the english "in the way known of all good men that leadeth unto life"? a most fallacious employment of a "universal" for a "particular," for either the clergy must be excluded from the number of "all good men," or the assertion that all good men agree in their knowledge falls to the ground, seeing that in the fourth letter the clergy are charged with not having "determined quite clearly" what the way that leadeth unto life may be. but taking this alpine illustration for what it may be worth, we may ask, "what does it mean?" is it not intended to exalt practical questions, and to depreciate all doctrine and dogma and theological opinion, either from its liability on the one hand to be narrow or insular, "chamounist or grindelwaldist," or on the other from its tendency to be vague and transcendental, dealing with "celestial mountains" and unfathomable "crevasses"? will it not admit of some such paraphrase as this, "your teachings as to episcopacy or congregationalism, seven sacraments or two, and the like, are mere local opinions, and so away with them; your doctrines as to the holy trinity, the incarnation, and the like, are mere transcendentalism, and so away with them also,-- 'for modes of faith let zealous bigots fight, he can't be wrong whose life is in the right.'" still it may be allowable to hint that the qualifications of a "guide" as laid down in this letter are somewhat peculiar. it might have been supposed by a plain man that a chamounist guide was expected to know at least something as to the localities of the mer de glace, the jardin, or the grand mulets, but he is seemingly to rise superior to any "chamounist opinions on geography," and to be prepared to rely only upon a universal science of locality and athletics, a reliance which has been the fruitful cause of mountaineering fatalities. the reply which most clerical councils would return respecting the "axiomatic" question of this letter would probably be, "we cannot answer a fallacy; we are not careful to answer thee in this matter." letter iii a second question is now propounded respecting the christian gospel. "the gospel of christ" is spoken of in a connection which seems to indicate that luther and augustine were equally, in the writer's opinion, the setters forth of a "gospel." is this an unintentional disclosure of his estimate of our blessed lord,--"rabbi, we know that thou art a teacher come from god," and no more than that? for the eighth letter contains a sneer at the gospel that he is our advocate with the father, as one to mend the world with. a confused question follows, which may mean either, that it is in the first place desirable that the gospel should be put into plain words, or, that the first principles of the gospel should be put into plain words. its probable meaning is, "is it not desirable that religious teaching should be divested of any mysteries?" the extraordinary supposition that the gospel is intended to be set forth in the thirty-nine articles can only be equalled by a supposition that a treatise on military tactics is embodied in the articles of war. perhaps even some of the axiomatic principles of mathematics, such as that "a point is that which hath no parts," though laid down in "plain words and short terms," might sorely perplex "simple persons." but several fallacies underlie this second question. the fallacy that the moral principles of our nature are necessarily connected with the extent of our intellectual capacities; the fallacy that divine truths can be adequately expressed through the inaccurate instrument of human language; the fallacy that deep things are necessarily made plain by the use of plain words; the fallacy that everything upon which we act is necessarily understood. a plain man does not refuse to use the telegraph because he may know nothing about the correlation of force, or a simple person to travel because "space" is beyond his comprehension. if the gospel is, as st. paul says it is, a revelation of the power of god unto salvation, an amount of mystery must necessarily surround it. since it is impossible that the divine nature should be to us other than a mystery, a revelation of divine purposes such as is the gospel as understood by the church, must remain mysterious also. only upon the supposition that our lord was the teacher of a high but still human morality can we remove all mystery from the christian gospel, if it still deserve the name. such teaching might be conveyed in plain words and short terms, but it would cease to be a gospel which angels desire to look into, and could hardly be described as the "manifold wisdom of god," or be the story of the "love of christ, which passeth knowledge." the gospel, as the church understands it, rests upon the revealed fact of the incarnation, or the union of the infinite with the finite, that he who is very god of very god became man in order to introduce the divine possibility of manhood being made to partake of the divine nature; and so long as the triumphal chant ascends that "the catholic faith is this," so long will the church's faith be veiled indeed with mystery, and so long will she continue to gather within her bounds the humble and holy men of heart, who are content to say, "i cannot understand: i love." that "god sent his only-begotten son into the world that we might live through him" are short and plain words enough, and gospel enough, surely, but the depth of their meaning is unfathomable by even the most cultivated understanding, to which the power of god and the wisdom of god may appear to be but foolishness. letter ix this letter, after endorsing the expressions of the preceding one, deals apparently with capital and labour. the clergy, if not required to divide the inheritance among their brethren, or to actually serve tables, are, taking "property is theft" as their text, to resolutely and daily inquire how the dinners of their flock are earned. the gist of the letter seems to be that the worker earns and the capitalist steals his dinner. it is really possible that the clergy do constantly speak the truth, boldly rebuke vice, and patiently suffer for the truth's sake, even though they may not subscribe to all the articles of some peculiar schemes of social science, nor hold some singular doctrines as to political economy. doubtless were they to assimilate their conduct to that of an injudicious district-visitor, they would have to take a new view of "life and its sacraments," whatever this expression may mean. it would seem as if the writer had yet to learn that a christian church may exist teaching the most dogmatic definitions of doctrine, binding, even in this respect, burdens on men's shoulders grievous to be borne, while its members may be patterns of self-denial in "offices of temporal ministry to the poor." he does not appear to regard with favour the "evangelistic sect of the english church;" if this is intended for the "evangelical" sect, charles kingsley could say, in a certain place, of its founders, "they were inspired by a strange new instinct that god had bidden them 'to clothe the hungry and feed the naked.'" yet these men thought that "justification by faith only" was the gospel they were "to carry to mend the world with, forsooth." letter xi this concluding letter calls but for slight remark,--of many portions we feel _o si sic omnia_! that there is much sorrowful truth underlying the unmeasured denunciations which have gone before few will care to deny. few there are who will not pray to be kept from the evils which the writer discerns, and against which he inveighs. such will be the first to regret that the letters, as they read them, seem to fall short of the fulness of the catholic faith. "the holy teachers of all nations:" was our blessed lord but one of them? there is nothing in the letters to show that "the full force and meaning" of gospel teaching is concerned with anything beyond wealth, and comfort, and national prosperity, and domestic peace. preaching the acceptable year of the lord is something more surely than an invective against usury. we read that in old times bezaleel was filled for his own work with the spirit of god, but we do not read that he aspired to become a religious teacher; and when we are told by one eminent in art that a church nineteen centuries old has yet to learn that the "will of the lord" is a sanctification which brings comfort and wealth in its train, we think of a moses who esteemed the reproach of christ greater riches than all the treasures of egypt, and then of a paul who counted all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of christ jesus his lord. g. w. wall. _from_ oxoniensis. dear mr. malleson,--many thanks for the pamphlet. you ask me to send you any remarks i may have to make on the letters, and i gather from your note at the beginning of the letters as they now stand, that you intend making use of any remarks sent you that may commend themselves to your judgment. i am not vain enough to think mine of any special value. i will, however, write you my feelings about them, encouraged to do so by your statement in the note to the pamphlet, that the use made of remarks sent you will be anonymous, if it is so desired. first, as regards the general tone of the letters. you tell me that the majority of the comments you have received have been hostile--people not taking their medicine without making wry faces. i am only surprised at the gentleness of the letters, and i believe that if anyone will take the trouble to put down for himself on paper the sum of their contents, he will find it as difficult to gainsay as for careless readers it is easy to cavil at. on the other hand, the "hostile spirit" is readily provoked by the way in which some of the teaching of the letters is put. passages like the sixth paragraph in letter x. appear an objectionable joke to some--perhaps to most--people; they do not see that it is really a serious jest, so put for brevity's sake, and that ruskin might have put the same note to it as he has put to a passage in the "crown of wild olive," p. , vo ed.: "quite serious all this, though it reads like jest." i remember once asking ruskin if his apparent joking in some oxford lectures was not likely to lessen his influence, and he at once said to me, "remember that most of my apparent jokes are serious, _ghastly_ jests." i think he would be less often misunderstood, if this were more often understood. your own preface marks the two main points in the spirit of the letters. they are sternly practical, and at the same time their standard is one of an ideal perfection. people don't see that because the goal cannot be reached, the road towards it can still be trodden, and therefore they apply to the road an epithet which applies only to the goal. in this respect ruskin's teaching might be mottoed with george herbert's-- "who aimeth at the sky shoots higher much than he that means a tree." in fact, ruskin's teaching, like that of the bible, is not unpractical, but _unpractised_. i will now take the letters in detail. the first four of them are merely introductory to the main matter of the eleven. in these first five two questions are asked-- . what is a clergyman of the church of england? and to this the suggested answer is (whom does it offend?), "a teacher of the gospel of christ to all nations." . what is the teaching of the gospel he is to teach? what is that teaching, clearly and simply put? then letter iv. suggests that the lord's prayer may be taken as containing the cardinal points of that teaching, containing not all that is to be learnt, but what all have to learn. and so we come to letter v.; and i tried, in reading the letters for myself, to do for them what letter iii. asks clergymen to do for the gospel. letter v.--a clergyman's first duty is to make the lord's prayer clear and living to his people. this is what ruskin has elsewhere insisted on in other matters--"clear," know your duty and your belief; "living," realize it in your life--realize it "as a captain's order, to be obeyed" ("crown of wild olive," introduction, p. . the whole of this introduction reads well with these letters). then the first clause of the prayer is set forth as putting before us god as a loving father. letter vi.--"hallowed be thy name." how do we fulfil the hope in our lives? how do we betray it? not in swearing only, as we are apt to think, but in the blasphemy of false and hypocritical prayer to, and praise of, _preaching about_ god (last paragraph of the letter). clergymen, it is added, can prevent openly wicked men from being in their congregations (they are supposed to do so: rubrics and before the holy communion service); they can not only compel the wicked poor into, but expel the wicked rich out of, churches. god sees the heart: the clergy should look to the hands and lips. letter vii.--"thy kingdom come:"--not an allusion to the second coming of the son, which we cannot hasten, but to the coming of the kingdom of god the father, which we can. this is again illustrated by the "crown of wild olive" (i daresay it is by others of ruskin's books, but it is convenient to refer chiefly to one, and that the one which contains what he calls his most biblical lecture), p. : "observe it is a kingdom that is to come to us; we are not to go to it. also it is not to be a kingdom of the dead, but of the living. also it is not to come all at once, but quietly ... without observation. _also it is not to come outside of us, but in our hearts: 'the kingdom of god is within you.'_" this is the sense in which we can hasten _it_. letter viii. begins with a hit at the pleasure priests take in their priesthood's dignity, and at their avoidance of its unpleasant duties, and at their sometimes wearisome preaching. have they ever taught "thy will be done," as it should be-- . in our own sanctification; . in understanding that will, and doing it, and striving to get it done (knowing their duty and doing it, and it alone)? the remarks about the mediatorial (absolving-from-punishment) and the pastoral (purging-from-sin) functions of a "pastor," seem to me quite admirable. the end of the letter is subsequently amplified, letter x. letter ix.--"give us this day our daily bread." yes, but we must work for it. "the man that will not work, neither shall he eat." a cardinal point with ruskin: "but if you do" (_i.e._, wish for god's kingdom), "you must do more than pray for it, you must work for it" ("crown of wild olive," p. ). and the clergyman has to teach (letter ix. goes on) what that work is and how it is to be done; and the life, to which their teaching should lead, is one "moderate in its self-indulgence, wide in its offices of temporal ministry to the poor," in the absence of which, prayer for harvest is mere blasphemy. for the spiritual bread is the first thing, and a clergyman's first message, "choose ye this day whom ye will serve." letter x.--"forgive us our trespasses." the explanation of trespasses, and substitution of _debts_ for it, is admirable ("dimitte nobis _debita_ nostra"), and admirably illustrated by the sins of omission being condemned in christ's judgment,--"i was hungry, and ye gave me no meat." the remarks on the "pleasantness" of the english liturgy recall those on the avoidance of unpleasantness by the english clergy in letter viii. i pass over the notes on the advantage of "forms of prayer," and come to the end of letter x. and letter xi., which go together, and say practically, pray honestly or not at all. "faithful prayer implies always correlative exertions;" "dishonest prayer is blasphemy of the worst kind." "crown of wild olive," p. , again: "everybody in this room has been taught to pray daily, 'thy kingdom come.' now, if we hear a man swear in the streets, we think it very wrong, and say he 'takes god's name in vain.' but there is a twenty times worse way of taking his name in vain than that. it is to _ask god for what we don't want_. he doesn't like that sort of prayer. if you don't want a thing, don't ask for it; such asking is the worst mockery of your king you can insult him with; the soldiers striking him on the head was nothing to that. if you do not wish for his kingdom, don't pray for it." in fact, prayer is worse than useless if not sincere, and it is insincere if not carried out in the life of the "pray-er." thus, "one hour in the execution of justice is worth seventy years of (insincere) prayer" (mahometan maxim, "crown of wild olive," p. ). i must stop. only the fifth paragraph in letter xi., about parents looking for "opportunities" for their children, is exactly parallel with "sesame and lilies," vo edition, p. (sub. , § ), which might be added in an illustrative note. i must apologize for my long and rambling letter, but if it is of the least service to you i shall be content. i feel how inadequate it is to what i meant it to be, only i have no time just now to do more than write, as this letter is written--at the point of the pen. oxoniensis. letters from brantwood-on-the-lake to the vicarage of broughton-in-furness preface some apology will naturally be expected for setting the following letters before the searching eye of a critical and possibly censorious public. i can only plead that the suggestion of their publication did not emanate from myself (for the idea of making these letters public property had never once in fifteen years crossed my mind), but was made to me by friends to whom it appeared that much in these letters is strongly characteristic of mr. ruskin, and illustrates (much too indulgently, alas!) the estimate he is good enough to form of a correspondent who does not to this day clearly understand to what happy circumstance he is indebted for so fortunate a partiality. at the same time it must be confessed that _laudari a viro laudato_ is a harmless ambition for the possession of a stimulus which is good for every soul of man. i will say no more upon that subject, lest my self-depreciation should be set down to vanity. nevertheless it has always been a source of innocent pleasure to me that i have been enabled to bring my ship without damage through so perilous a voyage to port in a safe and honourable harbourage. the matters discussed in the following letters range only over a narrow field; but it will be found that they present a truly life-like picture of the writer with his shrewd common-sense and deeper wisdom, enlivened in no small measure by a quick impulsiveness which is sometimes rather startling. some of his sudden sallies serve the purpose of the condiments, which displeasing if taken alone, give piquancy to our ordinary food. f. a. malleson. . _july th, ._ my dear mr. malleson,--you must make no public announcement of any paper by me. i am not able to count on my powers of mind for an hour; and will absolutely take no responsibility. what i do send you--if anything--will be in the form of a series of short letters to yourself, of which you have already the first: this the second for the sake of continuing the order unbroken contains the next following question which i should like to ask. if when the sequence of letters is in your possession you like to read any part or parts of them as a subject of discussion at your afternoon meeting, i shall be glad and grateful. ever faithfully yours, j. ruskin. . [_undated._] i am so ashamed of keeping r.'s book--but it's impossible for me to look at it properly till i have done my lecture, so much must be left undone of it anyhow * * * yes--you were glad to find we were at one in many thoughts. so was i. but we are not yet, you know, at one in our _sight_ of this world and the dark ways of it. i hope to have you for a st. george's soldier one day. . _ rd july, ._ thanks for your note and your kind feelings. but you ought to know more about me. i profess to be a teacher; as you profess also. but we teach on totally different methods. _you_ believe what you wish to believe; teach that it is wicked to doubt it, and remain at rest and in much self-satisfaction. _i_ believe what i find to be true, whether i like or dislike it. and i teach other people that the chief of all wickednesses is to tell lies in god's service, and to disgrace our master and destroy his sheep as _involuntary_ wolves. _i_, therefore, am in perpetual effort to learn and discern--in perpetual unrest and dissatisfaction with myself. but it would simply require you to do twenty years of such hard work as i have done before you could in any true sense speak a word to me on such matters. you could not use a word in my sense. it would always mean to you something different. for instance--one of my quite bye works in learning my business of a teacher--was to read the new testament through in the earliest greek ms. (eleventh century) which i could get hold of. i examined every syllable of it and have more notes of various readings and on the real meanings of perverted passages than you would get through in a year's work. but i should require you to do the same work before i would discuss a text with you. from that and such work in all kinds i have formed opinions which you could no more move than you could coniston old man. they may be wrong, god knows; i _trust_ in them infinitely less than you do in those which you have formed simply by refusing to examine--or to think--or to know what is doing in the world about you; but you cannot stir them. i very very rarely make presents of my books. if people are inclined to learn from them, i say to them as a physician would--pay me my fee--you will not obey me if i give you advice for nothing. but i should like a kind neighbour like you to know something about me, and i have therefore desired my publisher to send you one[ ] of my many books which, after doing the work that i have done, you would have to read before you could really use words in my meaning. [ ] crown of wild olive.--ed. if you will read the introduction carefully, and especially dwell on the th to th lines of the th page, you will at least know me a little better than to think i believe in my own resurrection--but not in christ's: and if you look to the final essay on war, you may find some things in it which will be of interest to you in your own[ ] work. [ ] translating some of erckmann-chatrian's.--ed. . venice, _ th september, _. * * * * there is nothing whatever said as far as i remember in the july 'fors,' about "people's surrendering their judgment." a colonel does not surrender his judgment in obeying his general, nor a soldier in obeying his colonel. but there can be no army where they _act_ on their own judgments. the society of jesuits is a splendid proof of the power of obedience, but its curse is falsehood. when the master of st. george's company bids you lie, it will be time to compare our discipline to the jesuits. we are their precise opposites--fiercely and at all costs frank, while they are calmly and for all interests lying. . brantwood, coniston, _july th, _. dear mr. malleson,--i fear i have kept the proofs too long, but i wanted to look atain. i am confirmed in my impression that the book will do much good.[ ] but i think it would have done more if you had written the lives of two or three of your parishioners. such an answer would i give to a painter who sent to me a picture of the last supper. "you had better, it seems to me, have painted a harvest home." i am gravely doubtful of the possibility, in these days, of writing or painting on such subjects, advisedly and securely. ever affectionately yours, j. r. [ ] life and work of jesus christ. ward & lock.--ed. . _july st, ._ i have received this week the two most astonishing letters i ever yet received in my life. and one of them is yours, read this morning--telling me--that you don't think you could write the life of an old woman! yet you think you _can_ write the life of christ! if you can at all explain this state of your mind to me i will tell you more distinctly what i think of the piece i saw. but i don't think you will communicate the thought to your publisher; and i never meant you to use my former one in that manner. mind a publisher thinks only of money, and i know nothing of saleableness. the pause in my other letters is one of pure astonishment at you; which at present occupies all the time i have to spare on the subject, and has culminated to-day. i am so puzzled. i can scarcely think of anything else till you tell me what you mean in the bit about being "called late." have you done no work in the vineyard 'yet' then? . _august nd, ._ i am still simply speechless with astonishment at you. it is no question of your right to the best i can say; it is all at your command. but for the present my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. i can only tell you with all the strength i have to read and understand and believe esdras iv. , , .[ ] [ ] thy heart hath gone too far in this world, and thinkest thou to comprehend the way of the most high? then answered he me, and said, thou hast given a right judgment, but why judgest thou not thyself also. for like as the ground is given unto the wood, and the sea to his floods: even so they that dwell upon the earth may understand nothing, but that which is upon the earth: and he only that dwelleth above the heavens, may understand the things that are above the height of the heavens. . _august th, ._ it is just because you undertook the task so _happily_, that i should have thought you unfit to write the life of a man of sorrows, even had he been a man only. but your last letter, remember, claims inspiration for your guide, and recognizes a personal call at sixty, as if the call to the ministry had been none, and the receiving the holy ghost by imposition of hands an empty ceremony. in writing the life of a parishioner and in remitting or retaining their sins you would in my conception have been fulfilling your appointed work. but i cannot conceive the claim to be a fit evangelist without more proof of miraculous appointment than you are conscious of. i know you to be conscientious, yes--but i think the judicial doom of this country is to have conscience alike of its priests and prophets _hardened_. why should any letter of mine make you anxious if you had indeed conscience of inspiration? ever affectionately yours, j. r. . _august th._ i hope to be able soon now to resume the series of letters; but it seems to me there is no need whatever of more than three or four more respecting the last clauses of the lord's prayer. those in your hands contain questions enough, if seriously entertained, to occupy twenty meetings; and i could only hope that some one of them might be carefully taken up by your friends. i think, however, in case of the clerical feeling being too strong, that i must ask you, if you print letters at all, to print them without omission. and if you do not print them, to return them to me for my own expansion and arrangement. ever affectionately yours, j. r. . _august th._ i have got to work on the letters again; it would make me nervous to think of all these plans of yours. suppose you leave all that till you see what the first debate comes to?[ ] and in the meantime i'll finish as best i can. [ ] my clerical friends and brethren must not be displeased with me if i here mention the fact that at the meeting of twenty-three clergy where i _proposed_ to read mr. ruskin's letters to them, i was only authorized to do so by a majority of two. i can scarcely describe the dismay and consternation with which the letters themselves were received,--though of course not universally, in another meeting of the same number. . _september nd._ that there are only a hundred copies in that form,[ ] is just a reason why the book should be in your library, where it will be enjoyed and useful; and not in mine, where it would not be opened once in a twelvemonth. it is one of the advantages of a small house (and it has many) that one is compelled to consider of all one's books whether they are in use or not. [ ] grosart, "poems of christopher harvey." i yesterday ordered a 'fors' to be sent you containing in its close the most important piece of a religious character in the book--this i hope you will also allow to stay on your shelves. the two that i sent with this note contain so much that is saucy that i only send them in case you want to look at the challenge referred to in the letters to the bishop of manchester, see october, , pp. , , and january , p. . you can keep as long as you like, but please take care of them, as my index is not yet done. the next letter will come before the week end, but it's a difficult one. . the vicarage, broughton-in-furness, _september th, _. my dear mr. ruskin,--these parish engagements having been discharged which have taken up my time very closely since i came back from brighton, i am returning to your letters, and i think you would like to know what i am doing. i am copying them down, first, as i can read them aloud better in my own handwriting, and secondly, because i shall not place the originals in the printer's hands. then many thoughts arise in my mind as i re-peruse them, and i must needs (and i think i am allowed) give expression to my thoughts. hence each letter is followed by my own comments or reflections upon it. but this need not make you feel nervous. on the whole there is much agreement between your modes of thought on religious subjects and my own. if this is thought a piece of cool assurance, i may reply in the words or sense of euclid, that similar triangles may have the most various areas. i am not equal to you, but i claim to be similar. these comments i sometimes think i ought to show to you before publication; but perhaps you will agree with me that if i am fit to be trusted at all, i had better be left unconstrained. i shall certainly come to you first, if i find myself seriously at variance with you, which has not happened yet as far as the first clause of the lord's prayer. then it is likely that i shall read the letters before two or three clerical societies,[ ] including my own, the furness. [ ] at liverpool and brighton. the opinions delivered by those clergy it will be my duty, and i hope it will be my pleasure, to collect and to record. i propose also to invite the clergy who have not time or opportunity to speak in the meeting to write to me, and i will use my best judgment in selecting from their correspondence all that seems worth preserving. i am very sensible that this is a most delicate and responsible task that is laid upon me, and i wonder to find myself so engaged. it will need tact, discretion, and kindness of heart, and i trust i may be endued with the necessary qualifications to a much larger extent than i think i naturally possess. i find no small comfort at the foot of the first page of the preface to "sesame and lilies." there i feel i am at one with you. ever affectionately yours, f. a. malleson. . brantwood, _september th, _. i shall be delighted to have the comments, though it will be well first to have the series of letters done--the last but one is coming to-morrow. i have only written them in the sense of your sympathy in most points, and am sure you will make the best possible use of them. . _september th, ._ it is rather comic that your first reply to my challenge concerning usury should be a prospectus of a company[ ] wishing to make per cent. out of broughton poor men's ignorance. you couldn't have sent me a project i should have regarded with more abomination. [ ] a projected public hall. . _september th, ._ there is absolutely no debate possible as to what usury is any more than what adultery is. the church has only been polluted by the indulgence of it since the th century. usury is _any kind whatever_ of interest on loan, and it is the essential modern form of satan. i send you an old book full of sound and eternal teaching on this matter--please take care of it as a friend's gift, and one i would not lose for its weight in gold. please read first the sermon by bishop jewel, page , and then the rest at your pleasure or your leisure. _no halls are wanted_, they are all rich men's excuses for destroying the home life of england. the public library should be at the village school (and i could put ten thousand pounds' worth of books into a single cupboard), and all that is done for education should be pure gift. do you think that this rich england, which spends fifty millions a year in drink and gunpowder, can't educate her poor without being paid interest for her charity? * * * * * at the time of writing this the following letters passed between mr. ruskin and myself:-- . the vicarage, broughton-in-furness, _september th, _. my dear mr. ruskin,--i feel in a great strait. i have before me a task of the utmost delicacy, and one before which i feel that i _ought_ to shrink,--that of editing your letters, with the accompaniment of comments of my own. you trust me, evidently, or you would have laid down limitations to guard yourself against misrepresentation. my anxiety is lest i should abuse that large and generous confidence you have so kindly placed in me. let me explain my position, as i see it myself. the series will consist of eleven letters, when you have sent me your last. i have now copied nine, and written concisely the views i have presumed to form upon each. with every letter i mostly agree and sympathize, looking on them as "counsels of perfection," and viewing the great subjects you deal with from a far higher standpoint than (in my experience) either laymen or clergymen generally view them. all that there is in me of _enthusiasm_ rings in answering chords to the notes you strike. yet i do not _always_ agree. but when i do disagree, i acknowledge it is because your standard is excessively high--too high for practical purposes. now, i ask, shall you consider it strictly fair and honourable in me to receive your letters, read them or send them to assemblies of clergy, gather their views, both adverse and favourable, and add diffident animad-versions of my own? if you will allow this to be right, and if you will trust to my sense of what is proper, to deal with your letters in the spirit of a christian and a gentleman, then, hoping to fulfil your expectations, i shall proceed in my work with a mind more at ease; for i could not endure the thought that, after all was done, i had written a single sentence or word that had inflicted pain upon you. then comes another question. do you wish to hear or read my comments before they are printed? i say frankly, if you trust me, i would prefer not; for it would not, perhaps, be pleasant for me either to read your praises, or my poor criticisms, to your face. but still, if you wish it, i shall be ready at your bidding; for i recognize your right to require it. only i would rather read them to you myself some quiet autumn evening or two. . _september th._ dear mr. malleson,--i am so very grateful for your proposal to edit the letters without further reference to me. i think that will be exactly the right way; and i believe i can put you at real ease in the doing of it by explaining as i can in very few words the kind of carte-blanche i should rejoicingly give you. interrupted to-day! more to-morrow, with, i hope, the last letter. j. r. . _sunday, september th._ i've nearly done the last letter, but will keep it to-morrow rather than finish hurriedly for the earlier post. your nice little note has just come, and i can only say that you cannot please me better than by acting with perfect freedom in all ways, and that i only want to see or reply to what you wish me for the matter's sake. and surely there is no occasion for any thought for waste of type about _me_ personally, except only to express your knowledge of my real desire for the health and power of the church. more than this praise you _must_ not give me, for i have learned almost everything i may say that i know by my errors. ever affectionately yours, j. ruskin. . _september th, ._ i should have returned these two recent letters before now, but have been looking for the earlier letters which have got mislaid in a general rearrangement of all things by a new secretary. i am almost sure to come on them to-morrow in my own packing up for town, where i must be for a month hence. please address, &c. . [_undated._] i am sincerely grieved by the first part of your letter, and scarcely like to trouble you with answer to the close. * * * surely the first thing to be done with the letters is to use them as you propose, and you may find fifty suggestions, made by persons or circumstances after that, worth considering. i do not doubt that i could easily add to the bulk of ms.; but should then, i think, stipulate for having the book published by my own publisher. . _october th._ i did not get your kind and interesting letter till yesterday, and can only write in utter haste this morning to say that i think nothing can possibly be more satisfactory (to me personally at least) and more honourable than what you tell me of the wish of the meeting to have the letters printed for their quiet consideration.[ ] [ ] canon rawnsley kindly offered to print them at his own expense; only as many were printed as would be sufficient for three or four clerical societies. had i known how valuable those little pamphlets were destined to become, i should have had many more printed!--ed. they are entirely at your command and theirs--but don't sell the copyright to any publisher. keep it in your own hands, and after expenses are paid of course any profits should go to the poor. please write during this week to me at st. george's museum, walkley, sheffield. . _from_ canon farrar. _october th, ._ i am much obliged to you for your courtesy in sending me the letters. i am not, however, inclined to enter into any controversy, being painfully overwhelmed with the very duties which mr. ruskin seems to think that we don't do--looking after the material and religious interests of the sick, the suffering, the hungry, the drunken, and the extremely wretched. yours very truly, f. w. farrar. . sheffield, _october th, _. dear mr. malleson,--i am sincerely interested and moved by your history of your laborious life--and shall be entirely glad to leave the completed volume as your property, provided always you sell it to no publisher--but take just percentage on the editions: and provided also that an edition be issued of the letters themselves in their present simple form of which the profits, if any, shall be for the poor of the district.[ ] it would lower your position in the whole matter if it could be hinted that i had written the letters with any semi-purpose of serving my friend. on the other hand you will have just and honourable right to the profits of the completed edition which your labour and judgment will have made possible and guided into the most serviceable form. [ ] this, of course, with mr. allen's concurrence, is my intention.--ed. i am thankful to see that the letters read clearly and easily, and contain all that it was in my mind to get said; that nothing can be possibly more right in every way than the printing and binding--nor more courteous and firm than your preface. yes--there _will_ be a chasm to cross--a tauriformis aufidus[ ]--greater than rubicon, and the roar of it for many a year has been heard in the distance, through the gathering fog on earth more loudly. [ ] sic tauriformis volvitur aufidus, qui regna dauni præfluit appuli quum sævit, horrendamque cultis diluviem meditatur agris. --hor. _carm._ iv. . the river of spiritual death in this world--and entrance to purgatory in the other, come down to us. when will the feet of the priests be dipped in the still brim of the water? jordan overflows his banks already. * * * * * when you have got your large edition with its correspondence into form, i should like to read the sheets as they are issued, and put merely letters of reference, _a_, _b_, and _c_, to be taken up in a short epilogue. but i don't want to do or say anything till you have all in perfect readiness for publication. i should merely add my reference letters in the margin, and the shortest possible notes at the end. please send me ten more of these private ones for my own friends. ever affectionately yours, j. ruskin. . _extract of a letter from the late_ miss susanna beever. ("the younger lady of the thwaite, coniston," to whom mr. ruskin dedicated "frondes agrestes.") _october th, ._ dear mr. malleson,--my sister has asked me to write and thank you for two copies of mr. ruskin's letters, which you have been so good as to send to her. it is curious that before the post came this morning i had been wondering whether i might ask you for a copy. * * * i have already read these deeply interesting letters five times. they are like the "foam globes of leaven," i might say they have exercised my mind very much. things in them which at first seemed rather startling, prove on closer examination to be full of deep truth. the suggestions in them lead to "great searchings of heart." there is much with which i entirely agree; much over which to ponder. what an insight into human nature is shown in the remark that though we are so ready to call ourselves "miserable sinners," we resent being accused of any special fault. * * * . _november th, ._ i am so glad we understand each other now and that you will carry out your plan quietly. i think you should correct the present little book by my revise, and print enough for whatever private circulation the members of the meeting wish, but that it should not be made public till well after the large book is out. for which i shall look with deepest interest. . _november th, ._ my dear malleson,--i have not been able to answer a word lately, being quite unusually busy in france--and you never remember that it takes _me_ as long to write a chapter as you to write a book, and tries me more to do it--so that i am sick of the feel of a pen this many a day. i'm delighted to hear of your popularity,[ ] being sure that all you advise people to do will be kind and right. i am not surprised at the popularity, but i wonder that you have not had some nasty envious reviews.[ ] [ ] meaning in the press notices of the editor's "life of christ."--ed. [ ] seventeen _very good_, five _good_, five _fair_, six _bad_, two _nasty, envious_!--ed. i like the impudence of these scotch brats.[ ] do they suppose it would have been either pleasure or honour to me to come and lecture there? it is perhaps as much their luck as mine that they changed their minds about it. i shall be down at brantwood soon (_d.v._). poor mr. sly's[ ] death is a much more troublous thing to me than glasgow elections. [ ] glasgow university. [ ] of the waterhead, coniston. . _january th, ._ a happy new year to you. if i may judge or guess by the efforts made to draw me into the business, it is likely to be a busy one for you! will you kindly now send me back my old book on usury? i've got a letter (which for his lordship's sake had better never been written) from the bishop of manchester, and may want to quote a word or two of my back letter. i send the letter with my reply this month to the _contemporary_. . _january th, ._ so many thanks for your kind little note and the book which i have received quite safely; and many more thanks for taking all the enemies' fire off me and leaving me quiet. i've been all this morning at work on finches and buntings; but i must give the bishop a turn to-morrow. this weather takes my little wits out of me wofully; but i am always affectionately yours, j. r. . _may th, ._ my dear malleson,--yes, the omission of the 'mr.' meant much change in all my feelings towards you and estimates of you--for which change, believe me, i am more glad and thankful than i can well tell you. not but that of course i always felt your essential goodness and rightness of mind, but i did not at all understand the scope of them. and you will have the reward of the visitation of the sick, though every day i am more sure of the mistake made by good people universally--in trying to pull fallen people up--instead of keeping yet safe ones from tumbling after them, and always spending their pains on the worst instead of the best material. if they want to be able to save the lost like christ, let them first be sure they can say with him, "of those thou gavest me i have lost none." ever affectionately yours, j. ruskin. the 'epilogue's' an awful bother to me in this may time! i have not done a word yet, but you shall have it before the week is out. . _april ._ the letters seem all very nice--i shall have very little to say about them, except to explain what you observe and have been misunderstood.... of course my notes shall be sent to you and added to when you see need. but i cannot do it quickly. . _april , ._ thanks for nice new proofs. i haven't found any false references, but i didn't look. i'll have all verified by my secretary. i'm busy with an article on modern novels and don't feel a bit pious just now; so the responses have hung fire. . _may ._ you are really very good about this, and shall have the notes (_d.v._) within a fortnight. the scott could not be put off, being promised for june , _nineteenth century_, and i could not do novels and sermons together. i don't think the notes will be long. the letters seem to be mostly compliments or small objections not worth noticing. . _may th, ._ i've just done--yesterday with scott, and took up the letters for the first time this morning seriously. i had never seen _yours_ at all when i wrote last. i fell first on mr. ----, whom i read with some attention, and commented on with little favour; went on to the next, and remained content with that taste till i had done my scott. i have this morning been reading your own, on which i very earnestly congratulate you. god knows it isn't because they are friendly or complimentary, but because you _do_ see what i mean, and people hardly ever do--and i think it needs very considerable power and feeling to forgive and understand as you do. you have said everything _i_ want to say, and much more--except on the one point of excommunication, which will be the chief, almost the only subject of my final note. i write in haste to excuse myself for my former note. ever affectionately and gratefully yours, j. ruskin. (note.--a legal friend remarks that in his opinion i should refrain from printing _extracts_ from letters, and always print the whole; or, indeed, in the present case, the whole series of letters, lest it should be suspected that i am making a self-indulgent selection only of the good words which mr. ruskin is kind enough to use in his communications with me. let me here say, however, that had there been in all these letters any which conveyed censure, stricture, or blame of any kind, i should not have withheld my hand from including them. but no such letters ever came to me. mr. ruskin is the very pink of courtesy with his friends, and he _may_ have suppressed remarks which he thought might wound me. but i am reproducing here not my friend's secret thoughts, but only those of his letters which remain in my possession.--editor.) . _may th, ._ i'm at work on the 'epilogue,' but it takes more trouble than i expected. i see there's a letter from you which i leave unopened, for fear there should be anything in it to put me in a bad temper, which you might easily do without meaning it. you shall have the 'epilogue' as soon as i can get it done; but you won't much like it, for there are bits in the clergymen's letters that have put my bristles up. they ought either to have said nothing about me, or known more. i should give that rascally bishop a dressing "au sérieux," only you wouldn't like to godfather it, so i'll keep it for somewhere else.[ ] [ ] needless to say that in this energetic language, the master of the company of st. george is referring to nothing whatever in the stainless character of the great bishop, of whom it is justly recorded in the inscription on his monument in manchester cathedral that "he won all hearts by opening to them his own;" except only in the matter of house-rent and interest of money, opinions which the bishop shared with the great mass of civilized humanity. . _june th, ._ your letter is a relief to my mind, and shall not be taken advantage of for more delay. the wet day or two would get all done: but i simply can't think of anything but the sun while it shines. and i've had second, third, and seventh thoughts about several things: as it is coming out i believe it will be a useful contribution to the book. i shall get it in the copyist's hand on monday, and as it's one of my girl secretaries, i shall be teased till it's done, so it's safe for the end of the week (_d.v._). i am sadly afraid she'll make me cut out some of the spiciest bits: the girl secretaries are always allowed to put their pens through anything they choose. please drop the 'mr.'; it is a matter of friendship, not as if there were any of different powers. god only knows of higher and lower, and, as far as i can judge, is likely to put ministry to the sick much above public letters. thanks for note of menyanthes trifoliata. i haven't seen it, scarcely moving at present beyond my wood or garden. . _june th, ._ you are really very good to put up with all that vicious epilogue. but it won't discredit _you_ in the end, whatever it may do me. i hope much otherwise. i will send you to-morrow the lincoln, or, possibly, york ms. to look at. you will find the litany following the quicunque vult, and on the leaf marked by me , at the top the passage i began quotation with. it will need a note; for _domptnum_ is, i believe, strong yorkshire latin for donum apostolicum, not dominum. the _e_ in ecclesie for _æ_ is the proper form in medieval latin. the calendar and litany are invaluable in their splendid lists of english saints, and the entire book unreplaceable, so mind you lock it up carefully! . there's a good deal of interest in the enclosed layman's letter, i think. would you like to print any bits of it? i cannot quite make up my mind if it's worth or not. . _june th, ._ the 'epilogue' is all but done to-day, and shall be sent by railway guard to-morrow (_d.v._), with a book which will further interest you and your good secretary. it is as fine an example of the coloured print prayer-book as i have seen, date , and full of examples of the way romanism had ruined itself at that date. but it may contain in legible form some things of interest. i never could make out so much as its calendar; but the songs about the saints and rhymed hours are very pretty. though the illuminations are all ridiculous and one or two frightful, most are more or less pretty, and nearly all interesting. you can keep it any time, but you must promise me not to show it to anybody who does not know how to handle a book. * * * (note.--i may mention here, once for all, that wherever there are omissions left in mr. ruskin's letters, there is nothing of interest or importance in those passages for any one but for the receiver of that letter.) . _july th, ._ * * * it is a further light to me, on your curious differences from most clergymen, very wonderful and venerable to me, that you should understand byron! . _june th._ dear malleson,--no, i don't want the letter printed in the least; but it ought to have interested you very differently. it is by a much older man than i, who has never heard of our letters, but has been a very useful and influential person in his own parish, and is a practical and acceptable contributor to sporting papers. he is an able lawyer also, and knows far better than i do and far better than most clergymen know, what could really be done in their country parishes if they had a mind. the bit of manuscript is perfectly fac-similed by your niece, but i can't read it: and it will be much better that you mark the places you wish certification about, and that i then send the book up to the british museum, and have the whole made clear. the _dompt_ is a very important matter indeed. i have got the last bit of epilogue fairly on foot this morning, and can promise it on monday all well. ever affectionately yours, j. r. . _april th, ._ dear malleson,--it will be many a day before i recover yet--if ever--but with caution i hope not to go wild again, and to get what power belongs to my age slowly back. when were you in the same sort of danger? let me very strongly warn you from the whirlpool edge--the going down in the middle is gloomier than i can tell you. but i shall thankfully see you and your friend here. visiting is out of the question for me. i can bear no fatigue nor excitement away from my home. i pay visits no more--anywhere (even in old times few). it is always a great gladness to me when young students care about old books--and i remember as a duty the feeling i used to have in getting a missal, even after i was past a good many other pleasures. you made such good use of that book too, that i am happy in yielding to any wish of yours about it, so your young friend[ ] shall have it if he likes. the marked price is quite a fair market one for it, though you might look and wait long before such a book came _into_ the market. the british museum people were hastily and superciliously wrong in calling it a common book. it is not a _showy_ one; but there are few more interesting or more perfect service books in english manuscript, and the museum people buy cart-loads of big folios that are not worth the shelf room. ever affectionately yours, j. ruskin. [ ] rev. j. r. haslam, now vicar of thwaites, cumberland. see appendix.--ed. . _april rd, ._ my dear malleson,--these passages of description and illustration of the general aspect of ephesus in st. paul's time seem to me much more forcibly and artistically written than anything you did in the "life of christ"; and i could not suggest any changes to you which you could now carry out under the conditions of time to revise, except a more clear statement of the ephesian goddess. [i really do not think mr. ruskin would wish that _all_ he wrote in the next sentence about the ephesian diana should be placed before the public eye. but i resume in the middle of a sentence.] ... practically at last and chiefly of the diabolic suction of the usurer; and her temple, which you luckily liken to the bank of england, was in fact what that establishment would be as the recognised place of pious pilgrimage for all jews, infidels, or prostitutes in the realm of england. you could not conceive the real facts of these degraded worships of the mixed greek and asiatic races, unless you gave a good year's work to the study of the decline of greek art in the rd and th centuries b.c. charles newton's pride in discovering mausolus, and engineers' whistling over his asiatic mummy, have entirely corrupted and thwarted the uses of the british museum art galleries. the drum of that diana temple is barbarous rubbish, not worth tenpence a ton; and if i shewed you a photograph of the head of mausolus without telling you what it was, i will undertake that you saw with candid eyes in it nothing more than the shaggy poll of a common gladiator. but your book will swim with the tide. it is best so. . _july...._ i'm not in the least anxious about my ms., and shall only be glad if you like to keep it long enough to read thoroughly. there must surely be published copies of such extant, though, and worth enquiring after? partly the fine weather, partly the heat, partly a fit of scott and byron have stopped the epilogue utterly for the time! you cannot be in any hurry for it surely? there's plenty to go on printing with. i don't think you will find the n's and m's much bother; the contractions are the great nuisance. but i do think this development of gothic writing one of the oddest absurdities of mankind. the illumination of "the fool hath said in his heart," snapping his fingers, or more accurately making the indecent sign called "the fig" by the italians, is a very unusual one in this ms., and peculiarly english. . there is not the least use in my looking over these sheets: you probably know more about athens than i do, and what i do know is out of and in smith's dictionary, where you can find it without trouble. for the rest you must please always remember what i told you once for all, that you could never interest _me_ by writing about people, either at athens or ephesus, but only of those of the parish of broughton-in-furness. that new translation could not come out well; that much i know without looking at it. one must believe the bible before one understands it, (i mean, believe that it is understandable) and one must understand before one can translate it. two stages in advance of your twenty-four co-operative tyndales! . _ th may._ dear malleson,--i should be delighted to see canon weston and you any day: but i want j---- to be at home, and she is going to town next week for a month, and will be fussy till she goes. she promises to be back faithfully within the week after that--within the sunday, i mean. fix any day or any choice of days if one is wet after the said sunday, and we shall both be in comfort ready. if canon weston or you are going away anywhere, come any day before that suits you. in divinity matters i am obliged to stop--for my sins, i suppose. but it seems i am almost struck mad when i think earnestly about them, and i'm only reading now natural history or nature. never mind autograph people, they are never worth the scratch of a pen. ever affectionately yours, j. r. . _august th, ._ i'm in furious bad humour with the weather, and cannot receive just now at all, having had infinitely too much of indoors, and yet unable to draw for darkness, or write for temper. but i will see mr. ---- if he has any other reason than curiosity for wishing to see me--what does he want with me? . _ st october._ i am fairly well, but have twenty times the work in hand that i am able for; and read--virgil, plato, and hesoid, when i have time! but assuredly no modern books; least of all my friends', lest i should have either to flatter or offend. still less will i have to say to young men proposing to become clergymen. i have distinctly told them their business is at present--to dig, not preach. let your young friend read his fors. all that he needs of me is in that. . annecy, savoy, _november th, ._ i have got your kind little note of the th yesterday, and am entirely glad to hear of your papers on the duddon. i shall be very happy indeed if you find any pleasure in remembering our walk to the tarn.[ ] i hope i know now better how to manage myself in all ways, and we may still have some pleasant talks, my health not failing me. [ ] goat's water, under the old man of coniston. . talloire, switzerland, _november th, ._ my dear malleson,--i am sincerely grieved that you begin to feel the effect of overwork; but as this is the first warning you have had, and as you are wise enough to obey it, i trust that the three months' rest will restore you all your usual powers on the conditions of using them with discretion, and not rising to write at two in the morning. i am very thankful to find in my own case that a quiet spring of energy filters back into the old well-heads--if one does not bucket it out as fast as it comes in. but my last illnesses seriously impaired my walking powers, and i'm afraid if you came to switzerland i should be very jealous of you. certainly it is not in this season a country for an invalid, and i believe you cannot be safer than by english firesides with no books to work at nor parishioners to visit. ever affectionately yours, j. ruskin. . _january nd, ._ dear malleson,--i am heartily glad to hear that you are better, and that you are going to lead the vicar of wakefield's quiet life. i am not stronger myself, but think it right to keep hold of the oxford helm, as long as they care to trust it to me. i've entirely given up reviewing, but if the editor of the _contemporary_ would send me mr. peek's article, when set up, i might perhaps send a note or two on it, which the real reviewer might use or not at his pleasure. in the meantime it would greatly oblige me if the editor could give me the reference to an old article of mine on herbert spencer, (or at least on a saying of his), which i cannot find where i thought it was in the _nineteenth century_, and suppose therefore to have been in the _contemporary_ before the _nineteenth century_ athena arose out of its cleft head. the article had a lot about coniston in it, but i quite forget what else it was about. i think it must have been just before the separation. kindest regards and congratulations on your convalescence from all here. ever affectionately yours, j. ruskin. . brantwood, _february th, _. my dear malleson,--i'm nearly beside myself with a sudden rush of work on my return from abroad, and resumption of oxford duties, and i simply _cannot_ yet think over the business of the letters, the rather that _i_ certainly never would re-publish most of those clergymen's letters at all. my own were a gift to you, and i am quite ready to print _them_ if you like, and let you have half profits, the st. george's guild having the other. but that could not be for some time yet. ever affectionately yours, j. ruskin. epilogue by mr. ruskin brantwood, coniston, _june _. my dear malleson,--i have glanced at the proofs you send; and _can_ do no more than glance, even if it seemed to me desirable that i should do more,--which, after said glance, it does in no wise. let me remind you of what it is absolutely necessary that the readers of the book should clearly understand--that i wrote these letters at your request, to be read and discussed at the meeting of a private society of clergymen. i declined then to be present at the discussion, and i decline still. you afterwards asked leave to print the letters, to which i replied that they were yours, for whatever use you saw good to make of them: afterwards your plans expanded, while my own notion remained precisely what it had been--that the discussion should have been private, and kept within the limits of the society, and that its conclusions, if any, should have been announced in a few pages of clear print, for the parishioners' exclusive reading. i am, of course, flattered by the wider course you have obtained for the letters, but am not in the slightest degree interested by the debate upon them, nor by any religious debates whatever, undertaken without serious conviction that there is a jot wrong in matters as they are, or serious resolution to make them a tittle better. which, so far as i can read the minds of your correspondents, appears to me the substantial state of them. one thing i cannot pass without protest--the quantity of talk about the writer of the letters. what i am, or am not, is of no moment whatever to the matters in hand. i observe with comfort, or at least with complacency, that on the strength of a couple of hours' talk, at a time when i was thinking chiefly of the weatherings of slate you were good enough to show me above goat's water, you would have ventured to baptize me in the little lake--as not a goat, but a sheep. the best i can be sure of, myself, is that i am no wolf, and have never aspired to the dignity even of a dog of the lord. you told me, if i remember rightly, that one of the members of the original meeting denounced me as an arch-heretic[ ]--meaning, doubtless, an arch-pagan; for a heretic, or sect-maker, is of all terms of reproach the last that can be used of me. and i think he should have been answered that it was precisely as an arch-pagan that i ventured to request a more intelligible and more unanimous account of the christian gospel from its preachers. [ ] only a heretic!--ed. if anything in the letters offended those of you who hold me a brother, surely it had been best to tell me between ourselves, or to tell it to the church, or to let me be anathema maranatha in peace,--in any case, i must at present so abide, correcting only the mistakes about myself which have led to graver ones about the things i wanted to speak of.[ ] [ ] i may perhaps be pardoned for vindicating at least my arithmetic, which, with bishop colenso, i rather pride myself upon. one of your correspondents greatly doubts my having heard five thousand assertors of evangelical principles (catholic-absolvent or protestant-detergent are virtually the same). i am now sixty years old, and for forty-five of them was in church at least once on the sunday,--say once a month also in afternoons,--and you have above three thousand church services. when i am abroad i am often in half-a-dozen churches in the course of a single day, and never lose a chance of listening to anything that is going on. add the conversations pursued, not unearnestly, with every sort of reverend person i can get to talk to me--from the bishop of strasburg (as good a specimen of a town bishop as i have known), with whom i was studying ecstatic paintings in the year --down to the simplest travelling tinker inclined gospelwards, whom i perceive to be sincere, and your correspondent will perceive that my rapid numerical expression must be far beneath the truth. he subjoins his more rational doubt of my acquaintance with many town missionaries; to which i can only answer, that as i do not live in town, nor set up for a missionary myself, my spiritual advantages have certainly not been great in that direction. i simply assert that of the few i have known,--beginning with mr. spurgeon, under whom i sat with much edification for a year or two,--i have not known any such teaching as i speak of. the most singular one, perhaps, in all the letters is that of mr. ----, that i do not attach enough weight to antiquity. my reply to it is partly written already, with reference to the wishes of some other of your correspondents to know more of my reasons for finding fault with the english liturgy. if people are taught to use the liturgy rightly and reverently, it will bring them all good; and for some thirty years of my life i used to read it always through to my servant and myself, if we had no protestant church to go to, in alpine or italian villages. one can always tacitly pray of it what one wants, and let the rest pass. but, as i have grown older, and watched the decline in the christian faith of all nations, i have got more and more suspicious of the effect of this particular form of words on the truthfulness of the english mind (now fast becoming a salt which has lost his savour, and is fit only to be trodden under foot of men). and during the last ten years, in which my position at oxford has compelled me to examine what authority there was for the code of prayer, of which the university is now so ashamed that it no more dares compel its youths so much as to hear, much less to utter it, i got necessarily into the habit of always looking to the original forms of the prayers of the fully developed christian church. nor did i think it a mere chance which placed in my own possession a manuscript of the perfect church service of the thirteenth century,[ ] written by the monks of the sainte chapelle for st. louis; together with one of the same date, written in england, probably for the diocese of lincoln; adding some of the collects, in which it corresponds with st. louis's, and the latin hymns so much beloved by dante, with the appointed music for them. [ ] see appendix. and my wonder has been greater every hour, since i examined closely the text of these and other early books, that in any state of declining, or captive, energy, the church of england should have contented itself with a service which cast out, from beginning to end, all these intensely spiritual and passionate utterances of chanted prayer (the whole body, that is to say, of the authentic _christian_ psalms), and in adopting what it timidly preserved of the collects, mangled or blunted them down to the exact degree which would make them either unintelligible or inoffensive--so vague that everybody might use them, or so pointless that nobody could be offended by them. for a special instance: the prayer for "our bishops and curates, and all congregations committed to their charge," is, in the lincoln service-book, "for our bishop, and all congregations committed to _his_ charge." the change from singular to plural seems a slight one. but it suffices to take the eyes of the people off their own bishop into infinite space; to change a prayer which was intended to be uttered in personal anxiety and affection, into one for the general good of the church, of which nobody could judge, and for which nobody would particularly care; and, finally, to change a prayer to which the answer, if given, would be visible, into one of which nobody could tell whether it were answered or not. in the collects, the change, though verbally slight, is thus tremendous in issue. but in the litany--word and thought go all wild together. the first prayer of the litany in the lincoln service-book is for the pope and all ranks beneath him, implying a very noteworthy piece of theology--that the pope might err in religious matters, and that the prayer of the humblest servant of god would be useful to him:--"ut dompnum apostolicum, et omnes gradus ecclesie in sancta religione conservare digneris." meaning that whatever errors particular persons might, and must, fall into, they prayed god to keep the pope right, and the collective testimony and conduct of the ranks below him. then follows the prayer for their own bishop and _his_ flock--then for the king and the princes (chief lords), that they (not all nations) might be kept in concord--and then for _our_ bishops and abbots,--the church of england proper; every one of these petitions being direct, limited, and personally heartfelt;--and then this lovely one for themselves:-- "ut obsequium servitutis nostre rationabile facias."--"that thou wouldst make the obedience of our service reasonable" ("which is your reasonable service").[ ] [ ] see in the appendix for more of these beautiful prayers.--ed. this glorious prayer is, i believe, accurately an "early english" one. it is not in the st. louis litany, nor in a later elaborate french fourteenth century one; but i find it softened in an italian ms. of the fifteenth century into "ut nosmet ipsos in tuo sancto servitio confortare et conservare digneris,"--"that thou wouldst deign to keep and comfort us ourselves in thy sacred service" (the comfort, observe, being here asked for whether reasonable or not!); and in the best and fullest french service-book i have, printed at rouen in , it becomes, "ut congregationes omnium sanctorum in tuo sancto servitio conservare digneris;" while victory as well as concord is asked for the king and the princes,--thus leading the way to that for our own queen's victory over all her enemies, a prayer which might now be advisedly altered into one that she--and in her, the monarchy of england--might find more fidelity in their friends. i give one more example of the corruption of our prayer-book, with reference to the objections taken by some of your correspondents to the distinction implied in my letters between the persons of the father and the christ. the "memoria de sancta trinitate," in the st. louis service-book, runs thus: "omnipotens sempiterne deus, qui dedisti famulis tuis in confessione vere fidei eterne trinitatis gloriam agnoscere, et in potentia majestatis adorare unitatem, quesumus ut ejus fidei firmitate ab omnibus semper muniemur adversis. qui vivis et regnas deus, per omnia secula seculorum. amen." "almighty and everlasting god, who hast given to thy servants, in confession of true faith to recognize the glory of the eternal trinity, and in the power of majesty to pray to the unity; we ask that by the firmness of that faith we may be always defended from all adverse things, who livest and reignest god through all ages. amen." turning to our collect, we find we have first slipped in the word "us" before "thy servants," and by that little insertion have slipped in the squire and his jockey, and the public-house landlord--and any one else who may chance to have been coaxed, swept, or threatened into church on trinity sunday, and required the entire company of them to profess themselves servants of god, and believers in the mystery of the trinity. and we think we have done god a service! "grace." not a word about grace in the original. you don't believe by having grace, but by having wit. "to acknowledge." "agnosco" is to recognize, not to acknowledge. to _see_ that there are three lights in a chandelier is a great deal more than to acknowledge that they are there. "to worship." "adorare" is to pray to, not to worship. you may worship a mere magistrate; but you _pray_ to the father, son, and holy ghost. the last sentence in the english is too horribly mutilated to be dealt with in any patience. the meaning of the great old collect is that by the shield of that faith we may quench all the fiery darts of the devil. the english prayer means, if it means anything, "please keep us in our faith without our taking any trouble; and, besides, please don't let us lose our money, nor catch cold." "who livest and reignest." right; but how many of any extant or instant congregations understand what the two words mean? that god is a living god, not a dead law; and that he is a reigning god, putting wrong things to rights, and that, sooner or later, with a strong hand and a rod of iron; and not at all with a soft sponge and warm water, washing everybody as clean as a baby every sunday morning, whatever dirty work they may have been about all the week. on which latter supposition your modern liturgy, in so far as it has supplemented instead of corrected the old one, has entirely modelled itself,--producing in its first address to the congregation before the almighty precisely the faultfullest and foolishest piece of english language that i know in the whole compass of english or american literature. in the seventeen lines of it (as printed in my old-fashioned, large-print prayer-book), there are seven times over two words for one idea. . acknowledge and confess. . sins and wickedness. . dissemble nor cloke. . goodness and mercy. . assemble and meet. . requisite and necessary. . pray and beseech. there is, indeed, a shade of difference in some of these ideas for a good scholar, none for a general congregation;[ ] and what difference they can guess at merely muddles their heads: to acknowledge sin is indeed different from confessing it, but it cannot be done at a minute's notice; and goodness is a different thing from mercy, but it is by no means god's infinite goodness that forgives our badness, but that judges it. [ ] the only explanation ever offered for this exuberant wordiness is that if worshippers did not understand one term they would the other, and in some cases, in the exhortation and elsewhere, one word is of latin and the other of saxon derivation.[ ] but this is surely a very feeble excuse for bad composition. of a very different kind is that beautiful climax which is reached in the three admirably chosen pairs of words in the prayer for the parliament, "peace and happiness, truth and justice, religion and piety."--editor. [ ] the repetition of synonymous terms is of very frequent occurrence in sixteenth century writing, as "for ever and aye," "time and the hour ran through the roughest day" (macbeth, i. ). "the faultfullest," i said, "and the foolishest." after using fourteen words where seven would have done, what is it that the whole speech gets said with its much speaking? this morning service of all england begins with the assertion that the scripture moveth us in sundry places to confess our sins before god. _does_ it so? have your congregations ever been referred to those sundry places? or do they take the assertion on trust, or remain under the impression that, unless with the advantage of their own candour, god must remain ill-informed on the subject of their sins? "that we should not dissemble nor cloke them." _can_ we then? are these grown-up congregations of the enlightened english church in the nineteenth century still so young in their nurseries that the "thou, god, seest me" is still not believed by them if they get under the bed? let us look up the sundry moving passages referred to. (i suppose myself a simple lamb of the flock, and only able to use my english bible.) i find in my concordance (confess and confession together) forty-two occurrences of the word. sixteen of these, including john's confession that he was not the christ, and the confession of the faithful fathers that they were pilgrims on the earth, do indeed move us strongly to confess christ before men. have you ever taught your congregations what that confession means? they are ready enough to confess him in church, that is to say, in their own private synagogue. will they in parliament? will they in a ball-room? will they in a shop? sixteen of the texts are to enforce their doing _that_. the next most important one ( tim. vi. ) refers to christ's own good confession, which i suppose was not of his sins, but of his obedience. how many of your congregations can make any such kind of confession, or wish to make it? the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth ( kings viii. , chron. vi. , heb. xiii. ) speak of confessing thankfully that god is god (and not a putrid plasma nor a theory of development), and the twenty-first (job xl. ) speaks of god's own confession, that no doubt we are the people, and that wisdom shall die with us, and on what conditions he will make it. there remain twenty-one texts which do speak of the confession of our sins--very moving ones indeed--and heaven grant that some day the british public may be moved by them. . the first is lev. v. , "he shall confess that he hath sinned _in that thing_." and if you can get any soul of your congregation to say he has sinned in _any_thing, he may do it in two words for one if he likes, and it will yet be good liturgy. . the second is indeed general--lev. xvi. : the command that the whole nation should afflict its soul on the great day of atonement once a year. the church of england, i believe, enjoins no such unpleasant ceremony. her festivals are passed by her people often indeed in the extinction of their souls, but by no means in their intentional affliction. . the third, fourth, and fifth (lev. xxvi. , numb. v. , nehem. i. ) refer all to national humiliation for definite idolatry, accompanied with an entire abandonment of that idolatry, and of idolatrous persons. how soon _that_ form of confession is likely to find a place in the english congregations the defences of their main idol, mammon, in the vilest and cruellest shape of it--usury--with which this book has been defiled, show very sufficiently. . the sixth is psalm xxxii. --virtually the whole of that psalm, which does, indeed, entirely refer to the greater confession, once for all opening the heart to god, which can be by no means done fifty-two times a year, and which, once done, puts men into a state in which they will never again say there is no health in them; nor that their hearts are desperately wicked; but will obey for ever the instantly following order, "rejoice in the lord, ye righteous, and shout for joy, all ye that are true of heart." . the seventh is the one confession in which i can myself share:--"after the way which they call heresy, so worship i the lord god of my fathers." . the eighth, james v. , tells us to confess our faults--not to god, but "one to another"--a practice not favoured by english catechumens--(by the way, what _do_ you all mean by "auricular" confession--confession that can be heard? and is the protestant pleasanter form one that can't be?) . the ninth is that passage of st. john (i. ), the favourite evangelical text, which is read and preached by thousands of false preachers every day, without once going on to read its great companion, "beloved, if our heart condemn us, god is greater than our heart, and knoweth all things; but if our heart condemn us _not_, then have we confidence toward god." make your people understand the second text, and they will understand the first. at present you leave them understanding neither. and the entire body of the remaining texts is summed in joshua vii. and ezra x. , in which, whether it be achan, with his babylonish garment, or the people of israel, with their babylonish lusts, the meaning of confession is simply what it is to every brave boy, girl, man, and woman, who knows the meaning of the word "honour" before god or man--namely, to say what they have done wrong, and to take the punishment of it (not to get it blanched over by any means), and to do it no more--which is so far from being a tone of mind generally enforced either by the english, or any other extant liturgy, that, though all my maids are exceedingly pious, and insist on the privilege of going to church as a quite inviolable one, i think it a scarcely to be hoped for crown and consummation of virtue in them that they should tell me when they have broken a plate; and i should expect to be met only with looks of indignation and astonishment if i ventured to ask one of them how she had spent her sunday afternoon. "without courage," said sir walter scott, "there is no truth; and without truth there is no virtue." the sentence would have been itself more true if sir walter had written "candour" for "truth," for it is possible to be true in insolence, or true in cruelty. but in looking back from the ridges of the hill difficulty in my own past life, and in all the vision that has been given me of the wanderings in the ways of others--this, of all principles, has become to me surest--that the first virtue to be required of man is frankness of heart and lip: and i believe that every youth of sense and honour, putting himself to faithful question, would feel that he had the devil for confessor, if he had not his father or his friend. that a clergyman should ever be so truly the friend of his parishioners as to deserve their confidence from childhood upwards, may be flouted as a sentimental ideal; but he is assuredly only their enemy in showing his lutheran detestation of the sale of indulgences by broadcasting these gratis from his pulpit. the inconvenience and unpleasantness of a catechism concerning itself with the personal practice as well as the general theory of duty, are indeed perfectly conceivable by me; yet i am not convinced that such manner of catechism would therefore be less medicinal; and during the past ten years it has often been matter of amazed thought with me, while our president at corpus read prayers to the chapel benches, what might by this time have been the effect on the learning as well as the creed of the university, if, forty years ago, our stern old dean gaisford, of the house of christ, instead of sending us to chapel as to the house of correction, when we missed a lecture, had inquired, before he allowed us to come to chapel at all, whether we were gamblers, harlot-mongers, or in concealed and selfish debt. i observe with extreme surprise in the preceding letters the unconsciousness of some of your correspondents, that there ever was such a thing as discipline in the christian church. indeed, the last wholesome instance of it i can remember was when my own great-great uncle maitland lifted lady ---- from his altar rails, and led her back to her seat before the congregation, when she offered to take the sacrament, being at enmity with her son.[ ] but i believe a few hours honestly spent by any clergyman on his church history would show him that the church's confidence in her prayer has been always exactly proportionate to the strictness of her discipline; that her present fright at being caught praying by a chemist or an electrician, results mainly from her having allowed her twos and threes gathered in the name of christ to become sixes and sevens gathered in the name of belial; and that therefore her now needfullest duty is to explain to her stammering votaries, extremely doubtful as they are of the effect of their supplications either on politics or the weather, that although elijah was a man subject to like passions as we are, he had them better under command; and that while the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much, the formal and lukewarm one of an iniquitous man availeth--much the other way. [ ] in some of the country districts of scotland the right of the church to interfere with the lives of private individuals is still exercised. only two years ago, a wealthy gentleman farmer was rebuked by the "kirk session" of the dissenting church to which he belonged, for infidelity to his wife. at the scottish half-yearly communion the ceremony of "fencing the tables" used to be observed; that is, turning away all those whose lives were supposed to have made them unfit to receive the sacrament. such an instruction, coupled with due explanation of the nature of righteousness and iniquity, directed mainly to those who have the power of both in their own hands, being makers of law, and holders of property, would, without any further debate, bring about a very singular change in the position and respectability of english clergymen. how far they may at present be considered as merely the squire's left hand, bound to know nothing of what he is doing with his right, it is for their own consciences to determine. for instance, a friend wrote to me the other day, "will you not come here? you will see a noble duke destroying a village as old as the conquest, and driving out dozens of families whose names are in domesday book, because, owing to the neglect of his ancestors and rackrenting for a hundred years, the place has fallen out of repair, and the people are poor, and may become paupers. a local paper ventured to tell the truth. the duke's agent called on the editor, and threatened him with destruction if he did not hold his tongue." the noble duke, doubtless, has proper protestant horror of auricular confession. but suppose, instead of the local editor, the local parson had ventured to tell the truth from his pulpit, and even to intimate to his grace that he might no longer receive the body and blood of the lord at the altar of that parish. the parson would scarcely--in these days--have been therefore made bonfire of, and had a pretty martyr's memorial by mr. scott's pupils; but he would have lighted a goodly light, nevertheless, in this england of ours, whose pettifogging piety has now neither the courage to deny a duke's grace in its church, nor to declare christ's in its parliament. lastly. several of your contributors, i observe, have rashly dipped their feet in the brim of the water of that raging question of usury; and i cannot but express my extreme regret that you should yourself have yielded to the temptation of expressing opinions which you have had no leisure either to found or to test. my assertion, however, that the rich lived mainly by robbing the poor, referred not to usury, but to rent; and the facts respecting both these methods of extortion are perfectly and indubitably ascertainable by any person who himself wishes to ascertain them, and is able to take the necessary time and pains. i see no sign, throughout the whole of these letters, of any wish whatever, on the part of one of their writers, to ascertain the facts, but only to defend practices which they hold to be convenient in the world, and are afraid to blame in their congregations. of the presumption with which several of the writers utter their notions on the subject, i do not think it would be right to speak farther, in an epilogue to which there is no reply, in the terms which otherwise would have been deserved. in their bearing on other topics, let me earnestly thank you (so far as my own feelings may be permitted voice in the matter) for the attention with which you have examined, and the courage with which you have ratified, or at least endured, letters which could not but bear at first the aspect of being written in a hostile--sometimes even in a mocking spirit. that aspect is untrue, nor am i answerable for it: the things of which i had to speak could not be shortly described but in terms which might sound satirical; for all error, if frankly shown, is precisely most ridiculous when it is most dangerous, and i have written no word which is not chosen as the exactest for its occasion, whether it move sigh or smile. in my earlier days i wrote much with the desire to please, and the hope of influencing the reader. as i grow older and older, i recognize the truth of the preacher's saying, "desire shall fail, and the mourners go about the streets;" and i content myself with saying, to whoso it may concern, that the thing is verily thus, whether they will hear or whether they will forbear. no man more than i has ever loved the places where god's honour dwells, or yielded truer allegiance to the teaching of his evident servants. no man at this time grieves more for the danger of the church which supposes him her enemy, while she whispers procrastinating _pax vobiscum_ in answer to the spurious kiss of those who would fain toll curfew over the last fires of english faith, and watch the sparrow find nest where she may lay her young, around the altars of the lord. ever affectionately yours, j. ruskin. appendix mr. ruskin having kindly entrusted me with his valuable english thirteenth century ms. service book, referred to p. , i have thought it would be interesting to the readers of this volume to see a little more in detail some of the origins of our litany and collects. i think it will be owned that our reformers failed to mend some of them in the translation. i am quite unversed in the reading of ancient mss., but i hope the following, with the translation, will not be found incorrect. i have preserved neither the contractions nor the responses repeated after each petition, and have changed the mediæval "e" into "æ," as "terre" into "terræ."--editor. * * * * * ut dompnum apostolicum et omnes gradus ecclesiæ in sancta religione conservare digneris. _te rogamus, audi nos, domine._ ut episcopum nostrum et gregem sibi commissum conservare digneris. _te rogamus...._ ut regi nostro et principibus nostris pacem et veram concordiam atque victoriam, donare digneris. ut episcopos et abbates nostros et congregationes illis commissas in sancta religione conservare digneris. ut congregationes omnium sanctorum in tuo sancto servitio conservare digneris. ut cunctum populum christianum precioso sanguine tuo conservare digneris. ut omnibus benefactoribus nostris sempiterna bona retribuas. ut animas nostras et parentum nostrorum ab eterna dampnatione eripias. ut mentes nostras ad celestia desideria erigas. ut obsequium servitutis nostræ rationabile facias. ut locum istum et omnes habitantes in eo visitare et consolari digneris. ut fructus terræ dare et conservare digneris. ut inimicos sanctæ dei ecclesiæ comprimere digneris. ut oculos misericordiæ tuæ super nos reducere digneris. ut miserias pauperum et captivorum intueri et relevare digneris. ut omnibus fidelibus defunctis requiem eternam dones. ut nos exaudire digneris. agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, _parce nobis domine._ agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, _exaudi nos._ agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, _miserere nobis._ deus cui proprium est misereri semper et parcere suscipe deprecationem nostram et quos delictorum cathena constringit misericordia tuæ pietatis absolvas, per jesum christum. ecclesiæ tuæ domine, preces placatus admitte ut destructis adversitatibus universis secura tibi serviat libertate. omnipotens sempiterne deus qui facis mirabilia magna solus pretende super famulum tuum episcopum nostrum et super cunctas congregationes illi commissas spiritum gratiæ tuæ salutaris et ut in veritate tibi complaceant perpetuum eis rorem tuæ benedictionis infunde, per jesum. deus in cujus manu corda sunt regum qui es humilium consolator et fidelium fortitudo et protector omnium in te sperantium, da regi nostro et reginæ populoque christiano, triumphum virtutis tuæ scienter excolere, ut per te semper reparentur ad veniam. pretende domine et famulis et famulabus tuis dexteram celestis auxilii ut te toto corde propinquant atque digne postulationes assequantur. deus a quo sancta desideria recta consilia et justa sunt opera, da servis tuis illam quam mundus dare non potest pacem ut et corda nostra mandatis tuis et hostium ublata formidine tempora sint tua protectione tranquilla. ure igne sancti spiritus renes nostros et cor nostrum, domine, ut tibi corde casto serviamus et mundo corpore placeamus. translation that it may please thee to keep the apostolic lord (_i.e._ the pope) and all ranks of the church in thy holy religion. _o lord, we beseech thee, hear us._ that it may please thee to keep our bishop, and the flock committed to him. that it may please thee to give to our king and our princes (or chief lords), peace, and true concord, and victory. that it may please thee to keep our bishops and abbots, and the congregations committed to them, in holy religion. that it may please thee to keep the congregations of all saints in thy holy service. that it may please thee to keep the whole christian people with thy precious blood. that it may please thee to requite all our benefactors with everlasting blessings. that it may please thee to preserve our souls and the souls of our kindred from eternal damnation. that it may please thee that thou wouldest lift up our hearts to heavenly desires. that it may please thee to make the obedience of our service reasonable. that it may please thee to visit and to comfort this place, and all who dwell in it. that it may please thee to give and preserve the fruits of the earth. that it may please thee to restrain the enemies of the holy church of god. that it may please thee to look upon us with eyes of mercy. that it may please thee to behold and relieve the miseries of the poor and the prisoners. that it may please thee to give eternal peace to all the faithful departed. that it may please thee to hear us. lamb of god, that takest away the sins of the world. _spare us, o lord._ lamb of god, that takest away the sins of the world. _hear us, o lord._ lamb of god, that takest away the sins of the world. _have mercy on us, o lord._ o god, whose property it is always to pity and to spare, receive our supplications, and by the mercy of thy fatherly love, loose those whom the chain of their sins keeps bound, through jesus christ our lord. o lord, receive with indulgence the prayers of thy church, that all adversities being overcome, it may serve thee in freedom without fear. almighty, eternal god, who alone doest great wonders, grant to thy servant our bishop, and to all the congregations committed to him, the healthful spirit of thy grace; and that they may please thee in truth, pour out upon them the perpetual dew of thy blessing. o god, in whose hand are the hearts of kings, who art the consoler of the meek and the strength of the faithful, and the protector of all that trust in thee, give to our king and queen and to the christian people wisely to manifest the glory of thy power, that by thee they may ever be restored to forgiveness. extend, o lord, over thy servants and handmaidens, the right hand of thy heavenly aid, that they may draw near unto thee with all their heart, and worthily obtain their petitions. kindle with the fire of thy holy spirit our reins and our hearts, o lord, that we may serve thee with a clean heart, and please thee with a pure body. o god, from whom are all holy desires, right counsels, and just works, give unto thy servants that peace which the world cannot give, that both our hearts (may obey) thy commands, and the fear of the enemy being taken away, we may have quiet times by thy protection. * * * * * upon one of the blank leaves of this ms. are some interesting remarks upon its probable date, furnished by mr. ruskin himself. "the style, and pieces of inner evidence in all this book speak it clearly of the first half of the thirteenth century. the architecture is all round arched--the roofs of norman simplicity--unpinnacled--the severe and simple forms of letter are essentially norman, and the leaf and ball terminations of the spiral of the extremities, exactly intermediate between the norman and gothic types. the ivy and geranium leaves begin to show themselves long before the end of the thirteenth century, and there is not a trace of them in this book." this evidence of early date, however, is qualified by the further statement, "old styles sometimes hold on long in provincial mss." j. ruskin. brantwood, _april th, _. the end _printed by_ ballantyne, hanson & co. _edinburgh and london_ _works by john ruskin_ modern painters. in vols. with all the woodcuts, lithograph, and the full-page steel engravings. the text is that of the edition, with notes, and a new epilogue. cloth, £ , s. the vols., imp. vo. the stones of venice. complete edition. 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"mis-understanding" is chosen to be written with a hyphen ("but, at all events, it is surely the pastor's duty to prevent his flock from _mis_-understanding it...") . p. of the appendix: "miscellaneons" changed to "miscellaneous" in the header of the page. . the words that were chosen to be written with a hyphen: mustard-seed (p. ), janus-faced (p. ), thorough-going (p. ), slow-witted (p. ), simple-minded (p. ), so-called (p. ), animad-versions (p. ), hand-made (p. , appendix), hand-printed (p. , appendix) . the words that were chosen to be written without a hyphen: overcrowding (p. ), shortcomings (p. ), overthrow (p. ), widespread (p. ). . added quotes (p. , '... for clerky people."') . added period after the greek epigraph to letters vii (p. ) and x (p. ). little journeys to the homes of the great elbert hubbard memorial edition printed and made into a book by the roycrofters, who are in east aurora, erie county, new york wm. h. wise & co. new york publisher's preface elbert hubbard is dead, or should we say, has gone on his last little journey to the great beyond. but the children of his fertile brain still live and will continue to live and keep fresh the memory of their illustrious forebear. fourteen years were consumed in the preparation of the work that ranks today as elbert hubbard's masterpiece. in eighteen hundred ninety-four, the series of little journeys to the homes of the great was begun, and once a month for fourteen years, without a break, one of these little pilgrimages was given to the world. these little gems have been accepted as classics and will live. in all there are one hundred eighty little journeys that take us to the homes of the men and women who transformed the thought of their time, changed the course of empire, and marked the destiny of civilization. through him, the ideas, the deeds, the achievements of these immortals have been given to the living present and will be sent echoing down the centuries. hubbard's little journeys to the homes of these men and women have not been equaled since plutarch wrote his forty-six parallel lives of the greeks and romans. and these were given to the world before the first rosy dawn of modern civilization had risen to the horizon. without dwelling upon their achievements, plutarch, with a trifling incident, a simple word or an innocent jest, showed the virtues and failings of his subject. as a result, no other books from classical literature have come down through the ages to us with so great an influence upon the lives of the leading men of the world. who can recount the innumerable biographies that begin thus: "in his youth, our subject had for his constant reading, plutarch's lives, etc."? emerson must have had in mind this silent, irresistible force that shaped the lives of the great men of these twenty centuries when he declared, "all history resolves itself very easily into the biography of a few stout and earnest persons." plutarch lived in the time of saint paul, and wrote of the early greeks and romans. after two thousand years hubbard appeared, to bridge the centuries from athens, in the golden age of pericles, to america, in the wondrous age of edison. with the magic wand of genius he touched the buried mummies of all time, and from each tomb gushed forth a geyser of inspiration. hugh chalmers once remarked that, if he were getting out a blue book of america, he would publish elbert hubbard's subscription-lists. whether we accept this authoritative statement or not, there is no doubt that the pen of this immortal did more to stimulate the best minds of the country than any other american writer, living or dead. eminent writers study hubbard for style, while at the same time thousands of the tired men and women who do the world's work read him for inspiration. truly, this man wielded his pen like an archangel. not only as a writer does this many-sided genius command our admiration, but in many chosen fields, in all of which he excelled. as an institution, the roycroft shops would reflect credit upon the business acumen of the ablest men that america has produced in the field of achievement. the industry, it would seem, was launched to demonstrate the practicality of the high principles and philosophy preached by its founder, not only by the printed page, but from the platform. right here let it be noted that, as a public speaker, hubbard appeared before more audiences than any other lecturer of his time who gave the platform his undivided attention. where, one asks in amazement, did this remarkable man find the inspiration for carrying forward his great work? it is no secret. it was drawn from his own little pilgrimages to the haunts of the great. again like plutarch, these miniature biographies were composed for the personal benefit of the writer. it was his own satisfaction and moral improvement that inspired the work. following hubbard's tragic death, the announcement was made from east aurora that "the philistine" magazine would be discontinued--hubbard had gone on a long journey and might need his "philistine." besides, who was there to take up his pen? it was also a beautiful tribute to the father from the son. the same spirit of devotion has prompted the roycrofters to issue their memorial edition of the "little journeys to the homes of the great." in no other way could they so fittingly perpetuate the memory of the founder of their institution as to liberate the influence that was such an important factor in molding the career of his genius. if he should cast a backward glance, he would nod his approval. if there is to be a memorial, certainly let it be a service to mankind. he would have us all tap the same source from which he drew his inspiration. autobiographical the mintage of wisdom is to know that rest is rust, and that real life is in love, laughter and work. --_elbert hubbard_ i have been asked to write an article about myself and the work in which i am engaged. i think i am honest enough to sink self, to stand outside my own personality, and answer the proposition. let me begin by telling what i am not, and thus reach the vital issue by elimination. first, i am not popular in "society," and those who champion _my cause in my own town_ are plain, unpretentious people. second, i am not a popular writer, since my name has never been mentioned in the "atlantic," "scribner's," "harper's," "the century" or the "ladies' home journal." but as a matter of truth, it may not be amiss for me to say that i have waited long hours in the entryway of each of the magazines just named, in days agone, and then been handed the frappe. third, i am not rich, as the world counts wealth. fourth, as an orator i am without the graces, and do scant justice to the double-breasted prince albert. fifth, the roycroft shop, to the welfare of which my life is dedicated, is not so large as to be conspicuous on account of size. sixth, personally, i am no ten-thousand-dollar beauty: the glass of fashion and the mold of form are far from mine. then what have i done concerning which the public wishes to know? simply this: in one obscure country village i have had something to do with stopping the mad desire on the part of the young people to get out of the country and flock to the cities. in this town and vicinity the tide has been turned from city to country. we have made one country village an attractive place for growing youth by supplying congenial employment, opportunity for education and healthful recreation, and an outlook into the world of art and beauty. all boys and girls want to make things with their hands, and they want to make beautiful things, they want to "get along," and i've simply given them a chance to get along here, instead of seeking their fortunes in buffalo, new york or chicago. they have helped me and i have helped them; and through this mutual help we have made head, gained ground upon the whole. by myself i could have done nothing, and if i have succeeded, it is simply because i have had the aid and co-operation of cheerful, willing, loyal and loving helpers. even now as i am writing this in my cabin in the woods, four miles from the village, they are down there at the shop, quietly, patiently, cheerfully doing my work--which work is also theirs. no man liveth unto himself alone: our interests are all bound up together, and there is no such thing as a man going off by himself and corraling the good. when i came to this town there was not a house in the place that had a lavatory with hot and cold water attachments. those who bathed, swam in the creek in the summer or used the family wash tub in the kitchen in winter. my good old partner, ali baba, has always prided himself on his personal cleanliness he is arrayed in rags, but underneath, his hide is clean, and better still, his heart is right. yet when he first became a member of my household, he was obliged to take his saturday-night tub out in the orchard, from spring until autumn came with withered leaves. he used to make quite an ado in the kitchen, heating the water in the wash-boiler. six pails of cistern-water, a gourd of soft soap, and a gunny-sack for friction were required in the operation. of course, the baba waited until after dark before performing his ablutions. but finally his plans were more or less disturbed by certain rising youth, who timed his habits and awaited his disrobing with o'erripe tomatoes. the bombardment, and the inability to pursue the enemy, turned the genial current of the baba's life awry until i put a bathroom in my house, with a lock on the door. this bit of history i have mentioned for the dual purpose of shedding light on former bathing facilities in east aurora, and more especially to show that once we had the hoodlum with us. hoodlumism is born of idleness; it is useful energy gone to seed. in small towns hoodlumism is rife, and the hoodlums are usually the children of the best citizens. hoodlumism is the first step in the direction of crime. the hoodlum is very often a good boy who does not know what to do; and so he does the wrong thing. he bombards with tomatoes a good man taking a bath, puts ticktacks on windows, ties a tin can to the dog's tail, takes the burs off your carriage-wheels, steals your chickens, annexes your horse-blankets, and scares old ladies into fits by appearing at windows wrapped in a white sheet. to wear a mask, walk in and demand the money in the family ginger-jar is the next and natural evolution. to a great degree the roycroft shop has done away with hoodlumism in this village, and a stranger wearing a silk hat, or an artist with a white umbrella, is now quite safe upon our streets. very naturally, the oldest inhabitant will deny what i have said about east aurora--he will tell you that the order, cleanliness and beauty of the place have always existed. the change has come about so naturally, and so entirely without his assistance, that he knows nothing about it. truth when first presented is always denied, but later there comes a stage when the man says, "i always believed it." and so the good old citizens are induced to say that these things have always been, or else they gently pooh-pooh them. however, the truth remains that i introduced the first heating-furnace into the town; bought the first lawn-mower; was among the first to use electricity for lights and natural gas for fuel; and so far, am the only one in town to use natural gas for power. until the starting of the roycroft shop, there were no industries here, aside from the regulation country store, grocery, tavern, blacksmith-shop and sawmill--none of which enterprises attempted to supply more than local wants. there was hamlin's stock-farm, devoted to raising trotting-horses, that gave employment to some of the boys; but for the girls there was nothing. they got married at the first chance; some became "hired girls," or, if they had ambitions, fixed their hearts on the buffalo normal school, raised turkeys, picked berries, and turned every honest penny towards the desire to get an education so as to become teachers. comparatively, this class was small in number. most of the others simply followed that undefined desire to get away out of the dull, monotonous, gossiping village; and so, craving excitement, they went away to the cities, and the cities swallowed them. a wise man has said that god made the country, man the city, and the devil the small towns. the country supplies the city its best and its worst. we hear of the few who succeed, but of the many who are lost in the maelstrom we know nothing. sometimes in country homes it is even forbidden to mention certain names. "she went to the city," you are told--and there the history abruptly stops. and so, to swing back to the place of beginning, i think the chief reason many good folks are interested in the roycroft shop is because here country boys and girls are given work at which they not only earn their living, but can get an education while doing it. next to this is the natural curiosity to know how a large and successful business can be built up in a plain, humdrum village by simply using the talent and materials that are at hand, and so i am going to tell now how the roycroft shop came to start; a little about what it has done; what it is trying to do; and what it hopes to become. and since modesty is only egotism turned wrong side out, i will make no special endeavor to conceal the fact that i have had something to do with the venture. in london, from about sixteen hundred fifty to sixteen hundred ninety, samuel and thomas roycroft printed and made very beautiful books. in choosing the name "roycroft" for our shop we had these men in mind, but beyond this the word has a special significance, meaning king's craft--king's craftsmen being a term used in the guilds of the olden times for men who had achieved a high degree of skill--men who made things for the king. so a roycrofter is a person who makes beautiful things, and makes them as well as he can. "the roycrofters" is the legal name of our institution. it is a corporation, and the shares are distributed among the workers. no shares are held by any one but roycrofters, and it is agreed that any worker who quits the shop shall sell his shares back to the concern. this co-operative plan, it has been found, begets a high degree of personal diligence, a loyalty to the institution, a sentiment of fraternity and a feeling of permanency among the workers that is very beneficial to all concerned. each worker, even the most humble, calls it "our shop," and feels that he is an integral and necessary part of the whole. possibly there are a few who consider themselves more than necessary. ali baba, for instance, it is said, has referred to himself, at times, as the whole thing. and this is all right, too--i would never chide an excess of zeal: the pride of a worker in his worth and work is a thing to foster. it's the man who "doesn't give a damn" who is really troublesome. the artistic big-head is not half so bad as apathy. * * * * * in the month of december, eighteen hundred ninety-four, i printed the first "little journeys" in booklet form, at the local printing-office, having become discouraged in trying to find a publisher. but before offering the publication to the public, i decided to lay the matter again before g.p. putnam's sons, although they had declined the matter in manuscript form. mr. george h. putnam rather liked the matter, and was induced to issue the periodical as a venture for one year. the scheme seemed to meet with success, the novel form of the publication being in its favor. the subscription reached nearly a thousand in six months; the newspapers were kind, and the success of the plan suggested printing a pamphlet modeled on similar lines, telling what we thought about things in general, and publishers and magazine-editors in particular. there was no intention at first of issuing more than one number of this pamphlet, but to get it through the mails at magazine rates we made up a little subscription list and asked that it be entered at the post office at east aurora as second-class matter. the postmaster adjusted his brass-rimmed spectacles, read the pamphlet, and decided that it surely was second class matter. we called it "the philistine" because we were going after the "chosen people" in literature. it was leslie stephen who said, "the term philistine is a word used by prigs to designate people they do not like." when you call a man a bad name, you are that thing--not he. the smug and snugly ensconced denizens of union square called me a philistine, and i said, "yes, i am one, if a philistine is something different from you." my helpers, the printers, were about to go away to pastures new; they were in debt, the town was small, they could not make a living. so they offered me their outfit for a thousand dollars. i accepted the proposition. i decided to run "the philistine" magazine for a year--to keep faith with the misguided and hopeful parties who had subscribed--and then quit. to fill in the time, we printed a book: we printed it like a william morris book--printed it just as well as we could. it was cold in the old barn where we first set up "the philistine," so i built a little building like an old english chapel right alongside of my house. there was one basement and a room upstairs. i wanted it to be comfortable and pretty, and so we furnished our little shop cozily. we had four girls and three boys working for us then. the shop was never locked, and the boys and girls used to come around evenings. it was really more pleasant than at home. i brought over a shelf of books from the library. then i brought the piano, because the youngsters wanted to dance. the girls brought flowers and birds, and the boys put up curtains at the windows. we were having a lot o' fun, with new subscriptions coming in almost every day, and once in a while an order for a book. the place got too small when we began to bind books, so we built a wing on one side; then a wing on the other side. to keep the three carpenters busy who had been building the wings, i set them to making furniture for the place. they made the furniture as good as they could--folks came along and bought it. the boys picked up field-stones and built a great, splendid fireplace and chimney at one end of the shop. the work came out so well that i said, "boys, here is a great scheme--these hardheads are splendid building material." so i advertised we would pay a dollar a load for niggerheads. the farmers began to haul stones; they hauled more stones, and at last they had hauled four thousand loads. we bought all the stone in the dollar limit, bulling the market on boulders. three stone buildings have been built, another is in progress, and our plans are made to build an art-gallery of the same material--the stones that the builders rejected. an artist blew in on the way to nowhere, his baggage a tomato-can. he thought he would stop over for a day or two--he is with us yet, and three years have gone by since he came, and now we could not do without him. then we have a few remittance-men, sent to us from a distance, without return-tickets. some of these men were willing to do anything but work--they offered to run things, to preach, to advise, to make love to the girls. we bought them tickets to chicago, and without violence conducted them to the four-o'clock train. we have boys who have been expelled from school, blind people, deaf people, old people, jailbirds and mental defectives, and have managed to set them all at useful work; but the remittance-man of good family who smokes cigarettes in bed has proved too much for us--so we have given him the four-o'clock without ruth. we do not encourage people from a distance who want work to come on--they are apt to expect too much. they look for utopia, when work is work, here as elsewhere. there is just as much need for patience, gentleness, loyalty and love here as anywhere. application, desire to do the right thing, a willingness to help, and a well-curbed tongue are as necessary in east aurora as in tuskegee. we do our work as well as we can, live one day at a time, and try to be kind. * * * * * the village of east aurora, erie county, new york, the home of the roycrofters, is eighteen miles southeast of the city of buffalo. the place has a population of about three thousand people. there is no wealth in the town and no poverty. in east aurora there are six churches, with pastors' salaries varying from three hundred to one thousand dollars a year; and we have a most excellent school. the place is not especially picturesque or attractive, being simply a representative new york state village. lake erie is ten miles distant, and cazenovia creek winds its lazy way along by the village. the land around east aurora is poor, and so reduced in purse are the farmers that no insurance-company will insure farm property in erie county under any conditions unless the farmer has some business outside of agriculture--the experience of the underwriters being that when a man is poor enough, he is also dishonest; insure a farmer's barn in new york state, and there is a strong probability that he will soon invest in kerosene. however, there is no real destitution, for a farmer can always raise enough produce to feed his family, and in a wooded country he can get fuel, even if he has to lift it between the dawn and the day. most of the workers in the roycroft shop are children of farming folk, and it is needless to add that they are not college-bred, nor have they had the advantages of foreign travel. one of our best helpers, uncle billy bushnell, has never been to niagara falls, and does not care to go. uncle billy says if you stay at home and do your work well enough, the world will come to you; which aphorism the old man backs up with another, probably derived from experience, to the effect that a man is a fool to chase after women, because, if he doesn't, the women will chase after him. the wisdom of this hard-headed old son of the soil--who abandoned agriculture for art at seventy--is exemplified in the fact that during the year just past, over twenty-eight thousand pilgrims have visited the roycroft shop--representing every state and territory of the union and every civilized country on the globe, even far-off iceland, new zealand and the isle of guam. three hundred ten people are on the payroll at the present writing. the principal work is printing, illuminating and binding books. we also have a furniture shop, where mission furniture of the highest grade is made; a modeled-leather shop, where the most wonderful creations in calfskin are to be seen; and a smithy, where copper utensils of great beauty are hammered out by hand. quite as important as the printing and binding is the illuminating of initials and title-pages. this is a revival of a lost art, gone with so much of the artistic work done by the monks of the olden time. yet there is a demand for such work; and so far as i know, we are the first concern in america to take up the hand-illumination of books as a business. of course we have had to train our helpers, and from very crude attempts at decoration we have attained to a point where the british museum and the "bibliotheke" at the hague have deigned to order and pay good golden guineas for specimens of our handicraft. very naturally we want to do the best work possible, and so self-interest prompts us to be on the lookout for budding genius. the roycroft is a quest for talent. there is a market for the best, and the surest way, we think, to get away from competition is to do your work a little better than the other fellow. the old tendency to make things cheaper, instead of better, in the book line is a fallacy, as shown in the fact that within ten years there have been a dozen failures of big publishing-houses in the united states. the liabilities of these bankrupt concerns footed the fine total of fourteen million dollars. the man who made more books and cheaper books than any one concern ever made, had the felicity to fail very shortly, with liabilities of something over a million dollars. he overdid the thing in matter of cheapness--mistook his market. our motto is, "not how cheap, but how good." this is the richest country the world has ever known, far richer per capita than england--lending money to europe. once americans were all shoddy--pioneers have to be, i'm told--but now only a part of us are shoddy. as men and women increase in culture and refinement, they want fewer things, and they want better things. the cheap article, i will admit, ministers to a certain grade of intellect; but if the man grows, there will come a time when, instead of a great many cheap and shoddy things, he will want a few good things. he will want things that symbol solidity, truth, genuineness and beauty. the roycrofters have many opportunities for improvement not the least of which is the seeing, hearing and meeting distinguished people. we have a public dining-room, and not a day passes but men and women of note sit at meat with us. at the evening meal, if our visitors are so inclined, and are of the right fiber, i ask them to talk. and if there is no one else to speak, i sometimes read a little from william morris, shakespeare, walt whitman or ruskin. david bispham has sung for us. maude adams and minnie maddern fiske have also favored us with a taste of their quality. judge lindsey, alfred henry lewis, richard le gallienne, robert barr, have visited us; but to give a list of all the eminent men and women who have spoken, sung or played for us would lay me liable for infringement in printing "who's who." however, let me name one typical incident. the boston ideal opera company was playing in buffalo, and henry clay barnabee and half a dozen of his players took a run out to east aurora. they were shown through the shop by one of the girls whose work it is to receive visitors. a young woman of the company sat down at one of the pianos and played. i chanced to be near and asked mr. barnabee if he would not sing, and graciously he answered, "fra elbertus, i'll do anything that you say." i gave the signal that all the workers should quit their tasks and meet at the chapel. in five minutes we had an audience of three hundred--men in blouses and overalls, girls in big aprons--a very jolly, kindly, receptive company. mr. barnabee was at his best--i never saw him so funny. he sang, danced, recited, and told stories for forty minutes. the roycrofters were, of course, delighted. one girl whispered to me as she went out, "i wonder what great sorrow is gnawing at barnabee's heart, that he is so wondrous gay!" need i say that the girl who made the remark just quoted had drunk of life's cup to the very lees? we have a few such with us--and several of them are among our most loyal helpers. * * * * * one fortuitous event that has worked to our decided advantage was "a message to garcia." this article, not much more than a paragraph, covering only fifteen hundred words, was written one evening after supper in a single hour. it was the twenty-second of february, eighteen hundred ninety-nine, washington's birthday, and we were just going to press with the march "philistine." the thing leaped hot from my heart, written after a rather trying day, when i had been endeavoring to train some rather delinquent helpers in the way they should go. the immediate suggestion, though, came from a little argument over the teacups when my son bert suggested that rowan was the real hero of the cuban war. rowan had gone alone and done the thing--carried the message to garcia. it came to me like a flash! yes, the boy is right, the hero is the man who does the thing--does his work--carries the message. i got up from the table and wrote "a message to garcia." i thought so little of it that we ran it in without a heading. the edition went out, and soon orders began to come for extra march "philistines," a dozen, fifty, a hundred; and when the american news company ordered a thousand i asked one of my helpers which article it was that had stirred things up. "it's that stuff about garcia," he said. the next day a telegram came from george h. daniels, of the new york central railroad, thus: "give price on one hundred thousand rowan article in pamphlet form--empire state express advertisement on back--also state how soon can ship." i replied giving price and stated we could supply the pamphlets in two years. our facilities were small, and a hundred thousand pamphlets looked like an awful undertaking. the result was that i gave mr. daniels permission to reprint the article in his own way. he issued it in booklet form in editions of one hundred thousand each. five editions were sent out, and then he got out an edition of half a million. two or three of these half-million lots were sent out by mr. daniels, and in addition the article was reprinted in over two hundred magazines and newspapers. it has been translated into eleven languages, and been given a total circulation of over twenty-two million copies. it has attained, i believe, a larger circulation in the same length of time than any written article has ever before reached. of course, we can not tell just how much good "a message to garcia" has done the shop, but it probably doubled the circulation of "the philistine." i do not consider it by any means my best piece of writing; but it was opportune--the time was ripe. truth demands a certain expression, and too much had been said on the other side about the downtrodden, honest man, looking for work and not being able to find it. the article in question states the other side. men are needed--loyal, honest men who will do their work. "the world cries out for him--the man who can carry a message to garcia." the man who sent the message and the man who received it are dead. the man who carried it is still carrying other messages. the combination of theme, condition of the country, and method of circulation was so favorable that their conjunction will probably never occur again. other men will write better articles, but they may go a-begging for lack of a daniels to bring them to judgment. * * * * * concerning my own personal history, i'll not tarry long to tell. it has been too much like the career of many another born in the semi-pioneer times of the middle west, to attract much attention, unless one should go into the psychology of the thing with intent to show the evolution of a soul. but that will require a book--and some day i'll write it, after the manner of saint augustine or jean jacques. but just now i 'll only say that i was born in illinois, june nineteenth, eighteen hundred fifty-six. my father was a country doctor, whose income never exceeded five hundred dollars a year. i left school at fifteen, with a fair hold on the three r's, and beyond this my education in "manual training" had been good. i knew all the forest-trees, all wild animals thereabout, every kind of fish, frog, fowl or bird that swam, ran or flew. i knew every kind of grain or vegetable, and its comparative value. i knew the different breeds of cattle, horses, sheep and swine. i could teach wild cows to stand while being milked; break horses to saddle or harness; could sow, plow and reap; knew the mysteries of apple-butter, pumpkin pie pickled beef, smoked side-meat, and could make lye at a leach and formulate soft soap. that is to say, i was a bright, strong, active country boy who had been brought up to help his father and mother get a living for a large family. i was not so densely ignorant--don't feel sorry for country boys: god is often on their side. at fifteen i worked on a farm and did a man's work for a boy's pay. i did not like it and told the man so. he replied, "you know what you can do." and i replied, "yes." i went westward like the course of empire and became a cowboy; tired of this and went to chicago; worked in a printing-office; peddled soap from house to house; shoved lumber on the docks; read all the books i could find; wrote letters back to country newspapers and became a reporter; next got a job as traveling salesman; taught in a district school; read emerson, carlyle and macaulay; worked in a soap factory; read shakespeare and committed most of "hamlet" to memory with an eye on the stage; became manager of the soap-factory, then partner; evolved an idea for the concern and put it on the track of making millions--knew it was going to make millions--did not want them; sold out my interest for seventy-five thousand dollars and went to harvard college; tramped through europe; wrote for sundry newspapers; penned two books (couldn't find a publisher); taught night school in buffalo; tramped through europe some more and met william morris (caught it); came back to east aurora and started "chautauqua circles"; studied greek and latin with a local clergyman; raised trotting-horses; wrote "little journeys to the homes of good men and great." so that is how i got my education, such as it is. i am a graduate of the university of hard knocks, and i've taken several postgraduate courses. i have worked at five different trades enough to be familiar with the tools. in eighteen hundred ninety-nine, tufts college bestowed on me the degree of master of arts; but since i did not earn the degree, it really does not count. i have never been sick a day, never lost a meal through disinclination to eat, never consulted a doctor, never used tobacco or intoxicants. my work has never been regulated by the eight-hour clause. horses have been my only extravagance, and i ride horseback daily now: a horse that i broke myself, that has never been saddled by another, and that has never been harnessed. my best friends have been workingmen, homely women and children. my father and mother are members of my household, and they work in the shop when they are so inclined. my mother's business now is mostly to care for the flowers, and my father we call "physician to the roycrofters," as he gives free advice and attendance to all who desire his services. needless to say, his medicine is mostly a matter of the mind. unfortunately for him, we do not enjoy poor health, so there is very seldom any one sick to be cured. fresh air is free, and outdoor exercise is not discouraged. * * * * * the roycroft shop and belongings represent an investment of about three hundred thousand dollars. we have no liabilities, making it a strict business policy to sign no notes or other instruments of debt that may in the future prove inopportune and tend to disturb digestion. fortune has favored us. first, the country has grown tired of soft platitude, silly truism and undisputed things said in such a solemn way. so when "the philistine" stepped into the ring and voiced in no uncertain tones what its editor thought, thinking men and women stopped and listened. editors of magazines refused my manuscript because they said it was too plain, too blunt, sometimes indelicate--it would give offense, subscribers would cancel, et cetera. to get my thoughts published i had to publish them myself; and people bought for the very reason for which the editors said they would cancel. the readers wanted brevity and plain statement--the editors said they didn't. the editors were wrong. they failed to properly diagnose a demand. i saw the demand and supplied it--for a consideration. next i believed the american public. a portion of it, at least, wanted a few good and beautiful books instead of a great many cheap books. the truth came to me in the early nineties, when john b. alden and half a dozen other publishers of cheap books went to the wall. i read the r.g. dun & company bulletin and i said, "the publishers have mistaken their public--we want better books, not cheaper." in eighteen hundred ninety-two, i met william morris, and after that i was sure i was right. again i had gauged the public correctly--the publishers were wrong, as wrong as the editors. there was a market for the best, and the problem was to supply it. at first i bound my books in paper covers and simple boards. men wrote to me wanting fine bindings. i said, "there is a market in america for the best--cheap boards, covered with cloth, stamped by machinery in gaudy tinsel and gilt, are not enough." i discovered that nearly all the bookbinders were dead. i found five hundred people in a book-factory in chicago binding books, but not a bookbinder among them. they simply fed the books into hoppers and shot them out of chutes, and said they were bound. next the public wanted to know about this thing--"what are you folks doing out there in that buckwheat town?" since my twentieth year i have had one eye on the histrionic stage. i could talk in public a bit, had made political speeches, given entertainments in crossroads schoolhouses, made temperance harangues, was always called upon to introduce the speaker of the evening, and several times had given readings from my own amusing works for the modest stipend of ten dollars and keep. i would have taken the lecture platform had it not been nailed down. in eighteen hundred ninety-eight, my friend major pond wanted to book me on a partnership deal at the waldorf-astoria. i didn't want to speak there--i had been saying unkind things in "the philistine" about the waldorf-astoria folks. but the major went ahead and made arrangements. i expected to be mobbed. but mr. boldt, the manager of the hotel, had placed a suite of rooms at my disposal without money and without price. he treated me most cordially; never referred to the outrageous things i had said about his tavern; assured me that he enjoyed my writings, and told me of the pleasure he had in welcoming me. thus did he heap hot cinders upon my occiput. the astor gallery seats eight hundred people. major pond had packed in nine hundred at one dollar each--three hundred were turned away. after the lecture the major awaited me in the anteroom, fell on my neck and rained pond's extract down my back, crying: "oh! oh! oh! why didn't we charge them two dollars apiece!" the next move was to make a tour of the principal cities under major pond's management. neither of us lost money--the major surely did not. last season i gave eighty-one lectures, with a net profit to myself of a little over ten thousand dollars. i spoke at tremont temple in boston, to twenty-two hundred people; at carnegie hall, new york; at central music hall, chicago. i spoke to all the house would hold; at chautauqua, my audience was five thousand people. it will be noted by the discerning that my lectures have been of double importance, in that they have given an income and at the same time advertised the roycroft wares. the success of the roycroft shop has not been brought about by any one scheme or plan. the business is really a combination of several ideas, any one of which would make a paying enterprise in itself. so it stands about thus: first, the printing and publication of three magazines. second, the printing of books (it being well known that some of the largest publishers in america--scribner and appleton, for instance--have no printing-plants, but have the work done for them). third, the publication of books. fourth, the artistic binding of books. fifth, authorship. since i began printing my own manuscript, there is quite an eager demand for my writing, so i do a little of class b for various publishers and editors. sixth, the lecture lyceum. seventh, blacksmithing, carpenter-work and basket-weaving. these industries have sprung up under the roycroft care as a necessity. men and women in the village came to us and wanted work, and we simply gave them opportunity to do the things they could do best. we have found a market for all our wares, so no line of work has ever been a bill of expense. i want no better clothing, no better food, no more comforts and conveniences than my helpers and fellow-workers have. i would be ashamed to monopolize a luxury--to take a beautiful work of art, say a painting or a marble statue, and keep it for my own pleasure and for the select few i might invite to see my beautiful things. art is for all--beauty is for all. harmony in all of its manifold forms should be like a sunset--free to all who can drink it in. the roycroft shop is for the roycrofters, and each is limited only by his capacity to absorb. * * * * * art is the expression of man's joy in his work, and all the joy and love that you can weave into a fabric comes out again and belongs to the individual who has the soul to appreciate it. art is beauty; and beauty is a gratification, a peace and a solace to every normal man and woman. beautiful sounds, beautiful colors, beautiful proportions, beautiful thoughts--how our souls hunger for them! matter is only mind in an opaque condition; and all beauty is but a symbol of spirit. you can not get joy from feeding things all day into a machine. you must let the man work with hand and brain, and then out of the joy of this marriage of hand and brain, beauty will be born. it tells of a desire for harmony, peace, beauty, wholeness--holiness. art is the expression of man's joy in his work. when you read a beautiful poem that makes your heart throb with gladness and gratitude, you are simply partaking of the emotion that the author felt when he wrote it. to possess a piece of work that the workman made in joyous animation is a source of joy to the possessor. and this love of the work done by the marriage of hand and brain can never quite go out of fashion--for we are men and women, and our hopes and aims and final destiny are at last one. where one enjoys, all enjoy; where one suffers, all suffer. say what you will of the coldness and selfishness of men, at the last we long for companionship and the fellowship of our kind. we are lost children, and when alone and the darkness gathers, we long for the close relationship of the brothers and sisters we knew in our childhood, and cry for the gentle arms that once rocked us to sleep. men are homesick amid this sad, mad rush for wealth and place and power. the calm of the country invites, and we would fain do with less things, and go back to simplicity, and rest our tired heads in the lap of mother nature. life is expression. life is a movement outward, an unfolding, a development. to be tied down, pinned to a task that is repugnant, and to have the shrill voice of necessity whistling eternally in your ears, "do this or starve," is to starve; for it starves the heart, the soul, and all the higher aspirations of your being pine away and die. at the roycroft shop the workers are getting an education by doing things. work should be the spontaneous expression of a man's best impulses. we grow only through exercise, and every faculty that is exercised becomes strong, and those not used atrophy and die. thus how necessary it is that we should exercise our highest and best! to develop the brain we have to exercise the body. every muscle, every organ, has its corresponding convolution in the brain. to develop the mind, we must use the body. manual training is essentially moral training; and physical work is, at its best, mental, moral and spiritual--and these are truths so great and yet so simple that until yesterday many wise men did not recognize them. at the roycroft shop we are reaching out for an all-round development through work and right living. and we have found it a good expedient--a wise business policy. sweat-shop methods can never succeed in producing beautiful things. and so the management of the roycroft shop surrounds the workers with beauty, allows many liberties, encourages cheerfulness and tries to promote kind thoughts, simply because it has been found that these things are transmuted into good, and come out again at the finger-tips of the workers in beautiful results. so we have pictures, statuary, flowers, ferns, palms, birds, and a piano in every room. we have the best sanitary appliances that money can buy; we have bathrooms, shower-baths, library, rest-rooms. every week we have concerts, dances, lectures. besides being a workshop, the roycroft is a school. we are following out a dozen distinct lines of study, and every worker in the place is enrolled as a member of one or more classes. there are no fees to pupils, but each pupil purchases his own books--the care of his books and belongings being considered a part of one's education. all the teachers are workers in the shop, and are volunteers, teaching without pay, beyond what each receives for his regular labor. the idea of teaching we have found is a great benefit--to the teacher. the teacher gets most out of the lessons. once a week there is a faculty meeting, when each teacher gives in a verbal report of his stewardship. it is responsibility that develops one, and to know that your pupils expect you to know is a great incentive to study. then teaching demands that you shall give--give yourself--and he who gives most receives most. we deepen our impressions by recounting them, and he who teaches others teaches himself. i am never quite so proud as when some one addresses me as "teacher." we try to find out what each person can do best, what he wants to do, and then we encourage him to put his best into it--also to do something else besides his specialty, finding rest in change. the thing that pays should be the expedient thing, and the expedient thing should be the proper and right thing. that which began with us as a matter of expediency is often referred to as a "philanthropy." i do not like the word, and wish to state here that the roycroft is in no sense a charity--i do not believe in giving any man something for nothing. you give a man a dollar and the man will think less of you because he thinks less of himself; but if you give him a chance to earn a dollar, he will think more of himself and more of you. the only way to help people is to give them a chance to help themselves. so the roycroft idea is one of reciprocity--you help me and i'll help you. we will not be here forever, anyway; soon death, the kind old nurse, will come and rock us all to sleep, and we had better help one another while we may: we are going the same way--let's go hand in hand! contents publisher's preface v autobiographical xi george eliot thomas carlyle john ruskin william e. gladstone j.m.w. turner jonathan swift walt whitman victor hugo william wordsworth william m. thackeray charles dickens oliver goldsmith william shakespeare thomas a. edison george eliot "may i reach that purest heaven, be to other souls the cup of strength in some great agony, enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, beget the smiles that have no cruelty-- be the good presence of a good diffused, and in diffusion ever more intense. so shall i join the choir invisible whose music is the gladness of the world." [illustration: george eliot] warwickshire gave to the world william shakespeare. it also gave mary ann evans. no one will question that shakespeare's is the greatest name in english literature; and among writers living or dead, in england or out of it, no woman has ever shown us power equal to that of george eliot, in the subtle clairvoyance which divines the inmost play of passions, the experience that shows human capacity for contradiction, and the indulgence that is merciful because it understands. shakespeare lived three hundred years ago. according to the records, his father, in fifteen hundred sixty-three, owned a certain house in henley street, stratford-on-avon. hence we infer that william shakespeare was born there. and in all our knowledge of shakespeare's early life (or later) we prefix the words, "hence we infer." that the man knew all the sciences of his day, and had such a knowledge of each of the learned professions that all have claimed him as their own, we realize. he evidently was acquainted with five different languages, and the range of his intellect was worldwide; but where did he get this vast erudition? we do not know, and we excuse ourselves by saying that he lived three hundred years ago. george eliot lived--yesterday, and we know no more about her youthful days than we do of that other child of warwickshire. one biographer tells us that she was born in eighteen hundred nineteen, another in eighteen hundred twenty, and neither state the day; whereas a recent writer in the "pall mall budget" graciously bestows on us the useful information that "william shakespeare was born on the twenty-first day of april, fifteen hundred sixty-three, at fifteen minutes of two on a stormy morning." concise statements of facts are always valuable, but we have none such concerning the early life of george eliot. there is even a shadow over her parentage, for no less an authority than the "american cyclopedia annual," for eighteen hundred eighty, boldly proclaims that she was not a foundling and, moreover, that she was not adopted by a rich retired clergyman who gave her a splendid schooling. then the writer dives into obscurity, but presently reappears and adds that he does not know where she got her education. for all of which we are very grateful. shakespeare left five signatures, each written in a different way, and now there is a goodly crew who spell it "bacon." and likewise we do not know whether it is mary ann evans, mary anne evans or marian evans, for she herself is said to have used each form at various times. william winter--gentle critic, poet, scholar--tells us that the sonnets show a dark spot in shakespeare's moral record. and if i remember rightly, similar things have been hinted at in sewing-circles concerning george eliot. then they each found the dew and sunshine in london that caused the flowers of genius to blossom. the early productions of both were published anonymously, and lastly they both knew how to transmute thought into gold, for they died rich. lady godiva rode through the streets of coventry, but i walked--walked all the way from stratford, by way of warwick (call it warrick, please) and kenilworth castle. i stopped overnight at that quaint and curious little inn just across from the castle entrance. the good landlady gave me the same apartment that was occupied by sir walter scott when he came here and wrote the first chapter of "kenilworth." the little room had pretty, white chintz curtains tied with blue ribbon, and similar stuff draped the mirror. the bed was a big canopy affair--i had to stand on a chair in order to dive off into its feathery depths--everything was very neat and clean, and the dainty linen had a sweet smell of lavender. i took one parting look out through the open window at the ivy-mantled towers of the old castle, which were all sprinkled with silver by the rising moon, and then i fell into gentlest sleep. i dreamed of playing "i-spy" through kenilworth castle with shakespeare, walter scott, mary ann evans and a youth i used to know in boyhood by the name of bill hursey. we chased each other across the drawbridge, through the portcullis, down the slippery stones into the donjon-keep, around the moat, and up the stone steps to the topmost turret of the towers. finally shakespeare was "it," but he got mad and refused to play. walter scott said it was "no fair," and bill hursey thrust out the knuckle of one middle finger in a very threatening way and offered to "do" the boy from stratford. then mary ann rushed in to still the tempest. there's no telling what would have happened had not the landlady just then rapped at my door and asked if i had called. i awoke with a start and with the guilty feeling that i had been shouting in my sleep. i saw it was morning. "no--that is, yes; my shaving-water, please." after breakfast the landlady's boy offered for five shillings to take me in his donkey-cart to the birthplace of george eliot. he explained that the house was just seven miles north; but baalam's express is always slow, so i concluded to walk. at coventry a cab-owner proposed to show me the house, which he declared was near kenilworth, for twelve shillings. the advantages of seeing kenilworth at the same time were dwelt upon at great length by cabby, but i harkened not to the voice of the siren. i got a good lunch at the hotel, and asked the innkeeper if he could tell me where george eliot was born. he did not know, but said he could show me a house around the corner where a family of eliots lived. then i walked on to nuneaton. a charming walk it was; past quaint old houses, some with straw-thatched roofs, others tile--roses clambering over the doors and flowering hedgerows white with hawthorn-flowers. occasionally, i met a farmer's cart drawn by one of those great, fat, gentle shire horses that george eliot has described so well. all spoke of peace and plenty, quiet and rest. the green fields and the flowers, the lark-song and the sunshine, the dipping willows by the stream, and the arch of the old stone bridge as i approached the village--all these i had seen and known and felt before from "mill on the floss." i found the house where they say the novelist was born. a plain, whitewashed, stone structure, built two hundred years ago; two stories, the upper chambers low, with gable-windows; a little garden at the side bright with flowers, where sweet marjoram vied with onions and beets; all spoke of humble thrift and homely cares. in front was a great chestnut-tree, and in the roadway near were two ancient elms where saucy crows were building a nest. here, after her mother died, mary ann evans was housekeeper. little more than a child--tall, timid, and far from strong--she cooked and scrubbed and washed, and was herself the mother to brothers and sisters. her father was a carpenter by trade and agent for a rich landowner. he was a stern man--orderly, earnest, industrious, studious. on rides about the country he would take the tall, hollow-eyed girl with him, and at such times he would talk to her of the great outside world where wondrous things were done. the child toiled hard, but found time to read and question--and there is always time to think. soon she had outgrown some of her good father's beliefs, and this grieved him greatly; so much, indeed, that her extra-loving attention to his needs, in a hope to neutralize his displeasure, only irritated him the more. and if there is soft, subdued sadness in much of george eliot's writing we can guess the reason. the onward and upward march ever means sad separation. when mary ann was blossoming into womanhood her father moved over near coventry, and here the ambitious girl first found companionship in her intellectual desires. here she met men and women, older than herself, who were animated, earnest thinkers. they read and then they discussed, and then they spoke the things that they felt were true. those eight years at coventry transformed the awkward country girl into a woman of intellect and purpose. she knew somewhat of all sciences, all philosophies, and she had become a proficient scholar in german and french. how did she acquire this knowledge? how is any education acquired if not through effort prompted by desire? she had already translated strauss's "life of jesus" in a manner that was acceptable to the author. when ralph waldo emerson came to coventry to lecture, he was entertained at the same house where miss evans was stopping. her brilliant conversation pleased him, and when she questioned the wisdom of a certain passage in one of his essays the gentle philosopher turned, smiled, and said that he had not seen it in that light before; perhaps she was right. "what is your favorite book?" asked emerson. "rousseau's 'confessions,'" answered mary instantly. it was emerson's favorite, too; but such honesty from a young woman! it was queer. mr. emerson never forgot miss evans of coventry, and ten years after, when a zealous reviewer proclaimed her the greatest novelist in england, the sage of concord said something that sounded like "i told you so." miss evans had made visits to london from time to time with her coventry friends. when twenty-eight years old, after one such visit to london, she came back to the country tired and weary, and wrote this most womanly wish: "my only ardent desire is to find some feminine task to discharge; some possibility of devoting myself to some one and making that one purely and calmly happy." but now her father was dead and her income was very scanty. she did translating, and tried the magazines with articles that generally came back respectfully declined. then an offer came as sub-editor of the "westminster review." it was steady work and plenty of it, and this was what she desired. she went to london and lived in the household of her employer, mr. chapman. here she had the opportunity of meeting many brilliant people: carlyle and his "jeannie welsh," the martineaus, grote, mr. and mrs. mill, huxley, mazzini, louis blanc. besides these were two young men who must not be left out when we sum up the influences that evolved this woman's genius. she was attracted to herbert spencer at once. he was about her age, and their admiration for each other was mutual. miss evans, writing to a friend in eighteen hundred fifty-two, says, "spencer is kind, he is delightful, and i always feel better after being with him, and we have agreed together that there is no reason why we should not see each other as often as we wish." and then later she again writes: "the bright side of my life, after the affection for my old friends, is the new and delightful friendship which i have found in herbert spencer. we see each other every day, and in everything we enjoy a delightful comradeship. if it were not for him my life would be singularly arid." but about this time another man appeared on the scene, and were it not for this other man, who was introduced to miss evans by spencer, the author of "synthetic philosophy" might not now be spoken of in the biographical dictionaries as having been "wedded to science." it was not love at first sight, for george henry lewes made a decidedly unfavorable impression on miss evans at their first meeting. he was small, his features were insignificant, he had whiskers like an anarchist and a mouthful of crooked teeth; his personal habits were far from pleasant. it was this sort of thing, dickens said, that caused his first wife to desert him and finally drove her into insanity. but lewes had a brilliant mind. he was a linguist, a scientist, a novelist, a poet and a wit. he had written biography, philosophy and a play. he had been a journalist, a lecturer and even an actor. thackeray declared that if he should see lewes perched on a white elephant in piccadilly he should not be in the least surprised. after having met miss evans several times, mr. lewes saw the calm depths of her mind and he asked her to correct proofs for him. she did so and discovered that there was merit in his work. she corrected more proofs, and when a woman begins to assist a man the danger-line is being approached. close observers noted that a change was coming over the bohemian lewes. he had his whiskers trimmed, his hair was combed, and the bright yellow necktie had been discarded for a clean one of modest brown, and, sometimes, his boots were blacked. in july, eighteen hundred fifty-four, mr. chapman received a letter from his sub-editor resigning her position, and miss evans notified some of her closest friends that hereafter she wished to be considered the wife of mr. lewes. she was then in her thirty-sixth year. the couple disappeared, having gone to germany. many people were shocked. some said, "we knew it all the time," and when herbert spencer was informed of the fact he exclaimed, "goodness me!" and said--nothing. after six months spent at weimar and other literary centers, mr. and mrs. lewes returned to england and began housekeeping at richmond. any one who views their old quarters there will see how very plainly and economically they were forced to live. but they worked hard, and at this time the future novelist's desire seemed only to assist her husband. that she developed the manly side of his nature none can deny. they were very happy, these two, as they wrote, and copied, and studied, and toiled. three years passed, and mrs. lewes wrote to a friend: "i am very happy; happy with the greatest happiness that life can give--the complete sympathy and affection of a man whose mind stimulates mine and keeps up in me a wholesome activity." mr. lewes knew the greatness of his helpmeet. she herself did not. he urged her to write a story; she hesitated, and at last attempted it. they read the first chapter together and cried over it. then she wrote more and always read her husband the chapters as they were turned off. he corrected, encouraged, and found a publisher. but why should i tell about it here? it's all in the "britannica"--how the gentle beauty and sympathetic insight of her work touched the hearts of great and lowly alike, and of how riches began flowing in upon her. for one book she received forty thousand dollars, and her income after fortune smiled upon her was never less than ten thousand dollars a year. lewes was her secretary, her protector, her slave and her inspiration. he kept at bay the public that would steal her time, and put out of her reach, at her request, all reviews, good or bad, and shielded her from the interviewer, the curiosity-seeker, and the greedy financier. the reason why she at first wrote under a nom de plume is plain. to the great, wallowing world she was neither miss evans nor mrs. lewes, so she dropped both names as far as title-pages were concerned and used a man's name instead--hoping better to elude the pack. when "adam bede" came out, a resident of nuneaton purchased a copy and at once discovered local earmarks. the scenes described, the flowers, the stone walls, the bridges, the barns, the people--all was nuneaton. who wrote it? no one knew, but it was surely some one in nuneaton. so they picked out a mr. liggins, a solemn-faced preacher, who was always about to do something great, and they said "liggins." soon all london said "liggins." as for liggins, he looked wise and smiled knowingly. then articles began to appear in the periodicals purporting to have been written by the author of "adam bede." a book came out called "adam bede, jr.," and to protect her publisher, the public and herself, george eliot had to reveal her identity. many men have written good books and never tasted fame; but few, like liggins of nuneaton, have become famous by doing nothing. it only proves that some things can be done as well as others. this breed of men has long dwelt in warwickshire; shakespeare had them in mind when he wrote, "there be men who do a wilful stillness entertain with purpose to be dressed in an opinion of wisdom, gravity and profound conceit." lord acton in an able article in the "nineteenth century" makes this statement: "george eliot paid high for happiness with lewes. she forfeited freedom of speech, the first place among english women, and a tomb in westminster abbey." the original dedication in "adam bede" reads thus: "to my dear husband, george henry lewes, i give the manuscript of a work which would never have been written but for the happiness which his love has conferred on my life." lord acton of course assumes that this book would have been written, dedication and all, just the same had miss evans never met mr. lewes. once there was a child called romola. she said to her father one day, as she sat on his knee: "papa, who would take care of me--give me my bath and put me to bed nights--if you had never happened to meet mamma?" * * * * * the days i spent in warwickshire were very pleasant. the serene beauty of the country and the kindly courtesy of the people impressed me greatly. having beheld the scenes of george eliot's childhood, i desired to view the place where her last days were spent. it was a fine may day when i took the little steamer from london bridge for chelsea. a bird-call from the dingy brick building where turner died, and two blocks from the old home of carlyle, is cheyne walk--a broad avenue facing the river. the houses are old, but they have a look of gracious gentility that speaks of ease and plenty. high iron fences are in front, but they do not shut off from view the climbing clematis and clusters of roses that gather over the windows and doors. i stood at the gate of number cheyne walk and admired the pretty flowers, planted in such artistic carelessness as to beds and rows; then i rang the bell--an old pull-out affair with polished knob. presently a butler opened the door--a pompous, tall and awful butler in serious black and with side-whiskers. he approached; came down the walk swinging a bunch of keys, looking me over as he came, to see what sort of wares i had to sell. "did george eliot live here?" i asked through the bars. "mrs. cross lived 'ere and died 'ere, sir," came the solemn and rebuking answer. "i mean mrs. cross," i added meekly; "i only wished to see the little garden where she worked." jeemes was softened. as he unlocked the gate he said: "we 'ave many wisiters, sir; a great bother, sir; still, i always knows a gentleman when i sees one. p'r'aps you would like to see the 'ouse, too, sir. the missus does not like it much, but i will take 'er your card, sir." i gave him the card and slipped a shilling into his hand as he gave me a seat in the hallway. he disappeared upstairs and soon returned with the pleasing information that i was to be shown the whole house and garden. so i pardoned him the myth about the missus, happening to know that at that particular moment she was at brighton, sixty miles away. a goodly, comfortable house, four stories, well kept, and much fine old carved oak in the dining-room and hallways; fantastic ancient balusters, and a peculiar bay window in the second-story rear that looked out over the little garden. off to the north could be seen the green of kensington gardens and wavy suggestions of hyde park. this was george eliot's workshop. there was a table in the center of the room and three low bookcases with pretty ornaments above. in the bay window was the most conspicuous object in the room--a fine marble bust of goethe. this, i was assured, had been the property of mrs. cross, as well as all the books and furniture in the room. in one corner was a revolving case containing a set of the "century dictionary" which jeemes assured me had been purchased by mr. cross as a present for his wife a short time before she died. this caused my faith to waver a trifle and put to flight a fine bit of literary frenzy that might have found form soon in a sonnet. in the front parlor, i saw a portrait of the former occupant that showed "the face that looked like a horse." but that is better than to have the face of any other animal of which i know. surely one would not want to look like a dog! shakespeare hated dogs, but spoke forty-eight times in his plays in terms of respect and affection for a horse. who would not resent the imputation that one's face was like that of a sheep or a goat or an ox, and much gore has been shed because men have referred to other men as asses--but a horse! god bless you, yes! no one has ever accused george eliot of being handsome, but this portrait tells of a woman of fifty: calm, gentle, and the strong features speak of a soul in which to confide. at highgate, by the side of the grave of lewes, rests the dust of this great and loving woman. as the pilgrim enters that famous old cemetery, the first imposing monument seen is a pyramid of rare, costly porphyry. as you draw near, you read this inscription: to the memory of ann jewson crisp who departed this life deeply lamented, jan. , . also, her dog, emperor. beneath these tender lines is a bas-relief of as vicious-looking a cur as ever evaded the dog-tax. continuing up the avenue, past this monument just noted, the kind old gardener will show you another that stands amid others much more pretentious--a small gray-granite column, and on it, carved in small letters, you read: "of those immortal dead who live again in minds made better by their presence." here rests the body of "george eliot" (mary ann cross) born november, . died december, . thomas carlyle one comfort is that great men taken up in any way are profitable company. we can not look, however imperfectly, upon a great man without gaining something by it. he is the living fountain of life, which it is pleasant to be near. on any terms whatsoever you will not grudge to wander in his neighborhood for a while. --_heroes and hero-worship_ [illustration: thomas carlyle] while on my way to dumfries i stopped overnight at gretna green, which, as all fair maidens know, is in scotland just over the border from england. to my delight i found that the coming of runaway couples to gretna green was not entirely a matter of the past, for the very evening i arrived a blushing pair came to the inn and inquired for a "meenister." the ladye faire was a little stout and the worthy swain several years older than my fancy might have wished, but still i did not complain. the landlord's boy was dispatched to the rectory around the corner and soon returned with the reverend gentleman. i was an uninvited guest in the little parlor, but no one observed that my wedding-garment was only a cycling costume, and i was not challenged. after the ceremony, the several other witnesses filed past the happy couple, congratulating them and kissing the bride. i did likewise, and was greeted with a resounding smack which surprised me a bit, but i managed to ask, "did you run away?" "noo," said the groom; "noo, her was a widdie--we just coom over fram ecclefechan"; then, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, "we're goin' baack on the morrow. it's cheaper thaan to ha' a big, spread weddin'." this answer banished all tender sentiment from me and made useless my plans for a dainty love-story, but i seized upon the name of the place whence they came. "ecclefechan! ecclefechan! why that's where carlyle was born!" "aye, sir, and he's buried there; a great mon he was--but an infideel." ten miles beyond gretna green is ecclefechan--a little village of stucco houses all stretched out on one street. plain, homely, rocky and unromantic is the country round about, and plain, homely and unromantic is the little house where carlyle was born. the place is shown the visitor by a good old dame who takes one from room to room, giving a little lecture meanwhile in a mixture of gaelic and english which was quite beyond my ken. several relics of interest are shown, and although the house is almost precisely like all others in the vicinity, imagination throws round it all a roseate wreath of fancies. it has been left on record that up to the year when carlyle was married, his "most pleasurable times were those when he enjoyed a quiet pipe with his mother." to few men indeed is this felicity vouchsafed. but for those who have eaten oatmeal porridge in the wayside cottages of bonny scotland, or who love to linger over "the cotter's saturday night," there is a touch of tender pathos in the picture. the stone floor, the bare, whitewashed walls, the peat smoldering on the hearth, sending out long, fitful streaks that dance among the rafters overhead, and the mother and son sitting there watching the coal--silent. the woman takes a small twig from a bundle of sticks, reaches over, lights it, applies it to her pipe, takes a few whiffs and passes the light to her son. then they talk in low, earnest tones of man's duty to man and man's duty to god. and it was this mother who first applied the spark that fired carlyle's ambition; it was from her that he got the germ of those talents which have made his name illustrious. yet this woman could barely read and did not learn to write until her firstborn had gone away from the home nest. then it was that she sharpened a gray goose-quill and labored long and patiently, practising with this instrument (said to be mightier than the sword) and with ink she herself had mixed--all that she might write a letter to her boy; and how sweetly, tenderly homely, and loving are these letters as we read them today! james carlyle with his own hands built, in seventeen hundred ninety, this house at ecclefechan. the same year he married an excellent woman, a second cousin, by name janet carlyle. she lived but a year. the poor husband was heartbroken, and declared, as many men under like conditions had done before and have done since, that his sorrow was inconsolable. and he vowed that he would walk through life and down to his death alone. but it is a matter for congratulation that he broke his vow. in two years he married margaret aitken--a serving-woman. she bore nine children. thomas was the eldest and the only one who proved recreant to the religious faith of his fathers. one of the brothers moved to shiawassee county, michigan, where i had the pleasure of calling on him, some years ago. a hard-headed man, he was: sensible, earnest, honest, with a stubby beard and a rich brogue. he held the office of school trustee, also that of pound-master, and i was told that he served his township loyally and well. this worthy man looked with small favor on the literary pretensions of his brother tammas, and twice wrote him long letters expostulating with him on his religious vagaries. "i knew no good could come of it," sorrowfully said he, and so i left him. but i inquired of several of the neighbors what they thought of thomas carlyle, and i found that they did not think of him at all. and i mounted my beast and rode away. thomas carlyle was educated for the kirk, and it was a cause of much sorrow to his parents that he could not accept its beliefs. he has been spoken of as england's chief philosopher, yet he subscribed to no creed, nor did he formulate one. however, in "latter-day pamphlets" he partially prepares a catechism for a part of the brute creation. he supposes that all swine of superior logical powers have a "belief," and as they are unable to express it he essays the task for them. the following are a few of the postulates in this creed of the brotherhood of latter-day swine: "question. who made the pig? "answer. the pork-butcher. "question. what is the whole duty of pigs? "answer. it is the mission of universal pighood; and the duty of all pigs, at all times, is to diminish the quantity of attainable swill and increase the unattainable. this is the whole duty of pigs. "question. what is pig poetry? "answer. it is the universal recognition of pig's wash and ground barley, and the felicity of pigs whose trough has been set in order and who have enough. "question, what is justice in pigdom? "answer. it is the sentiment in pig nature sometimes called revenge, indignation, etc., which if one pig provoke, another comes out in more or less destructive manner; hence laws are necessary--amazing quantities of laws--defining what pigs shall not do. "question. what do you mean by equity? "answer. equity consists in getting your share from the universal swine-trough, and part of another's. "question. what is meant by 'your share'?" "answer. my share is getting whatever i can contrive to seize without being made up into side-meat." i have slightly abridged this little extract and inserted it here to show the sympathy which mr. carlyle had for the dumb brute. one of america's great men, in a speech delivered not long ago, said, "from scotch manners, scotch religion and scotch whisky, good lord deliver us!" my experience with these three articles has been somewhat limited; but scotch manners remind me of chestnut-burs--not handsome without, but good within. for when you have gotten beyond the rough exterior of sandy you generally find a heart warm, tender and generous. scotch religion is only another chestnut-bur, but then you need not eat the shuck if you fear it will not agree with your inward state. nevertheless, if the example of royalty is of value, the fact can be stated that victoria, queen of great britain and empress of india, is a presbyterian. that is, she is a presbyterian about one-half the time--when she is in scotland, for she is the head of the scottish kirk. when in england, of course she is an episcopalian. we have often been told that religion is largely a matter of geography, and here is a bit of something that looks like proof. of scotch whisky i am not competent to speak, so that subject must be left to the experts. but a kentucky colonel at my elbow declares that it can not be compared with the blue-grass article; though i trust that no one will be prejudiced against it on that account. scotch intellect, however, is worthy of our serious consideration. it is a bold, rocky headland, standing out into the tossing sea of the unknown. assertive? yes. stubborn? most surely. proud? by all means. twice as many pilgrims visit the grave of burns as that of shakespeare. buckle declares adam smith's "wealth of nations" has had a greater influence on civilization than any other book ever writ--save none; and the average scotchman knows his carlyle a deal better than the average american knows his emerson: in fact, four times as many of carlyle's books have been printed. when carlyle took time to bring the ponderous machinery of his intellect to bear on a theme, he saw it through and through. the vividness of his imagination gives us a true insight into times long since gone by; it shows virtue her own feature, vice her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. in history he goes beyond the political and conventional--showing us the thought, the hope, the fear, the passion of the soul. his was the masculine mind. the divination and subtle intuitions which are to be found scattered through his pages, like violets growing among the rank swale of the prairies--all these sweet, odorous things came from his wife. she gave him of her best thought, and he greedily absorbed it and unconsciously wrote it down as his own. there are those who blame and berate; volumes have been written to show the inconsiderateness of this man toward the gentle lady who was his intellectual comrade. but they know not life who do this thing. it is a fact that carlyle never rushed to pick up jeannie's handkerchief. i admit that he could not bow gracefully; that he could not sing tenor, nor waltz, nor tell funny stories, nor play the mandolin; and if i had been his neighbor i would not have attempted to teach him any of these accomplishments. once he took his wife to the theater; and after the performance he accidentally became separated from her in the crowd and trudged off home alone and went to bed forgetting all about her---but even for this i do not indict him. mrs. carlyle never upbraided him for this forgetfulness, neither did she relate the incident to any one, and for these things i to her now reverently lift my hat. jeannie welsh carlyle had capacity for pain, as it seems all great souls have. she suffered--but then suffering is not all suffering and pain is not all pain. life is often dark, but then there are rifts in the clouds when we behold the glorious deep blue of the sky. not a day passes but that the birds sing in the branches, and the tree-tops poise backward and forward in restful, rhythmic harmony, and never an hour goes by but that hope bears us up on her wings as the eagle does her young. and ever just before the year dies and the frost comes, the leaves take on a gorgeous hue and the color of the flowers then puts to shame for brilliancy all the plainer petals of springtime. and i know mr. and mrs. carlyle were happy, so happy, at times, that they laughed and cried for joy. jeannie gave all, and she saw her best thought used--carried further, written out and given to the world as that of another--but she uttered no protest. xantippe lives in history only because she sought to worry a great philosopher; we remember the daughter of herodias because she demanded the head (not the heart) of a good man; goneril and regan because they trod upon the withered soul of their sire; lady macbeth because she lured her liege to murder; charlotte corday for her dagger-thrust; lucrezia borgia for her poison; sapphira for her untruth; jael because she pierced the brain of sisera with a rusty nail (instead of an idea); delilah for the reason that she deprived samson of his source of strength; and in the "westminster review" for may, eighteen hundred ninety-four, ouida makes the flat statement that for every man of genius who has been helped by a woman, ten have been dragged down. but jeannie welsh carlyle lives in the hearts of all who reverence the sweet, the gentle, the patient, the earnest, the loving spirit of the womanly woman: lives because she ministered to the needs of a great man. she was ever a frail body. several long illnesses kept her to her bed for weeks, but she recovered from these, even in spite of the doctors, who thoroughly impressed both herself and her husband with the thought of her frailty. on april the twenty-first, eighteen hundred sixty-six, she called her carriage, as was her custom, and directed the driver to go through the park. she carried a book in her hands, and smiled a greeting to a friend as the brougham moved away from the little street where they lived. the driver drove slowly--drove for an hour--two. he got down from his box to receive the orders of his mistress, touched his hat as he opened the carriage-door, but no kindly eyes looked into his. she sat back in the corner as if resting; the shapely head a little thrown forward, the book held gently in the delicate hands, but the fingers were cold and stiff--jeannie welsh was dead--and thomas carlyle was alone. * * * * * along the thames, at chelsea, opposite the rows of quiet and well-kept houses of cheyne walk, is the "embankment." a parkway it is of narrow green, with graveled walks, bushes and trees, that here and there grow lush and lusty as if to hide the unsightly river from the good people who live across the street. following this pleasant bit of breathing space, with its walks that wind in and out among the bushes, one comes unexpectedly upon a bronze statue. you need not read the inscription: a glance at that shaggy head, the grave, sober, earnest look, and you exclaim under your breath, "carlyle!" in this statue the artist has caught with rare skill the look of reverie and repose. one can imagine that on a certain night, as the mists and shadows of evening were gathering along the dark river, the gaunt form, wrapped in its accustomed cloak, came stalking down the little street to the park, just as he did thousands of times, and taking his seat in the big chair fell asleep. in the morning the children that came to play along the river found the form in cold, enduring bronze. at the play we have seen the marble transformed by love into beauteous life. how much easier the reverse--here where souls stay only a day! cheyne row is a little, alley-like street, running only a block, with fifteen houses on one side, and twelve on the other. these houses are all brick and built right up to the sidewalk. on the north side they are all in one block, and one at first sees no touch of individuality in any of them. they are old, and solid, and plain--built for revenue only. on closer view i thought one or two had been painted, and on one there was a cornice that set it off from the rest. as i stood on the opposite side and looked at this row of houses, i observed that number five was the dingiest and plainest of them all. for there were dark shutters instead of blinds, and these shutters were closed, all save one rebel that swung and creaked in the breeze. over the doorway, sparrows had made their nests and were fighting and scolding. swallows hovered above the chimney; dust, cobwebs, neglect were all about. and as i looked there came to me the words of ursa thomas: "brief, brawling day, with its noisy phantoms, its paper crowns, tinsel-gilt, is gone; and divine, everlasting night, with her star diadems, with her silences and her verities, is come." here walked thomas and jeannie one fair may morning in eighteen hundred thirty-four. thomas was thirty-nine, tall and swarthy, strong; with set mouth and three wrinkles on his forehead that told of care and dyspepsia. jeannie was younger; her face winsome, just a trifle anxious, with luminous, gentle eyes, suggestive of patience, truth and loyalty. they looked like country folks, did these two. they examined the surroundings, consulted together--sixty pounds rent a year seemed very high! but they took the house, and t. carlyle, son of james carlyle, stone-mason, paid rent for it every month for half a century, lacking three years. i walked across the street and read the inscription on the marble tablet inserted in the front of the house above the lower windows. it informs the stranger that thomas carlyle lived here from eighteen hundred thirty-four to eighteen hundred eighty-one, and that the tablet was erected by the carlyle society of london. i ascended the stone steps and scraped my boots on the well-worn scraper, made long, long ago by a blacksmith who is now dust, and who must have been a very awkward mechanic, for i saw where he had made a misstroke with his hammer, probably as he discussed theology with a caller. then i rang the bell and plied the knocker and waited there on the steps for jeannie welsh to come bid me welcome, just as she did emerson when he, too, used the scraper and plied the knocker and stood where i did then. and my knock was answered--answered by a very sour and peevish woman next door, who thrust her head out of the window, and exclaimed in a shrill voice: "look 'ere, sir, you might as well go rap on the curb-stone, don't you know; there's nobody livin' there, sir, don't you know!" "yes, madam, that is why i knocked!" "beggin' your pardon, sir, if you use your heyes you'll see there's nobody livin' there, don't you know!" "i knocked lest offense be given. how can i get in?" "you might go in through the keyhole, sir, or down the chimney. you seem to be a little daft, sir, don't you know! but if you must get in, perhaps it would be as well to go over to mrs. brown's and brang the key," and she slammed down the window. across the street mrs. brown's sign smiled at me. mrs. brown keeps a little grocery and bakeshop and was very willing to show me the house. she fumbled in a black bag for the keys, all the time telling me of three americans who came last week to see carlyle's house, and "as how" they each gave her a shilling. i took the hint. "only americans care now for mr. carlyle," plaintively added the old lady as she fished out the keys; "soon we will all be forgot." we walked across the street and after several ineffectual attempts the rusty lock was made to turn. i entered. cold, bare and bleak was the sight of those empty rooms. the old lady had a touch of rheumatism, so she waited for me on the doorstep as i climbed the stairs to the third floor. the noise-proof back room where "the french revolution" was writ, twice over, was so dark that i had to grope my way across to the window. the sash stuck and seemed to have a will of its own, like him who so often had raised it. but at last it gave way and i flung wide the shutter and looked down at the little arbor where teufelsdrockh sat so often and wooed wisdom with the weed brought from virginia. then i stood before the fireplace, where he of the eternities had so often sat and watched the flickering embers. here he lived in his loneliness and cursed curses that were prayers, and here for near five decades he read and thought and dreamed and wrote. here the spirits of cromwell and frederick hovered; here that pitiful and pitiable long line of ghostly partakers in the revolution answered to his roll-call. the wind whistled down the chimney gruesomely as my footfalls echoed through the silent chambers, and i thought i heard a sepulchral voice say: "thy future life! thy fate is it, indeed! whilst thou makest that thy chief question, thy life to me and to thyself and to thy god is worthless. what is incredible to thee thou shalt not, at thy soul's peril, pretend to believe. elsewhither for a refuge! away! go to perdition if thou wilt, but not with a lie in thy mouth--by the eternal maker, no!!" i was startled at first, but stood still listening; then i thought i saw a faint blue cloud of mist curling up in the fireplace. watching this smoke and sitting before it in gloomy abstraction was the form of an old man. i swept my hand through the apparition, but still it stayed. my lips moved in spite of myself and i said: "hail! hard-headed man of granite outcrop and heather, of fen and crag, of moor and mountain, and of bleak east wind, hail! eighty-six years didst thou live. one hundred years lacking fourteen didst thou suffer, enjoy, weep, dream, groan, pray and strike thy rugged breast! and yet methinks that in those years there was much quiet peace and sweet content; for constant pain benumbs, and worry destroys, and vain unrest summons the grim messenger of death. but thou didst live and work and love; howbeit, thy touch was not always gentle, nor thy voice low; but on thy lips was no lie, in thy thought no concealment, in thy heart no pollution. but mark! thou didst come out of poverty and obscurity: on thy battered shield there was no crest and thou didst leave all to follow truth. and verily she did lead thee a merry chase! "thou hadst no past, but thou hast a future. thou didst say: 'bury me in westminster, never! where the mob surges, cursed with idle curiosity to see the graves of kings and nobodies? no! take me back to rugged scotland and lay my tired form to rest by the side of an honest man--my father.' "thou didst refuse the knighthood offered thee by royalty, saying, 'i am not the founder of the house of carlyle and i have no sons to be pauperized by a title,' true, thou didst leave no sons after the flesh to mourn thy loss, nor fair daughters to bedeck thy grave with garlands, but thou didst reproduce thyself in thought, and on the minds of men thou didst leave thy impress. and thy ten thousand sons will keep thy memory green so long as men shall work, and toil, and strive, and hope." the wind still howled. i looked out and saw watery clouds scudding athwart the face of the murky sky. the shutters banged, and shut me in the dark. i made haste to find the door, reached the stairway--slid down the banisters to where mrs. brown was waiting for me at the threshold. we locked the door. she went across to her little bakeshop and i stopped a passing policeman to ask the way to westminster. he told me. "did you visit carlyle's 'ouse?" he asked. "yes." "with old mrs. brown?" "yes, she waited for me in the doorway--she had the rheumatism so she could not climb the stairs." "rheumatism? huh!--you couldn't 'ire 'er to go inside. why, don't you know? they say the 'ouse is 'aunted!" john ruskin put roses in their hair, put precious stones on their breasts; see that they are clothed in purple and scarlet, with other delights; that they also learn to read the gilded heraldry of the sky; and upon the earth be taught not only the labors of it but the loveliness. --_deucalion_ [illustration: john ruskin] at windermere, a good friend, told me that i must abandon all hope of seeing mr. ruskin; for i had no special business with him, no letters of introduction, and then the fact that i am an american made it final. americans in england are supposed to pick flowers in private gardens, cut their names on trees, laugh boisterously at trifles, and often to make invidious comparisons. very properly, mr. ruskin does not admire these things. then mr. ruskin is a very busy man. occasionally he issues a printed manifesto to his friends requesting them to give him peace. a copy of one such circular was shown to me. it runs, "mr. j. ruskin is about to begin a work of great importance, and therefore begs that in reference to calls and correspondence you will consider him dead for the next two months." a similar notice is reproduced in "arrows of the chace," and this one thing, i think, illustrates as forcibly as anything in mr. ruskin's work the self-contained characteristics of the man himself. surely if a man is pleased to be considered "dead" occasionally, even to his kinsmen and friends, he should not be expected to receive with open arms an enemy to steal away his time. this is assuming, of course, that all individuals who pick flowers in other folks' gardens, cut their names on trees, and laugh boisterously at trifles, are enemies. i therefore decided that i would simply walk over to brantwood, view it from a distance, tramp over its hills, row across the lake, and at nightfall take a swim in its waters. then i would rest at the inn for a space and go my way. lake coniston is ten miles from grasmere, and even alone the walk is not long. if, however, you are delightfully attended by "king's daughters" with whom you sit and commune now and then on the bankside, the distance will seem to be much less. then there is a pleasant little break in the journey at hawkshead. here one may see the quaint old schoolhouse where wordsworth when a boy dangled his feet from a bench and proved his humanity by carving his initials on the seat. the inn at the head of coniston water appeared very inviting and restful when i saw it that afternoon. built in sections from generation to generation, half-covered with ivy and embowered in climbing roses, it is an institution entirely different from the "grand palace hotel" at oshkosh. in america we have gongs that are fiercely beaten at stated times by gentlemen of color, just as they are supposed to do in their native congo jungles. this din proclaims to the "guests" and to the public at large that it is time to come in and be fed. but this refinement of civilization is not yet in coniston, and the inn is quiet and homelike. you may go to bed when you are tired, get up when you choose, and eat when you are hungry. there were no visitors about when i arrived, and i thought i would have the coffeeroom all to myself at luncheon-time; but presently there came in a pleasant-faced old gentleman in knickerbockers. he bowed to me and then took a place at the table. he said that it was a fine day and i agreed with him, adding that the mountains were very beautiful. he assented, putting in a codicil to the effect that the lake was very pretty. then the waiter came for our orders. "together, i s'pose?" remarked thomas, inquiringly, as he halted at the door and balanced the tray on his finger-tips. "yes, serve lunch for us together," said the ruddy old gentleman as he looked at me and smiled; "to eat alone is bad for the digestion." i nodded assent. "can you tell me how far it is to brantwood?" i asked. "oh, not far--just across the lake." he arose and flung the shutter open so i could see the old, yellow house about a mile across the water, nestling in its wealth of green on the hillside. soon the waiter brought our lunch, and while we discussed the chops and new potatoes we talked ruskiniana. the old gentleman knew a deal more of "stones of venice" and "modern painters" than i; but i told him how thoreau introduced ruskin to america and how concord was the first place in the new world to recognize this star in the east. and upon my saying this, the old gentleman brought his knife-handle down on the table, declaring that thoreau and whitman were the only two men of genius that america had produced. i begged him to make it three and include emerson, which he finally consented to do. by and by the waiter cleared the table preparatory to bringing in the coffee. the old gentleman pushed his chair back, took the napkin from under his double chin, brushed the crumbs from his goodly front, and remarked: "i'm going over to brantwood this afternoon to call on mr. ruskin--just to pay my respects to him, as i always do when i come here. can't you go with me?" i think this was about the most pleasing question i ever had asked me. i was going to request him to "come again" just for the joy of hearing the words, but i pulled my dignity together, straightened up, swallowed my coffee red-hot, pushed my chair back, flourished my napkin, and said, "i shall be very pleased to go." so we went--we two--he in his knickerbockers and i in my checks and outing-shirt. i congratulated myself on looking no worse than he, and as for him, he never seemed to think that our costumes were not exactly what they should be; and after all it matters little how you dress when you call on one of nature's noblemen--they demand no livery. we walked around the northern end of coniston water, along the eastern edge, past tent house, where tennyson once lived (and found it "outrageous quiet"), and a mile farther on we came to brantwood. the road curves in to the back of the house--which, by the way, is the front--and the driveway is lined with great trees that form a complete archway. there is no lodge-keeper, no flowerbeds laid out with square and compass, no trees trimmed to appear like elephants, no cast-iron dogs, nor terra-cotta deer, and, strangest of all, no sign of the lawn-mower. there is nothing, in fact, to give forth a sign that the great apostle of beauty lives in this very old-fashioned spot. big boulders are to be seen here and there where nature left them, tangles of vines running over old stumps, part of the meadow cut close with a scythe, and part growing up as if the owner knew the price of hay. then there are flowerbeds, where grow clusters of poppies and hollyhocks (purple, and scarlet, and white), prosaic gooseberry-bushes, plain yankee pieplant (from which the english make tarts), rue and sweet marjoram, with patches of fennel, sage, thyme and catnip, all lined off with boxwood, making me think of my grandmother's garden at roxbury. on the hillside above the garden we saw the entrance to the cave that mr. ruskin once filled with ice, just to show the world how to keep its head cool at small expense. he even wrote a letter to the papers giving the bright idea to humanity--that the way to utilize caves was to fill them with ice. then he forgot all about the matter. but the following june, when the cook, wishing to make some ice-cream as a glad surprise for the sunday dinner, opened the natural ice-chest, she found only a pool of muddy water, and exclaimed, "botheration!" then they had custard instead of ice-cream. we walked up the steps, and my friend let the brass knocker drop just once, for only americans give a rat-a-tat-tat, and the door was opened by a white-whiskered butler, who took our cards and ushered us into the library. my heart beat a trifle fast as i took inventory of the room; for i never before had called on a man who was believed to have refused the poet-laureateship. a dimly lighted room was this library--walls painted brown, running up to mellow yellow at the ceiling, high bookshelves, with a stepladder, and only five pictures on the walls, and of these three were etchings, and two water-colors of a very simple sort; leather-covered chairs; a long table in the center, on which were strewn sundry magazines and papers, also several photographs; and at one end of the room a big fireplace, where a yew log smoldered. here my inventory was cut short by a cheery voice behind: "ah! now, gentlemen, i am glad to see you." there was no time nor necessity for a formal introduction. the great man took my hand as if he had always known me, as perhaps he thought he had. then he greeted my friend in the same way, stirred up the fire, for it was a north of england summer day, and took a seat by the table. we were all silent for a space--a silence without embarrassment. "you are looking at the etching over the fireplace--it was sent to me by a young lady in america," said mr. ruskin, "and i placed it there to get acquainted with it. i like it more and more. do you know the scene?" i knew the scene and explained somewhat about it. mr. ruskin has the faculty of making his interviewer do most of the talking. he is a rare listener, and leans forward, putting a hand behind his right ear to get each word you say. he was particularly interested in the industrial conditions of america, and i soon found myself "occupying the time," while an occasional word of interrogation from mr. ruskin gave me no chance to stop. i came to hear him, not to defend our "republican experiment," as he was pleased to call the united states of america. yet mr. ruskin was so gentle and respectful in his manner, and so complimentary in his attitude of listener, that my impatience at his want of sympathy for our "experiment" only caused me to feel a little heated. "the fact of women being elected to mayoralties in kansas makes me think of certain african tribes that exalt their women into warriors--you want your women to fight your political battles!" "you evidently hold the same opinion on the subject of equal rights that you expressed some years ago," interposed my companion. "what did i say--really i have forgotten?" "you replied to a correspondent, saying: 'you are certainly right as to my views respecting the female franchise. so far from wishing to give votes to women, i would fain take them away from most men.'" "surely that was a sensible answer. my respect for woman is too great to force on her increased responsibilities. then as for restricting the franchise with men, i am of the firm conviction that no man should be allowed to vote who does not own property, or who can not do considerably more than read and write. the voter makes the laws, and why should the laws regulating the holding of property be made by a man who has no interest in property beyond a covetous desire; or why should he legislate on education when he possesses none! then again, women do not bear arms to protect the state." "but what do you say to mrs. carlock, who answers that inasmuch as men do not bear children, they have no right to vote: going to war possibly being necessary and possibly not, but the perpetuity of the state demanding that some one bear children?" "the lady's argument is ingenious, but lacks force when we consider that the bearing of arms is a matter relating to statecraft, while the baby question is dame nature's own, and is not to be regulated even by the sovereign." then mr. ruskin talked for nearly fifteen minutes on the duty of the state to the individual--talked very deliberately, but with the clearness and force of a man who believes what he says and says what he believes. thus, my friend, by a gentle thrust under the fifth rib of mr. ruskin's logic, caused him to come to the rescue of his previously expressed opinions, and we had the satisfaction of hearing him discourse earnestly and eloquently. maiden ladies usually have an opinion ready on the subject of masculine methods, and, conversely, much of the world's logic on the "woman question" has come from the bachelor brain. mr. ruskin went quite out of his way on several occasions in times past to attack john stuart mill for heresy "in opening up careers for women other than that of wife and mother." when mill did not answer mr. ruskin's newspaper letters, the author of "sesame and lilies" called him a "cretinous wretch" and referred to him as "the man of no imagination." mr. mill may have been a cretinous wretch (i do not exactly understand the phrase), but the preface to "on liberty" is at once the tenderest, highest and most sincere compliment paid to a woman, of which i know. the life of mr. and mrs. john stuart mill shows that perfect mating is possible; yet mr. ruskin has only scorn for the opinions of mr. mill on a subject which mill came as near personally solving in a matrimonial "experiment" as any other public man of modern times, not excepting even robert browning. therefore we might suppose mr. mill entitled to speak on the woman question, and i intimated as much to mr. ruskin. "he might know all about one woman, and if he should regard her as a sample of all womankind, would he not make a great mistake?" i was silenced. in "fors clavigera," letter lix, the author says: "i never wrote a letter in my life which all the world is not welcome to read." from this one might imagine that mr. ruskin never loved--no pressed flowers in books; no passages of poetry double-marked and scored; no bundles of letters faded and yellow, sacred for his own eye, tied with white or dainty blue ribbon; no little nothings hidden away in the bottom of a trunk. and yet mr. ruskin has his ideas on the woman question, and very positive ideas they are too--often sweetly sympathetic and wisely helpful. i see that one of the encyclopedias mentions ruskin as a bachelor, which is giving rather an extended meaning to the word, for although mr. ruskin married, he was not mated. according to collingwood's account, this marriage was a quiet arrangement between parents. anyway, the genius is like the profligate in this: when he marries he generally makes a woman miserable. and misery is reactionary as well as infectious. ruskin is a genius. genius is unique. no satisfactory analysis of it has yet been given. we know a few of its indications--that's all. first among these is ability to concentrate. no seed can sow genius; no soil can grow it: its quality is inborn and defies both cultivation and extermination. to be surpassed is never pleasant; to feel your inferiority is to feel a pang. seldom is there a person great enough to find satisfaction in the success of a friend. the pleasure that excellence gives is oft tainted by resentment; and so the woman who marries a genius is usually unhappy. genius is excess: it is obstructive to little plans. it is difficult to warm yourself at a conflagration; the tempest may blow you away; the sun dazzles; lightning seldom strikes gently; the nile overflows. genius has its times of straying off into the infinite--and then what is the good wife to do for companionship? does she protest, and find fault? it could not be otherwise, for genius is dictatorial without knowing it, obstructive without wishing to be, intolerant unawares, and unsocial because it can not help it. the wife of a genius sometimes takes his fits of abstraction for stupidity, and having the man's interests at heart she endeavors to arouse him from his lethargy by chiding him. occasionally he arouses enough to chide back; and so it has become an axiom that genius is not domestic. a short period of mismated life told the wife of ruskin their mistake, and she told him. but mrs. grundy was at the keyhole, ready to tell the world, and so mr. and mrs. ruskin sought to deceive society by pretending to live together. they kept up this appearance for six sorrowful years, and then the lady simplified the situation by packing her trunks and deliberately leaving her genius to his chimeras; her soul doubtless softened by the knowledge that she was bestowing a benefit on him by going away. the lady afterwards became the happy wife and helpmeet of a great artist. ruskin's father was a prosperous importer of wines. he left his son a fortune equal to a little more than one million dollars. but that vast fortune has gone---principal and interest--gone in bequests, gifts and experiments; and today mr. ruskin has no income save that derived from the sale of his books. talk about "distribution of wealth"! here we have it. the bread-and-butter question has never troubled john ruskin except in his ever-ardent desire that others should be fed. his days have been given to study and writing from his very boyhood; he has made money, but he has had no time to save it. he has expressed himself on every theme that interests mankind, except perhaps "housemaid's knee." he has written more letters to the newspapers than "old subscriber," "fiat justitia," "indignant reader" and "veritas" combined. his opinions have carried much weight and directed attention into necessary lines; but perhaps his success as an inspirer of thought lies in the fact that his sense of humor exists only as a trace, as the chemist might say. men who perceive the ridiculous would never have voiced many of the things which he has said. surely those sioux indians who stretched a hay lariat across the union pacific railroad in order to stop the running of trains had small sense of the ridiculous. but it looks as if they were apostles of ruskin, every one. some one has said that no man can appreciate the beautiful who has not a keen sense of humor. for the beautiful is the harmonious, and the laughable is the absence of fit adjustment. mr. ruskin disproves the maxim. but let no hasty soul imagine that john ruskin's opinions on practical themes are not useful. he brings to bear an energy on every subject he touches (and what subject has he not touched?) that is sure to make the sparks of thought fly. his independent and fearless attitude awakens from slumber a deal of dozing intellect, and out of this strife of opinion comes truth. on account of mr. ruskin's refusing at times to see visitors, reports have gone abroad that his mind was giving way. not so, for although he is seventy-four he is as serenely stubborn as he ever was. his opposition to new inventions in machinery has not relaxed a single pulley's turn. you grant his premises and in his conclusions you will find that his belt never slips, and that his logic never jumps a cog. his life is as regular and exact as the trains on the great western, and his days are more peaceful than ever before. he has regular hours for writing, study, walking, reading, eating, and working out of doors, superintending the cultivation of his hundred acres. he told me that he had not varied a half-hour in two years from a certain time of going to bed or getting up in the morning. although his form is bowed, this regularity of life has borne fruit in the rich russet of his complexion, the mild, clear eye, and the pleasure in living in spite of occasional pain, which you know the man feels. his hair is thick and nearly white; the beard is now worn quite long and gives a patriarchal appearance to the fine face. when we arose to take our leave, mr. ruskin took a white felt hat from the elk-antlers in the hallway and a stout stick from the corner, and offered to show us a nearer way back to the village. we walked down a footpath through the tall grass to the lake, where he called our attention to various varieties of ferns that he had transplanted there. we shook hands with the old gentleman and thanked him for the pleasure he had given us. he was still examining the ferns when we lifted our hats and bade him good-day. he evidently did not hear us, for i heard him mutter: "i verily believe those miserable cook's tourists that were down here yesterday picked some of my ferns." william e. gladstone as the aloe is said to flower only once in a hundred years, so it seems to be but once in a thousand years that nature blossoms into this unrivaled product and produces such a man as we have here. --_gladstone, "lecture on homer_" [illustration: william e. gladstone] american travelers in england are said to accumulate sometimes large and unique assortments of lisps, drawls and other very peculiar things. of the value of these acquirements as regards their use and beauty, i have not room here to speak. but there is one adjunct which england has that we positively need, and that is "boots." it may be that boots is indigenous to england's soil, and that when transplanted he withers and dies; perhaps there is a quality in our atmosphere that kills him. anyway, we have no boots. when trouble, adversity or bewilderment comes to the homesick traveler in an american hotel, to whom can he turn for consolation? alas, the porter is afraid of the "guest," and all guests are afraid of the clerk, and the proprietor is never seen, and the afro-americans in the dining-room are stupid, and the chambermaid does not answer the ring, and at last the weary wanderer hies him to the barroom and soon discovers that the worthy "barkeep" has nothing to recommend him but his diamond-pin. how different, yes, how different, this would all be if boots were only here! at the quaint old city of chester i was met at the "sti-shun" by the boots of that excellent though modest hotel which stands only a block away. boots picked out my baggage without my looking for it, took me across to the inn, and showed me to the daintiest, most homelike little room i had seen for weeks. on the table was a tastefully decorated "jug," evidently just placed there in anticipation of my arrival, and in this jug was a large bunch of gorgeous roses, the morning dew still on them. when boots had brought me hot water for shaving he disappeared and did not come back until, by the use of telepathy (for boots is always psychic), i had sent him a message that he was needed. in the afternoon he went with me to get a draft cashed, then he identified me at the post-office, and introduced me to a dignitary at the cathedral whose courtesy added greatly to my enjoyment of the visit. the next morning after breakfast, when i returned to my room, everything was put to rights and a fresh bouquet of cut flowers was on the mantel. a good breakfast adds much to one's inward peace: i sat down before the open window and looked out at the great oaks dotting the green meadows that stretched away to the north, and listened to the drowsy tinkle of sheep-bells as the sound came floating in on the perfumed breeze. i was thinking how good it was to be here, when the step of boots was heard in the doorway. i turned and saw that mine own familiar friend had lost a little of his calm self-reliance--in fact, he was a bit agitated, but he soon recovered his breath. "mr. gladstone and 'is lady 'ave just arrived, sir--they will be 'ere for an hour before taking the train for lunnon, sir. i told 'is clark there was a party of americans 'ere that were very anxious to meet 'im, and he will receive you in the parlor in fifteen minutes, sir." then it was my turn to be agitated. but boots reassured me by explaining that the grand old man was just the plainest, most unpretentious gentleman one could imagine; that it was not at all necessary that i should change my suit; that i should pronounce it gladstun, not glad-stone, and that it was harden, not ha-war-den. then he stood me up, looked me over, and declared that i was all right. on going downstairs i found that boots had gotten together five americans who happened to be in the hotel. he introduced us to a bright little man who seemed to be the companion or secretary of the prime minister; he, in turn, took us into the parlor where mr. gladstone sat reading the morning paper, and presented us one by one to the great man. we were each greeted with a pleasant word and a firm grasp of the hand, and then the old gentleman turned and with a courtly flourish said, "gentlemen, allow me to present you to mrs. gladstone." mr. gladstone was wise: he remained standing; this was sure to shorten the interview. a clergyman in our party who had an impressive cough and bushy whiskers, acted as spokesman, and said several pleasant things, closing his little speech by informing mr. gladstone that americans held him in great esteem, and that we only regretted that fate had not decreed that he should have been born in the united states. mr. gladstone replied, "fate is often unkind." then he asked if we were going to london. on being told that we were, he spoke for five minutes about the things we should see in the metropolis. his style was not conversational, but after the manner of a man who was much used to speaking in public or to receiving delegations. the sentences were stately, the voice rather loud and declamatory. his closing words were: "yes, gentlemen, the way to see london is from the top of a 'bus--from the top of a 'bus, gentlemen." then there was an almost imperceptible wave of the hand, and we knew that the interview was ended. in a moment we were outside and the door was closed. the five americans who made up our little company had never met before, but now we were as brothers; we adjourned to a side-room to talk it over and tell of the things we intended to say but didn't. we all talked and talked at once, just as people do who have recently preserved an enforced silence. "how ill-fitting was that gray suit!" "yes, the sleeves too long." "did you notice the absence of the forefinger of his left hand--shot off in eighteen hundred forty-five while hunting, they say." "but how strong his voice is!" "he looks like a farmer." "eighty-five years of age! think of it, and how vigorous!" then the preacher spoke and his voice was sorrowful: "oh, but i made a botch of it--was it sarcasm or was it not?" "was what sarcasm?" "when mr. gladstone said that fate was unkind in not having him born in the united states!" and we were all silent. then boots came in, and we put the question to boots, who decided it was not sarcasm. the next day, when we went away, we rewarded boots bountifully. * * * * * william gladstone is england's glory. yet there is no english blood in his veins; his parents were scotch. aside from lord brougham, he is the only scotchman who has ever taken a prominent part in british statecraft. the name as we first find it is gled-stane, "gled" being a hawk--literally, a hawk that lives among the stones. surely the hawk is fully as respectable a bird as the eagle, and a goodly amount of granite in the clay that is used to make a man is no disadvantage. the name fits. there are deep-rooted theories in the minds of many men (and still more women) that bad boys make good men, and that a dash of the pirate, even in a prelate, does not disqualify. but i wish to come to the defense of the sunday-school story-books and show that their very prominent moral is right after all: it pays to be "good." william ewart gladstone was sent to eton when twelve years of age. from the first, his conduct was a model of propriety. he attended every chapel service, and said his prayers in the morning and before going to bed at night; he could repeat the catechism backwards or forwards, and recite more verses of scripture than any other boy in school. he always spoke the truth. he never played "hookey"; nor, as he grew older, would he tell stories of doubtful flavor, or allow others to relate such in his presence. his influence was for good, and cardinal manning has said that there was less wine drunk at oxford during the forties than would have been the case if gladstone had not been there in the thirties. he graduated from christchurch with the highest possible honors the college could bestow, and at twenty-two he seemed like one who had sprung into life full-armed. at that time he had magnificent health, a fine form, vast and varied knowledge, and a command of language so great that he was a master of forensics. his speeches were fully equal to his later splendid efforts. in feature he was handsome: the face bold and masculine; eyes of piercing luster; and hair, which he tossed when in debate, like a lion's mane. he could speak five languages, sing tenor, dance gracefully, and was on more than speaking terms with many of the best and greatest men in england. besides all this he was rich in british gold. now, here is a combination of good things that would send most young men straight to perdition--not so gladstone. he took the best care of his health, systematized his time as a miser might, listened not to the flatterers, and used his money only for good purposes. his intention was to enter the church, but his father said, "not yet," and half-forced him into politics. so, at this early age of twenty-two, he ran for parliament, was elected, and has practically never been out of the shadow of westminster palace during these sixty-odd years. at thirty-three, he was a member of the cabinet. at thirty-six, his absolute honesty compelled him for conscience' sake to resign from the ministry. his opponents then said, "gladstone is an extinct volcano," and they have said this again and again; but somehow the volcano always breaks out in a new place, stronger and brighter than ever. it is difficult to subdue a volcano. when twenty-nine, he married catherine glynne, sister and heir of sir stephen glynne, baronet. the marriage was most fortunate in every way. for over fifty years this most excellent woman has been his comrade, counselor, consolation, friend--his wife. "how can any adversity come to him who hath a wife?" said chaucer. if this splendid woman had died, then his opponents might truthfully have said, "gladstone is an extinct volcano"; but she is still with him, and a short time ago, when he had to undergo an operation for cataract, this woman of eighty was his only nurse. the influence of gladstone has been of untold value to england. his ideals for national action have been high. to the material prosperity of the country he has added millions upon millions; he has made education popular, and schooling easy; his policy in the main has been such as to command the admiration of the good and great. but there are spots on the sun. on reading mr. gladstone's books i find he has vigorously defended certain measures that seem unworthy of his genius. he has palliated human slavery as a "necessary evil"; has maintained the visibility and divine authority of the church; has asserted the mathematical certainty of the historic episcopate, the mystical efficacy of the sacraments; and has vindicated the church of england as the god-appointed guardian of truth. he has fought bitterly any attempt to improve the divorce-laws of england. much has been done in this line, even in spite of his earnest opposition, but we now owe it to mr. gladstone that there is on england's law-books a statute providing that if a wife leaves her husband he can invoke a magistrate, whose duty it will then be to issue a writ and give it to an officer, who will bring her back. more than this, when the officer has returned the woman, the loving husband has the legal right to "reprove" her. just what reprove means the courts have not yet determined; for, in a recent decision, when a costermonger admitted having given his lady "a taste of the cat," the prisoner was discharged on the ground that it was only needed reproof. i would not complain of this law if it worked both ways; but no wife can demand that the state shall return her "man" willy-nilly. and if she administers reproof to her mate, she does it without the sanction of the sovereign. however, in justice to englishmen, it should be stated that while this unique law still stands on the statute-books, it is very seldom that a man in recent years has stooped to invoke it. on all the questions i have named, from slavery to divorce, mr. gladstone has used the "bible argument." but as the years have gone by, his mind has become liberalized, and on many points where he was before zealous he is now silent. in eighteen hundred forty-one, he argued with much skill and ingenuity that jews were not entitled to full rights of citizenship, but in eighteen hundred forty-seven, acknowledging his error, he took the other side. during the war of secession the sympathies of england's chancellor of the exchequer were with the south. speaking at newcastle on october ninth, eighteen hundred sixty-two, he said, "jefferson davis has undoubtedly founded a new nation." but five years passed, and he publicly confessed that he was wrong. here is a man who, if he should err deeply, is yet so great that, like cotton mather, he might not hesitate to stand uncovered on the street-corners and ask the forgiveness of mankind. such men are saved by their enemies. their own good and the good of humanity require that their balance of power shall not be too great. had the north gone down, gladstone might never have seen his mistake. in this instance and in many others, he has not been the leader of progress, but its echo: truth has been forced upon him. his passionate earnestness, his intense volition, his insensibility to moral perspective, his blindness to the sense of proportion, might have led him into dangerous excess and frightful fanatical error, if it were not for the fact that such men create an opposition that is their salvation. to analyze a character so complex as mr. gladstone's requires the grasp of genius. we speak of "the duality of the human mind," but here are half a dozen spirits in one. they rule in turn, and occasionally several of them struggle for the mastery. when the fisk jubilee singers visited england, we find gladstone dropping the affairs of state to hear their music. he invited them to hawarden, where he sang with them. so impressed was he with the negro melodies that he anticipated that idea which has since been materialized: the founding of a national school of music that would seek to perfect in a scientific way these soul-stirring strains. he might have made a poet of no mean order; for his devotion to spiritual and physical beauty has made him a lifelong admirer of homer and dante. those who have met him when the mood was upon him have heard him recite by the hour from the "iliad" in the original. and yet the theology of homer belongs to the realm of natural religion with which mr. gladstone has little patience. a prominent member of the house of commons once said, "the only two things that the prime minister really cares for are religion and finance." the statement comes near truth; for the chief element in mr. gladstone's character is his devotion to religion; and his signal successes have been in the line of economics. he believes in free trade as the gospel of social salvation. he revels in figures; he has price, value, consumption, distribution, import, export, fluctuation, all at his tongue's end, ready to hurl at any one who ventures on a hasty generalization. and it is a significant fact that in his strong appeal for the disestablishment of the irish church, the stress of his argument was put on the point that the irish church was not in the line of the apostolic succession. mr. gladstone is grave, sober, earnest, proud, passionate, and at times romantic to a rare degree. he rebukes, refutes, contradicts, defies, and has a magnificent capacity for indignation. he will roar you like a lion, his eyes will flash, and his clenched fist will shake as he denounces that which he believes to be error. and yet among inferiors he will consult, defer, inquire, and show a humility, a forced suavity, that has given the caricaturist excuse. in his home he is gentle, amiable, always kind, social and hospitable. he loves deeply, and his friends revere him to a point that is but little this side of idolatry. and surely their affection is not misplaced. some day a plutarch without a plutarch's prejudice will arise, and with malice toward none, but with charity for all, he will write the life of the statesman, gladstone. over against this he will write the life of an american statesman. the name he will choose will be that of one born in a log hut in the forest; who was rocked by the foot of a mother whose hands meanwhile were busy at her wheel; who had no schooling, no wise and influential friends; who had few books and little time to read; who knew no formal religion; who never traveled out of his own country; who had no helpmeet, but who walked solitary--alone, a man of sorrows; down whose homely, furrowed face the tears of pity often ran, and yet whose name, strange paradox! stands in many minds as a symbol of mirth. and when the master comes, who has the power to portray with absolute fidelity the greatness of these two men, will it be to the disadvantage of the american? * * * * * the village of hawarden is in flintshire, north wales. it is seven miles from chester. i walked the distance one fine june morning--out across the battlefield where cromwell's army crushed that of charles; and on past old stone walls and stately elms. there had been a shower the night before, but the morning sun came out bright and warm and made the raindrops glisten like beads as they clung to each leaf and flower. larks sang and soared, and great flocks of crows called and cawed as they flew lazily across the sky. it was a time for silent peace, and quiet joy, and serene thankfulness for life and health. i walked leisurely, and in a little over two hours reached hawarden--a cluster of plain stone houses with climbing vines and flowers and gardens, which told of homely thrift and simple tastes. i went straight to the old stone church, which is always open, and rested for half an hour, listening to the organ on which a young girl was practising, instructed by a white-haired old gentleman. the church is dingy and stained inside and out by time. the pews are irregular, some curiously carved, and all stiff and uncomfortable. i walked around and read the inscriptions on the walls, and all the time the young girl played and the old gentleman beat time, and neither noticed my presence. one brass tablet i saw was to a woman "who for long years was a faithful servant at hawarden castle--erected in gratitude by w.e.g." near this was a memorial to w.h. gladstone, son of the premier, who died in eighteen hundred ninety-one. then there were inscriptions to various glynnes and several others whose names appear in english history. i stood at the reading-desk, where the great man has so often read, and marked the spot where william ewart gladstone and catherine glynne knelt when they were married here in july, eighteen hundred thirty-nine. a short distance from the church is the entrance to hawarden park. this fine property was the inheritance of mrs. gladstone; the park itself seems to belong to the public. if mr. gladstone were a plain citizen, people, of course, would not come by hundreds and picnic on his preserve, but serving the state, he and his possessions belong to the people, and this democratic familiarity is rather pleasing than otherwise. so great has been the throng in times past, that an iron fence had to be placed about the ivy-covered ruins of the ancient castle, to protect it from those who threatened to carry it away by the pocketful. a wall has also been put around the present "castle" (more properly, house). this was done some years ago, i was told by the butler, after a torchlight procession of a thousand enthusiastic admirers had come down from liverpool and trampled mrs. gladstone's flowers into "smithereens." the park contains many hundred acres, and is as beautiful as an english park can be, and this is praise superlative. flocks of sheep wander over the soft, green turf, and beneath the spreading trees are sleek cows which seem used to visitors, and with big, open eyes come up to be petted. occasional signs are seen: "please spare the trees." some people suppose that this is an injunction which mr. gladstone himself has never observed. but when in his tree-cutting days, no monarch of the forest was ever felled without its case being fully tried by the entire household. ruskin, once, visiting at hawarden, sat as judge, and after listening to the evidence gave sentence against several trees that were rotten at the core or overshadowing their betters. then the prime minister shouldered his faithful "snickersnee" and went forth as executioner. i looked in vain for stumps, and on inquiry was told that they were all dug out, and the ground leveled so no trace was left of the offender. the "lady of the house" at hawarden is the second daughter of mr. and mrs. gladstone. all accounts agree that she is a most capable and excellent woman. she is her father's "home secretary" and confidante, and in his absence takes full charge of the mail and looks after important business affairs. her husband, the reverend harry drew, is rector of hawarden church. i had the pleasure of meeting mr. drew and found him very cordial and perfectly willing to talk about the great man who is grandfather to his baby. we also talked of america, and i soon surmised that mr. drew's ideas of "the states" were largely derived from a visit to the wild west show. so i put the question to him direct: "did you see buffalo bill?" "oh, yes." "and did mr. gladstone go?" "not only once, but three times, and he cheered as loudly as any boy." the gladstone residence is a great, rambling, stone structure to which additions have been made from one generation to another. the towers and battlements are merely architectural appendiculæ, but the effect of the whole, when viewed from a distance, rising out of its wealth of green and backed by the forest, is very imposing. i entered only the spacious front hallway and one room--the library. bookshelves and books and more books were everywhere; several desks of different designs (one an american roll-top), as if the owner transacted business at one, translated homer at another, and wrote social letters from a third. then there were several large japanese vases, a tiger-skin, beautiful rugs, a few large paintings, and in a rack a full dozen axes and twice as many "sticks." the whole place has an air of easy luxury that speaks of peace and plenty, of quiet and rest, of gentle thoughts and calm desires. as i walked across toward the village, the church-bell slowly pealed the hour; over the distant valley, night hovered; a streak of white mist, trailing like a thin veil, marked the passage of the murmuring brook. i thought of the grand old man over whose domain i was now treading, and my wonder was, not that one should live so long and still be vigorous, but that a man should live in such an idyllic spot, with love and books to keep him company, and yet grow old. j.m.w. turner i believe that these works of turner's are at their first appearing as perfect as those of phidias or leonardo, that is to say, incapable of any improvement conceivable by human mind. --_john ruskin_ [illustration: j.m.w. turner] the beauty of the upper thames with its fairy house-boats and green banks has been sung by poets, but rash is the minstrel who tunes his lyre to sound the praises of this muddy stream in the vicinity of chelsea. as yellow as the tiber and thick as the missouri after a flood, it comes twice a day bearing upon its tossing tide a unique assortment of uncanny sights and sickening smells from the swarming city of men below. chelsea was once a country village six miles from london bridge. now the far-reaching arms of the metropolis have taken it as her own. chelsea may be likened to some rare spinster, grown old with years and good works, and now having a safe home with a rich and powerful benefactress. yet chelsea is not handsome in her old age, and chelsea was not pretty in youth, nor fair to view in middle life; but chelsea has been the foster-mother of several of the rarest and fairest souls who have ever made the earth pilgrimage. and the greatness of genius still rests upon chelsea. as we walk slowly through its winding ways, by the edge of its troubled waters, among dark and crooked turns, through curious courts, by old gateways and piles of steepled stone, where flocks of pigeons wheel, and bells chime, and organs peal, and winds sigh, we know that all has been sanctified by their presence. and their spirits abide with us, and the splendid beauty of their visions is about us. for the stones beneath our feet have been hallowed by their tread, and the walls have borne their shadows; so all mean things are transfigured and over all these plain and narrow streets their glory gleams. and it is the great men and they alone that can render a place sacred. chelsea is now to the lovers of the beautiful a sacred name, a sacred soil; a place of pilgrimage where certain gods of art once lived, and loved, and worked, and died. sir thomas more lived here and had for a frequent guest erasmus. hans sloane began in chelsea the collection of curiosities which has now developed into the british museum. bishop atterbury (who claimed that dryden was a greater poet than shakespeare), dean swift and doctor arbuthnot, all lived in church street; richard steele just around the corner and leigh hunt in cheyne row; but it was from another name that the little street was to be immortalized. if france constantly has forty immortals in the flesh, surely it is a modest claim to say that chelsea has three for all time: thomas carlyle, george eliot and joseph mallord william turner. turner's father was a barber. his youth was passed in poverty and his advantages for education were very slight. and all this in the crowded city of london, where merit may knock long and still not be heard, and in a country where wealth and title count for much. when a boy, barefoot and ragged, he would wander away alone on the banks of the river and dream dreams about wonderful palaces and beautiful scenes; and then he would trace with a stick in the sands, endeavoring, with mud, to make plain to the eye the things that his soul saw. his mother was quite sure that no good could come from this vagabondish nature, and she did not spare the rod, for she feared that the desire to scrawl and daub would spoil the child. but he was a stubborn lad, with a pug-nose and big, dreamy, wondering eyes, and a heavy jaw; and when parents see that they have such a son, they had better hang up the rod behind the kitchen-door and lay aside force and cease scolding. for love is better than a cat-o'-nine-tails, and sympathy saves more souls than threats. the elder turner considered that the proper use of a brush was to lather chins. but the boy thought differently, and once surreptitiously took one of his father's brushes to paint a picture; the brush on being returned to its cup was used the next day upon a worthy haberdasher, whose cheeks were shortly colored a vermilion that matched his nose. this lost the barber a customer and secured the boy a thrashing. young turner did not always wash his father's shop-windows well, nor sweep off the sidewalk properly. like all boys he would rather work for some one else than for "his folks." he used to run errands for an engraver by the name of smith--john raphael smith. once, when smith sent the barber's boy with a letter to a certain art-gallery with orders to "get the answer and hurry back, mind you!" the boy forgot to get the answer and to hurry back. then another boy was dispatched after the first, and boy number two found boy number one sitting, with staring eyes and open mouth, in the art-gallery before a painting of claude lorraine's. when boy number one was at last forcibly dragged away, and reached the shop of his master, he got his ears well cuffed for his forgetfulness. but from that day forth he was not the same being that he had been before his eyes fell on that claude lorraine. he was transformed, as much so as was lazarus after he was called from beyond the portals of death and had come back to earth, bearing in his heart the secrets of the grave. from that time turner thought of claude lorraine during the day and dreamed of him at night, and he stole his way into every exhibition where a claude was to be seen. and now i wish that claude lorraine was the subject of this sketch, as well as turner, for his life is a picture full of sweetest poetry, framed in a world of dullest prose. the eyes of this boy, whom they had thought dreamy, dull and listless, now shone with a different light. he thirsted to achieve, to do, to become--yes, to become a greater painter than claude lorraine. his employer saw the change and smiled at it, but he allowed the lad to put in backgrounds and add the skies to cheap prints, just because the youngster teased to do it. then one day a certain patron of the shop came and looked over the shoulder of the turner boy, and he said, "he has skill--perhaps talent." and i think the recording angel should give this man a separate page in the book of remembrance and write his name in illuminated colors, for he gave young turner access to his own collection and to his library, and he never cuffed him nor kicked him nor called him dunce--whereat the boy was much surprised. but he encouraged the youth to sketch a picture in water-colors and then he bought the picture and paid him ten shillings for it; and the name of this man was doctor munro. the next year, when young turner was fourteen, doctor munro had him admitted to the royal academy as a student, and in seventeen hundred ninety he exhibited a water-color of the archbishop's palace at lambeth. the picture took no prize, and doubtless was not worthy of one, but from now on joseph m.w. turner was an artist, and other hands had to sweep the barber-shop. but he sold few pictures--they were not popular. other artists scorned him, possibly intuitively fearing him, for mediocrity always fears when the ghost of genius does not down at its bidding. then turner was accounted unsociable; besides, he was ragged, uncouth, independent, and did not conform to the ways of society; so the select circle cast him out--more properly speaking, did not let him in. still he worked on, and exhibited at every academy exhibition, yet he was often hungry, and the london fog crept cold and damp through his threadbare clothes. but he toiled on, for claude lorraine was ever before him. in eighteen hundred two, when twenty-seven years of age, he visited france and made a tour through switzerland, tramping over many long miles with his painting-kit on his back, and he brought back rich treasures in way of sketches and quickened imagination. in the years following he took many such trips, and came to know venice, rome, florence and paris as perfectly as his own london. when thirty-three years of age he was still worshiping at the shrine of claude lorraine. his pictures painted at this time are evidence of his ideal, and his book, "liber studiorum," issued in eighteen hundred eight, is modeled after the "liber veritatis." but the book surpasses claude's, and turner knew it, and this may have led him to burst his shackles and cast loose from his idol. for, in eighteen hundred fifteen, we find him working according to his own ideas, showing an originality and audacity in conception and execution that made him the butt of the critics, and caused consternation to rage through the studios of competitors. gradually, it dawned upon a few scattered collectors that things so strongly condemned must have merit, for why should the pack bay so loudly if there were no quarry! so to have a turner was at least something for your friends to discuss. then carriages began to stop before the dingy building at forty-seven queen anne street, and broadcloth and satin mounted the creaking stairs to the studio. it happened about this time that turner's prices began to increase. like the sibyl of old, if a customer said, "i do not want it," the painter put an extra ten pounds on the price. for "dido building carthage," turner's original price was five hundred pounds. people came to see the picture and they said, "the price is too high." next day turner's price for the "carthage" was one thousand pounds. finally, sir robert peel offered the painter five thousand pounds for the picture, but turner said he had decided to keep it for himself, and he did. in the forepart of his career he sold few pictures--for the simple reason that no one wanted them. and he sold few pictures during the latter years of his life, for the reason that his prices were so high that none but the very rich could buy. first, the public scorned turner. next, turner scorned the public. in the beginning it would not buy his pictures, and later it could not. a frivolous public and a shallow press, from his first exhibition, when fifteen years of age, to his last, when seventy, made sport of his originalities. but for merit there is a recompense in sneers, and a benefit in sarcasms, and a compensation in hate; for when these things get too pronounced a champion appears. and so it was with turner. next to having a boswell write one's life, what is better than a ruskin to uphold one's cause! success came slowly; his wants were few, but his ambition never slackened, and finally the dreams of his youth became the realities of his manhood. at twenty, turner loved a beautiful girl--they became engaged. he went away on a tramp sketching-tour and wrote his ladylove just one short letter each month. he believed that "absence only makes the heart grow fonder," not knowing that this statement is only the vagary of a poet. when he returned the lady was betrothed to another. he gave the pair his blessing, and remained a bachelor--a very confirmed bachelor. perhaps, however, the reason his fiancee proved untrue was not through lack of the epistles he wrote her, but on account of them. in the british museum i examined several letters written by turner. they appeared very much like copy for a josh billings almanac. such originality in spelling, punctuation and use of capitals! it was admirable in its uniqueness. turner did not think in words--he could only think in paint. but the young lady did not know this, and when a letter came from her homely little lover she was shocked, then she laughed, then she showed these letters to a nice young man who was clerk to a fishmonger and he laughed, then they both laughed. then this nice young man and this beautiful young lady became engaged, and they were married at saint andrew's on a lovely may morning. and they lived happily ever afterward. turner was small, and in appearance plain. yet he was big enough to paint a big picture, and he was not so homely as to frighten away all beautiful women. but philip gilbert hamerton tells us, "fortunate in many things, turner was lamentably unfortunate in this: that throughout his whole life he never came under the ennobling and refining influence of a good woman." like plato, michelangelo, sir isaac newton and his own claude lorraine, he was wedded to his art. but at sixty-five his genius suddenly burst forth afresh, and his work, mr. ruskin says, at that time exceeded in daring brilliancy and in the rich flowering of imagination, anything that he had previously done. mr. ruskin could give no reason, but rumor says, "a woman." the one weakness of our hero, that hung to him for life, was the idea that he could write poetry. the tragedian always thinks he can succeed in comedy; the comedian spends hours in his garret rehearsing tragedy; most preachers have an idea that they could have made a quick fortune in business, and many businessmen are very sure that if they had taken to the pulpit there would now be fewer empty pews. so the greatest landscape-painter of recent times imagined himself a poet. hamerton says that for remarkable specimens of grammar, spelling and construction turner's verse would serve well to be given to little boys to correct. one spot in turner's life over which i like to linger is his friendship with sir walter scott. they collaborated in the production of "provincial antiquities," and spent many happy hours together tramping over scottish moors and mountains. sir walter lived out his days in happy ignorance concerning the art of painting, and although he liked the society of turner, he confessed that it was quite beyond his ken why people bought his pictures. "and as for your books," said turner, "the covers of some are certainly very pretty." yet these men took a satisfaction in each other's society, such as brothers might enjoy, but without either man appreciating the greatness of the other. turner's temperament was audacious, self-centered, self-reliant, eager for success and fame, yet at the same time scorning public opinion--a paradox often found in the artistic mind of the first class; silent always--with a bitter silence, disdaining to tell his meaning when the critics could not perceive it. he was above all things always the artist, never the realist. the realist pictures the things he sees; the artist expresses that which he feels. children, and all simple folk who use pen, pencil or brush, describe the things they behold. as intellect develops and goes more in partnership with hand, imagination soars, and things are outlined that no man can see except he be able to perceive the invisible. to appreciate a work of art you must feel as the artist felt. now, it is very plain that the vast majority of people are not capable of this high sense of sublimity which the creative artist feels; and therefore they do not understand, and not understanding, they wax merry, or cynical, or sarcastic, or wrathful, or envious; or they pass by unmoved. and i maintain that those who pass by unmoved are more righteous than they who scoff. if i should attempt to explain to my little girl the awe i feel when i contemplate the miracle of maternity, she would probably change the subject by prattling to me about a kitten she saw lapping milk from a blue saucer. if i should attempt to explain to some men what i feel when i contemplate the miracle of maternity, they would smile and turn it all into an unspeakable jest. is not the child nearer to god than the man? we thus see why to many browning is only a joke, whitman an eccentric, dante insane and turner a pretender. these have all sought to express things which the many can not feel, and consequently they have been, and are, the butt of jokes and jibes innumerable. "except ye become as little children," etc.--and yet the scoffers are often people of worth. nothing so shows the limitation of humanity as this: genius often does not appreciate genius. the inspired, strangely enough, are like the fools, they do not recognize inspiration. an englishman called on voltaire and found him in bed reading shakespeare. "what are you reading?" asked the visitor. "your shakespeare!" said the philosopher; and as he answered he flung the book across the room. "he's not my shakespeare," said the englishman. greene, rymer, dryden, warburton and doctor johnson used collectively or individually the following expressions in describing the work of the author of "hamlet": conceit, overreach, word-play, extravagance, overdone, absurdity, obscurity, puerility, bombast, idiocy, untruth, improbability, drivel. byron wrote from florence to murray: "i know nothing of painting, and i abhor and spit upon all saints and so-called spiritual subjects that i see portrayed in these churches." but the past is so crowded with vituperation that it is difficult to select--besides that, we do not wish to--but let us take a sample of arrogance from yesterday to prove our point, and then drop the theme for something pleasanter. pew and pulpit have fallen over each other for the privilege of hitting darwin; a bishop warns his congregation that emerson is "dangerous"; spurgeon calls shelley a sensualist; doctor buckley speaks of susan b. anthony as the leader of "the short-haired"; talmage cracks jokes about evolution, referring feelingly to "monkey ancestry"; and a prominent divine of england writes the world's congress of religions down as "pious waxworks." these things being true, and all the sentiments quoted coming from "good" but blindly zealous men, is it a wonder that the artist is not understood? a brilliant picture, called "cologne--evening," attracted much attention at the academy exhibition of eighteen hundred twenty-six. one day the people who so often collected around turner's work were shocked to see that the beautiful canvas had lost its brilliancy, and evidently had been tampered with by some miscreant. a friend ran to inform turner of the bad news. "don't say anything. i only smirched it with lampblack. it was spoiling the effect of laurence's picture that hung next to it. the black will all wash off after the exhibition." and his tender treatment of his aged father shows the gentle side of his nature. the old barber, whose trembling hand could no longer hold a razor, wished to remain under his son's roof in guise of a servant; but the son said, "no; we fought the world together, and now that it seeks to do me honor, you shall share all the benefits." and turner never smiled when the little, wizened, old man would whisper to some visitor, "yes, yes; joseph is the greatest artist in england, and i am his father." turner had a way of sending ten-pound notes in blank envelopes to artists in distress, and he did this so frequently that the news got out finally, but never through turner's telling, and then he had to adopt other methods of doing good by stealth. i do not contend that turner's character was immaculate, but still it is very probable that worldlings do not appreciate what a small part of this great genius touched the mire. to prove the sordidness of the man, one critic tells, with visage awfully solemn, how turner once gave an engraving to a friend and then, after a year, sent demanding it back. but to a person with a groat's worth of wit the matter is plain: the dreamy, abstracted artist, who bumped into his next-door neighbors on the street and never knew them, forgot he had given the picture and believed he had only loaned it. this is made still more apparent by the fact that, when he sent for the engraving in question, he administered a rebuke to the man for keeping it so long. the poor dullard who received the note flew into a rage--returned the picture--sent his compliments and begged the great artist to "take your picture and go to the devil." then certain scribblers, who through mental disease had lost the capacity for mirth, dipped their pen in aqua fortis and wrote of the "innate meanness," the "malice prepense" and the "old adam" which dwelt in the heart of turner. no one laughed except a few irishmen, and an american or two, who chanced to hear of the story. of turner's many pictures i will mention in detail but two, both of which are to be seen on the walls of the national gallery. first, "the old temeraire." this warship had been sold out of service and was being towed away to be broken up. the scene was photographed on turner's brain, and he immortalized it on canvas. we can not do better than borrow the words of mr. ruskin: "of all pictures not visibly involving human pain, this is the most pathetic ever painted. "the utmost pensiveness which can ordinarily be given to a landscape depends on adjuncts of ruin, but no ruin was ever so affecting as the gliding of this ship to her grave. this particular ship, crowned in the trafalgar hour of trial with chief victory--surely, if ever anything without a soul deserved honor or affection we owe them here. surely, some sacred care might have been left in our thoughts for her; some quiet space amid the lapse of english waters! nay, not so. we have stern keepers to trust her glory to--the fire and the worm. nevermore shall sunset lay golden robe upon her, nor starlight tremble on the waves that part at her gliding. perhaps where the low gate opens to some cottage garden, the tired traveler may ask, idly, why the moss grows so green on the rugged wood; and even the sailor's child may not know that the night dew lies deep in the warrents of the old temeraire." "the burial of sir david wilkie at sea" has brought tears to many eyes. yet there is no burial. the ship is far away in the gloom of the offing; you can not distinguish a single figure on her decks; but you behold her great sails standing out against the leaden blackness of the night and you feel that out there a certain scene is being enacted. and if you listen closely you can hear the solemn voice of the captain as he reads the burial service. then there is a pause--a swift, sliding sound--a splash, and all is over. turner left to the british nation by his will nineteen thousand pencil and water-color sketches and one hundred large canvases. these pictures are now to be seen in the national gallery in rooms set apart and sacred to turner's work. for fear it may be thought that the number of sketches mentioned above is a misprint, let us say that if he had produced one picture a day for fifty years it would not equal the number of pieces bestowed by his will on the nation. this of course takes no account of the pictures sold during his lifetime, and, as he left a fortune of one hundred forty-four thousand pounds (seven hundred twenty thousand dollars), we may infer that not all his pictures were given away. at chelsea i stood in the little room where he breathed his last, that bleak day in eighteen-hundred fifty-one. the unlettered but motherly old woman who took care of him in those last days never guessed his greatness; none in the house or the neighborhood knew. to them he was only mr. booth, an eccentric old man of moderate means, who liked to muse, read, and play with children. he had no callers, no friends; he went to the city every day and came back at night. he talked but little, he was absent-minded, he smoked and thought and smiled and muttered to himself. he never went to church; but once one of the lodgers asked him what he thought of god. "god, god--what do i know of god, what does any one! he is our life--he is the all, but we need not fear him--all we can do is to speak the truth and do our work. tomorrow we go--where? i know not, but i am not afraid." of art, to these strangers he would never speak. once they urged him to go with them to an exhibition at kensington, but he smiled feebly as he lit his pipe and said, "an art exhibition? no, no; a man can show on a canvas so little of what he feels, it is not worth the while." at last he died--passed peacefully away--and his attorney came and took charge of his remains. many are the hard words that have been flung off by heedless tongues about turner's taking an assumed name and living in obscurity, but "what you call fault i call accent." surely, if a great man and world-famous desires to escape the flatterers and the silken mesh of so-called society and live the life of simplicity, he has a right to do so. again, turner was a very rich man in his old age; he did much for struggling artists and assisted aspiring merit in many ways. so it came about that his mail was burdened with begging letters, and his life made miserable by appeals from impecunious persons, good and bad, and from churches, societies and associations without number. he decided to flee them all; and he did. the "carthage" already mentioned is one of his finest works, and he esteemed it so highly that he requested that when death came, his body should be buried, wrapped in its magnificent folds. but the wish was disregarded. his remains rest in the crypt of saint paul's, beside the dust of reynolds. his statue, in marble, adorns a niche in the great cathedral, and his name is secure high on the roll of honor. and if for no other reason, the name and fame of chelsea should be deathless as the home of turner. jonathan swift they are but few and meanspirited that live in peace with all men. --_tale of a tub_ [illustration: jonathan swift] birrell, the great english essayist, remarks that, "of writing books about dean swift there is no end." the reason is plain: of no other prominent writer who has lived during the past two hundred years do we know so much. his life lies open to us in many books. boswell did not write his biography, but johnson did. then followed whole schools of little fishes, some of whom wrote like whales. but among the works of genuine worth and merit, with swift for a subject, we have sir walter scott's nineteen volumes, and lives by craik, mitford, forster, collins and leslie stephen. the positive elements in swift's character make him a most interesting subject to men and women who are yet on earth, for he was essentially of the earth, earthy. and until we are shown that the earth is wholly bad, we shall find much to amuse, much to instruct, much to admire--aye, much to pity--in the life of jonathan swift. his father married at twenty. his income matched his years--it was just twenty pounds per annum. his wife was a young girl, bright, animated, intelligent. in a few short months this girl carried in her arms a baby. this baby was wrapped in a tattered shawl and cried piteously from hunger, for the mother had not enough to eat. she was cold, and sick, and in disgrace. her husband, too, was ill, and sorely in debt. it was midwinter. when spring came, and the flowers blossomed, and the birds mated, and warm breezes came whispering softly from the south, and all the earth was glad, the husband of this child-wife was in his grave, and she was alone. alone? no; she carried in her tired arms the hungry babe, and beneath her heart she felt the faint flutter of another life. but to be in trouble and in ireland is not so bad after all, for the irish people have great and tender hearts; and even if they have not much to bestow in a material way, they can give sympathy, and they do. so the girl was cared for by kind kindred, and on november thirtieth, sixteen hundred sixty-seven, at number seven, hoey's court, dublin, the second baby was born. only a little way from hoey's court is saint patrick's cathedral. on that november day, as the tones from the clanging chimes fell on the weary senses of the young mother, there in her darkened room, little did she think that the puny bantling she held to her breast would yet be the dean of the great church whose bells she heard; and how could she anticipate a whisper coming to her from the far-off future: "of writing books about your babe there is no end!" * * * * * the man-child was given to an old woman to care for, and he had the ability, even then, it seems, to win affection. the foster-mother loved him and she stole him away, carrying him off to england. charity ministered to his needs; charity gave him his education. when swift was twenty-one years old he went to see his mother. her means were scanty to the point of hardship, but so buoyant was her mind that she used to declare that she was both rich and happy--and being happy she was certainly rich. she was a rare woman. her spirit was independent, her mind cultivated, her manner gentle and refined, and she was endowed with a keen sense of humor. from her, the son derived those qualities which have made him famous. no man is greater than his mother; but the sons of brave women do not always make brave men. in one quality swift was lamentably inferior to his mother--he did not have her capacity for happiness. he had wit; she had humor. we have seen how swift's father sickened and died. the world was too severe for him, its buffets too abrupt, its burden too heavy, and he gave up the fight before the battle had really begun. this lack of courage and extreme sensitiveness are seen in the son. but so peculiar, complex and wonderful is this web of life, that our very blunders, weaknesses and mistakes are woven in and make the fabric stronger. if swift had possessed only his mother's merits, without his father's faults, he would never have shaken the world with laughter, and we should never have heard of him. in her lowliness and simplicity the mother of swift was content. she did her work in her own little way. she smiled at folly, and each day she thanked heaven that her lot was no worse. not so her son. he brooded in sullen silence; he cursed fate for making him a dependent, and even in his youth he scorned those who benefited him. this was a very human proceeding. many hate, but few have a fine capacity for scorn. their hate is so vehement that when hurled it falls short. swift's scorn was a beautifully winged arrow, with a poisoned tip. some who were struck did not at the time know it. his misanthropy defeated his purpose, thwarted his ambition, ruined his aims, and--made his name illustrious. swift wished for churchly preferment, but he had not the patience to wait. he imagined that others were standing in his way, and of course they were; for under the calm exterior of things ecclesiastic, there is often a strife, a jealousy and a competition more rabid than in commerce. to succeed in winning a bishopric requires a sagacity as keen as that required to become a senator of massachusetts or the governor of new york. the man bides his time, makes himself popular, secures advocates, lubricates the way, pulls the wires, and slides noiselessly into place. swift lacked diplomacy. when matters did not seem to progress he grew wrathful, seized his pen and stabbed with it. but as he wrote, the ludicrousness of the whole situation came over him and, instead of cursing plain curses, he held his adversary up to ridicule! and this ridicule is so active, the scorn so mixed with wit, the shafts so finely feathered with truth, that it is the admiration of mankind. vitriol mixed with ink is volatile. then what? we just run swift through a coarse sieve to take out the lumps of seventeenth century refuse, and then we give him to children to make them laugh. surely no better use can be made of pessimists. verily, the author of gulliver wrote for one purpose, and we use his work for another. he wished for office, he got contempt; he tried to subdue his enemies, they subdued him; he worked for the present, and he won immortality. said heinrich heine, prone on his bed in paris: "the wittiest sarcasms of mortals are only an attempt at jesting when compared with those of the great author of the universe--the aristophanes of heaven!" wise men over and over have wasted good ink and paper in bewailing swift's malice and coarseness. but without these very elements which the wise men bemoan, swift would be for us a cipher. yet love is life and hate is death, so how can spite benefit? the answer is that, in certain forms of germination, frost is as necessary as sunshine: so some men have qualities that lie dormant until the coldness of hate bursts the coarse husk of indifference. but while hate may animate, only love inspires. swift might have stood at the head of the church of england; but even so, he would be only a unit in a long list of names, and as it is, there is only one swift. mr. talmage averred that not ten men in america knew the name of the archbishop of canterbury until his son wrote a certain book entitled "dodo." in putting out this volume, young benson not only gave us the strongest possible argument favoring the celibacy of the clergy, but at the same time, if talmage's statement is correct, he made known his father's name. in all swift's work, save "the journal to stella," the animating motive seems to have been to confound his enemies; and according to the well-known line in that hymn sung wherever the union jack flies, we must believe this to be a perfectly justifiable ambition. but occasionally on his pages we find gentle words of wisdom that were meant evidently for love's eyes alone. there is much that is pure boyish frolic, and again and again there are clever strokes directed at folly. he has shot certain superstitions through with doubt, and in his manner of dealing with error he has proved to us a thing it were well not to forget: that pleasantry is more efficacious than vehemence. let me name one incident by way of proof--the well-known one of partridge, the almanac-maker. this worthy cobbler was an astrologer of no mean repute. he foretold events with much discretion. the ignorant bought his almanacs, and many believed in them as a bible--in fact, astrology was enjoying a "boom." swift came to london and found that partridge's predictions were the theme at the coffeehouses. he saw men argue and wax wroth, grow red in the face as they talked loud and long about nothing--just nothing. the whole thing struck swift as being very funny; and he wrote an announcement of his intention to publish a rival almanac. he explained that he, too, was an astrologer, but an honest one, while partridge was an impostor and a cheat; in fact, partridge foretold only things which every one knew would come true. as for himself, he could discern the future with absolute certainty, and to prove to the world his power he would now make a prophecy. in substance, it was as follows: "my first prediction is but a trifle; it relates to partridge, the almanac-maker. i have consulted the star of his nativity, and find that he will die on the twenty-ninth day of march, next." this was signed, "isaac bickerstaff," and duly issued in pamphlet form. it had such an air of sincerity that both the believers and the scoffers read it with interest. the thirtieth of march came, and another pamphlet from "isaac bickerstaff" appeared, announcing the fulfilment of the prophecy. it related how toward the end of march partridge began to languish; how he grew ill and at last took to his bed, and, his conscience then smiting him, he confessed to the world that he was a fraud and a rogue, that all his prophecies were impositions; he then passed away. partridge was wild with rage, and immediately replied in a manifesto declaring that he was alive and well, and moreover was alive on march twenty-ninth. to this "bickerstaff" replied in a pamphlet more seriously humorous than ever, reaffirming that partridge was dead, and closing with the statement that, "if an uninformed carcass still walks about calling itself partridge, i do not in any way consider myself responsible for that." the joke set all london on a grin. wherever partridge went he was met with smiles and jeers, and astrology became only a jest to a vast number of people who had formerly believed in it seriously. when benjamin franklin started his "poor richard's almanac," twenty-five years later, in the first issue he prophesied the death of one dart who set the pace at that time as almanac-maker in america. the man was to expire on the afternoon of october seventeenth, seventeen hundred thirty-eight, at three twenty-nine o'clock. dart, being somewhat of a joker himself, came out with an announcement that he, too, had consulted the oracle, and found he would live until october twenty-sixth, and possibly longer. on october eighteenth, franklin announced dart's death, and explained that it occurred promptly on time, all as prophesied. yet dart lived to publish many almanacs; but poor richard got his advertisement, and many staid, broad-brimmed philadelphians smiled who had never smiled before--not only smiled but subscribed. benjamin franklin was a great and good man, as any man must be who fathers another's jokes, introducing these orphaned children to the world as his own. perhaps no one who has written of swift knew him so well as delany. and this writer, who seems to have possessed a judicial quality far beyond most men, has told us that swift was moral in conduct to the point of asceticism. his deportment was grave and dignified, and his duties as a priest were always performed with exemplary diligence. he visited the sick, regularly administered the sacraments, and was never known to absent himself from morning prayers. when harley was lord treasurer, swift seems to have been on the topmost crest of the wave of popularity. invitations from nobility flowed in upon him, beautiful women deigned to go in search of his society, royalty recognized him. and yet all this time he was only a country priest with a liking for literature. collins tells us that the reason for his popularity is plain: "swift was one of the kings of the earth. like pope innocent the third, like chatham, he was one to whom the world involuntarily pays tribute." his will was a will of adamant; his intellect so keen that it impressed every one who approached him; his temper singularly stern, dauntless and haughty. but his wit was never filled with gaiety: he was never known to laugh. amid the wildest uproar that his sallies caused, he would sit with face austere--unmoved. personally, swift was a gentleman. when he was scurrilous, abusive, ribald, malicious, it was anonymously. is this to his credit? i should not say so, but if a man is indecent and he hides behind a "nom de plume," it is at least presumptive proof that he is not dead to shame. leslie stephen tells us that swift was a churchman to the backbone. no man who is a "churchman to the backbone" is ever very pious: the spirit maketh alive, but the letter killeth. one looks in vain for traces of spirituality in the dean. his sermons are models of churchly commonplace and full of the stock phrases of a formal religion. he never bursts into flame. yet he most thoroughly and sincerely believed in religion. "i believe in religion, it keeps the masses in check. and then i uphold christianity because if it is abolished the stability of the church might be endangered," he said. philip asked the eunuch a needless question when he inquired, "understandest thou what thou readest?" no one so poorly sexed as swift can comprehend spiritual truth: spirituality and sexuality are elements that are never separated. swift was as incapable of spirituality as he was of the "grand passion." the dean had affection; he was a warm friend; he was capable even of a degree of love, but his sexual and spiritual nature was so cold and calculating that he did not hesitate to sacrifice love to churchly ambition. he argued that the celibacy of the catholic clergy is a wise expediency. the bachelor physician and the unmarried priest have an influence among gentle womankind, young or old, married or single, that a benedict can never hope for. why this is so might be difficult to explain, but discerning men know the fact. in truth, when a priest marries he should at once take a new charge, for if he remains with his old flock a goodly number of his "lady parishioners," in ages varying from seventeen to seventy, will with fierce indignation rend his reputation. swift was as wise as a serpent, but not always as harmless as a dove. he was making every effort to secure his miter and crosier: he had many women friends in london and elsewhere who had influence. rather than run the risk of losing this influence he never acknowledged stella as his wife. choosing fame rather than love, he withered at the heart, then died at the top. the life of every man is a seamless garment--its woof his thoughts, its warp his deeds. when for him the roaring loom of time stops and the thread is broken, foolish people sometimes point to certain spots in the robe and say, "oh, why did he not leave that out!" not knowing that every action of man is a sequence from off fate's spindle. let us accept the work of genius as we find it; not bemoaning because it is not better, but giving thanks because it is so good. * * * * * well-fed, rollicking priest is father o'toole of dublin, with a big, round face, a double chin, and a brogue that you can cut with a knife. my letter of introduction from monseigneur satolli caused him at once to bring in a large, suspicious, black bottle and two glasses. then we talked--talked of ireland's wrongs and woman's rights, and of all the irishmen in america whom i was supposed to know. we spoke of the illustrious irishmen who had passed on, and i mentioned a name that caused the holy father to spring from his chair in indignation. "shwift is it! shwift! no, me lad, don't go near him! he was the divil's own, the very worsht that ever followed the swish of a petticoat. no, no; if ye go to his grave it'll bring ye bad luck for a year. it's tom moore ye want--tom was the bye. arrah! now, and it's meself phat'll go wid ye." and so the reverend father put on a long, black coat and his saint patrick's day hat, and we started. we were met at the gate by a delegation of "shpalpeens" that had located me on the inside of the house and were lying in wait. all american travelers in ireland are supposed to be millionaires, and this may possibly explain the lavish attention that is often tendered them. at any rate, various members of the delegation wished "long life to the iligant 'merican gintleman," and hinted in terms unmistakable that pence would be acceptable. the holy father applied his cane vigorously to the ragged rears of the more presumptuous, and bade them begone, but still they followed and pressed close about. "here, i'll show you how to get rid of the dirty gang," said his holiness. "have ye a penny, i don't know?" i produced a handful of small change, which the father immediately took and tossed into the street. instantly there was a heterogeneous mass of young hibernians piled up in the dirt in a grand struggle for spoils. it reminded me of football incidents i had seen at fair harvard. in the meantime, we escaped down a convenient alley and crossed the river liffey to old dublin; inside the walls of the old city, through crooked lanes and winding streets that here and there showed signs of departed gentility, where now was only squalor, want and vice, until we came to number twelve angier street, a quaint, three-story brick building now used as a "public." in the wall above the door is a marble slab with this inscription: "here was born thomas moore, on the twenty-eighth day of may, seventeen hundred seventy-eight." above this in a niche is a bust of the poet. tom's father was a worthy greengrocer who, according to the author of "lalla rookh," always gave good measure and full count. it was ever a cause of regret to the elder moore that his son did not show sufficient capacity to be trusted safely with the business. the upper rooms of the house were shown to us by an obliging landlady. father o'toole had been here before, and led the way to a snug little chamber and explained that in this room the future poet of ireland was found under one of his father's cabbage-leaves. we descended to the neat little barroom with its sanded floor and polished glassware and shining brass. the holy father ordered 'arf-and-'arf at my expense and recited one of moore's ballads. the landlady then gave us byron's "here's a health to thee, tom moore." a neighbor came in. then we had more ballads, more 'arf-and-'arf, a selection from "lalla rookh," and various tales of the poet's early life, which possibly would be hard to verify. and as the tumult raged, the smoke of battle gave me opportunity to slip away. i crossed the street, turned down one block, and entered saint patrick's cathedral. great, roomy, gloomy, solemn temple, where the rumble of city traffic is deadened to a faint hum: "without, the world's unceasing noises rise, turmoil, disquietude and busy fears; within, there are the sounds of other years, thoughts full of prayer and solemn harmonies which imitate on earth the peaceful skies." other worshipers were there. standing beside a great stone pillar i could make them out kneeling on the tiled floor. gradually, my eyes became accustomed to the subdued light, and right at my feet i saw a large brass plate set in the floor and on it only this: swift died oct. , aged on the wall near is a bronze tablet, the inscription of which, in latin, was dictated by swift himself: "here lies the body of jonathan swift, dean of this cathedral, where fierce indignation can no longer rend his heart. go! wayfarer, and imitate, if thou canst, one who, as far as in him lay, was an earnest champion of liberty----" above this is a fine bust of the dean, and to the right is another tablet: "underneath lie interred the mortal remains of mrs. hester johnson, better known to the world as 'stella,' under which she is celebrated in the writings of doctor jonathan swift, dean of this cathedral. she was a person of extraordinary endowments and accomplishments, in body, mind and behavior; justly admired and respected by all who knew her, on account of her eminent virtues as well as for her great natural and acquired perfections." these were suffering souls and great. would they have been so great had they not suffered? who can tell? were the waters troubled in order that they might heal the people? did swift misuse this excellent woman, is a question that has been asked and answered again and again. a great author has written: "a woman, a tender, noble, excellent woman, has a dog's heart. she licks the hand that strikes her. and wrong nor cruelty nor injustice nor disloyalty can cause her to turn." death in pity took stella first; took her in the loyalty of love and the fulness of faith from a world which for love has little recompense, and for faith small fulfilment. stella was buried by torchlight, at midnight, on the thirtieth day of january, seventeen hundred twenty-eight. swift was sick at the time, and wrote in his journal: "this is the night of her funeral, and i am removed to another apartment that i may not see the light in the church which is just over against my window." but in his imagination he saw the gleaming torches as their dull light shone through the colored windows, and he said, "they will soon do as much for me." but seventeen years came crawling by before the torches flared, smoked and gleamed as the mourners chanted a requiem, and the clods fell on the coffin, and their echoes intermingled with the solemn voice of the priest as he said, "dust to dust, ashes to ashes." in eighteen hundred thirty-five, the graves were opened and casts taken of the skulls. the top of swift's skull had been sawed off at the autopsy, and a bottle in which was a parchment setting forth the facts was inserted in the head that had conceived "gulliver's travels." i examined the casts. the woman's head is square and shapely. swift's head is a refutation of phrenology, being small, sloping and ordinary. the bones of swift and stella were placed in one coffin, and now rest under three feet of concrete, beneath the floor of saint patrick's. so sleep the lovers joined in death. walt whitman all seems beautiful to me. i can repeat over to men and women, you have done such good to me i would do the same to you, i will recruit for myself and you as i go. i will scatter myself among men and women as i go, i will toss a new gladness and roughness among them. --_song of the open road_ [illustration: walt whitman] max nordau wrote a book--wrote it with his tongue in his cheek, a dash of vitriol in the ink, and with a pen that scratched. and the first critic who seemed to place a just estimate on the work was mr. zangwill (he who has no christian name). mr. zangwill made an attempt to swear out a "writ de lunatico inquirendo" against his jewish brother, on the ground that the first symptom of insanity is often the delusion that others are insane; and this being so, doctor nordau was not a safe subject to be at large. but the assize of public opinion denied the petition, and the dear people bought the book at from three to five dollars a copy. printed in several languages, its sales have mounted to a hundred thousand volumes, and the author's net profit is full forty thousand dollars. no wonder is it that, with pockets full to bursting, doctor nordau goes out behind the house and laughs uproariously whenever he thinks of how he has worked the world! if doctor talmage is the barnum of theology, surely we may call doctor nordau the barnum of science. his agility in manipulating facts is equal to hermann's now-you-see-it and now-you-don't, with pocket-handkerchiefs. yet hermann's exhibition is worth the admittance fee, and nordau's book (seemingly written in collaboration with jules verne and mark twain) would be cheap for a dollar. but what i object to is professor hermann's disciples posing as sure-enough materializing mediums, and professor lombroso's followers calling themselves scientists, when each goes forth without scrip or purse with no other purpose than to supply themselves with both. yet it was barnum himself who said that the public delights in being humbugged, and strange it is that we will not allow ourselves to be thimblerigged without paying for the privilege. nordau's success hinged on his audacious assumption that the public knew nothing of the law of antithesis. yet plato explained that the opposites of things look alike, and sometimes are alike--and that was quite a while ago. the multitude answered, "thou hast a devil." many of them said, "he hath a devil and is mad." festus said with a loud voice, "paul, thou art beside thyself." and nordau shouts in a voice more heady than that of pilate, more throaty than that of festus, "mad--whitman was--mad beyond the cavil of a doubt!" in eighteen hundred sixty-two, lincoln, looking out of a window (before lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed) on one of the streets of washington, saw a workingman in shirt-sleeves go by. turning to a friend, the president said, "there goes a man!" the exclamation sounds singularly like that of napoleon on meeting goethe. but the corsican's remark was intended for the poet's ear, while lincoln did not know who his man was, although he came to know him afterward. lincoln in his early days was a workingman and an athlete, and he never quite got the idea out of his head (and i am glad) that he was still a hewer of wood. he once told george william curtis that he more than half expected yet to go back to the farm and earn his daily bread by the work that his hands found to do; he dreamed of it nights, and whenever he saw a splendid toiler, he felt like hailing the man as brother and striking hands with him. when lincoln saw whitman strolling majestically past, he took him for a stevedore or possibly the foreman of a construction gang. whitman was fifty-one years old then. his long, flowing beard was snow-white, and the shock that covered his jove-like head was iron-gray. his form was that of an apollo who had arrived at years of discretion. he weighed an even two hundred pounds and was just six feet high. his plain, check, cotton shirt was open at the throat to the breast; and he had an independence, a self-sufficiency, and withal a cleanliness, a sweetness and a gentleness, that told that, although he had a giant's strength, he did not use it like a giant. whitman used no tobacco, neither did he apply hot and rebellious liquors to his blood and with unblushing forehead woo the means of debility and disease. up to his fifty-third year he had never known a sick day, although at thirty his hair had begun to whiten. he had the look of age in his youth and the look of youth in his age that often marks the exceptional man. but at fifty-three his splendid health was crowded to the breaking strain. how? through caring for wounded, sick and dying men, hour after hour, day after day, through the long, silent watches of the night. from eighteen hundred sixty-four to the day of his death in eighteen hundred ninety-two, he was, physically, a man in ruins. but he did not wither at the top. through it all he held the healthy optimism of boyhood, carrying with him the perfume of the morning and the lavish heart of youth. doctor bucke, who was superintendent of a hospital for the insane for fifteen years, and the intimate friend of whitman all the time, has said: "his build, his stature, his exceptional health of mind and body, the size and form of his features, his cleanliness of mind and body, the grace of his movements and gestures, the grandeur, and especially the magnetism, of his presence; the charm of his voice, his genial, kindly humor; the simplicity of his habits and tastes, his freedom from convention, the largeness and the beauty of his manner; his calmness and majesty; his charity and forbearance--his entire unresentfulness under whatever provocation; his liberality, his universal sympathy with humanity in all ages and lands, his broad tolerance, his catholic friendliness, and his unexampled faculty of attracting affection, all prove his perfectly proportioned manliness." but whitman differed from the disciple of lombroso in two notable particulars: he had no quarrel with the world, and he did not wax rich. "one thing thou lackest, o walt whitman!" we might have said to the poet; "you are not a financier." he died poor. but this is no proof of degeneracy, save on 'change. when the children of count tolstoy endeavored to have him adjudged insane, the court denied the application and voiced the wisest decision that ever came out of russia: a man who gives away his money is not necessarily more foolish than he who saves it. and with horace l. traubel i assert that whitman was the sanest man i ever saw. * * * * * some men make themselves homes; and others there be who rent rooms. walt whitman was essentially a citizen of the world: the world was his home and mankind were his friends. there was a quality in the man peculiarly universal: a strong, virile poise that asked for nothing, but took what it needed. he loved men as brothers, yet his brothers after the flesh understood him not; he loved children--they turned to him instinctively--but he had no children of his own; he loved women, and yet this strongly sexed and manly man never loved a woman. and i might here say as philip gilbert hamerton said of turner, "he was lamentably unfortunate in this: throughout his whole life he never came under the ennobling and refining influence of a good woman." it requires two to make a home. the first home was made when a woman, cradling in her loving arms a baby, crooned a lullaby. all the tender sentimentality we throw around a place is the result of the sacred thought that we live there with some one else. it is "our" home. the home is a tryst--the place where we retire and shut the world out. lovers make a home, just as birds make a nest, and unless a man knows the spell of the divine passion i hardly see how he can have a home at all. he only rents a room. camden is separated from the city of philadelphia by the delaware river. camden lies low and flat--a great, sandy, monotonous waste of straggling buildings. here and there are straight rows of cheap houses, evidently erected by staid, broad-brimmed speculators from across the river, with eyes on the main chance. but they reckoned ill, for the town did not boom. some of these houses have marble steps and white, barn-like shutters, that might withstand a siege. when a funeral takes place in one of these houses, the shutters are tied with strips of mournful, black alpaca for a year and a day. engineers, dockmen, express-drivers and mechanics largely make up the citizens of camden. of course, camden has its smug corner where prosperous merchants most do congregate: where they play croquet in the front yards, and have window-boxes, and a piano and veranda-chairs and terra-cotta statuary; but for the most part the houses of camden are rented, and rented cheap. many of the domiciles are frame and have the happy tumbledown look of the back streets in charleston or richmond--those streets where the white trash merges off into prosperous colored aristocracy. old hats do duty in keeping out the fresh air where providence has interfered and broken out a pane; blinds hang by a single hinge; bricks on the chimney-tops threaten the passersby; stringers and posts mark the place where proud picket fences once stood--the pickets having gone for kindling long ago. in the warm, summer evenings, men in shirt-sleeves sit on the front steps and stolidly smoke, while children pile up sand in the streets and play in the gutters. parallel with mickle street, a block away, are railway-tracks. there noisy switch-engines that never keep sabbath, puff back and forth, day and night, sending showers of soot and smoke when the wind is right (and it usually is) straight over number , where, according to john addington symonds and william michael rossetti, lived the mightiest seer of the century--the man whom they rank with socrates, epictetus, saint paul, michelangelo and dante. it was in august of eighteen hundred eighty-three that i first walked up that little street--a hot, sultry summer evening. there had been a shower that turned the dust of the unpaved roadway to mud. the air was close and muggy. the houses, built right up to the sidewalks, over which, in little gutters, the steaming sewage ran, seemed to have discharged their occupants into the street to enjoy the cool of the day. barefooted children by the score paddled in the mud. all the steps were filled with loungers; some of the men had discarded not only coats but shirts as well, and now sat in flaming red underwear, holding babies. they say that "woman's work is never done," but to the women of mickle street this does not apply--but stay! perhaps their work is never done. anyway, i remember that women sat on the curbs in calico dresses or leaned out of the windows, and all seemed supremely free from care. "can you tell me where mr. whitman lives?" i asked a portly dame who was resting her elbows on a windowsill. "who?" "mr. whitman!" "you mean walt whitman?" "yes." "show the gentleman, molly; he'll give you a nickel, i'm sure!" i had not seen molly. she stood behind me, but as her mother spoke she seized tight hold of one of my fingers, claiming me as her lawful prey, and all the other children looked on with envious eyes as little molly threw at them glances of scorn and marched me off. molly was five, going on six, she told me. she had bright-red hair, a grimy face and little chapped feet that made not a sound as we walked. she got her nickel and carried it in her mouth, and this made conversation difficult. after going one block she suddenly stopped, squared me around and pointing said, "them is he!" and disappeared. in a wheeled rattan chair, in the hallway, a little back from the door of a plain, weather-beaten house, sat the coatless philosopher, his face and head wreathed in a tumult of snow-white hair. i had a little speech, all prepared weeks before and committed to memory, that i intended to repeat, telling him how i had read his poems and admired them. and further i had stored away in my mind a few blades from "leaves of grass" that i purposed to bring out at the right time as a sort of certificate of character. but when that little girl jerked me right-about-face and heartlessly deserted me, i stared dumbly at the man whom i had come a hundred miles to see. i began angling for my little speech, but could not fetch it. "hello!" called the philosopher, out of the white aureole. "hello! come here, boy!" he held out his hand and as i took it there was a grasp with meaning in it. "don't go yet, joe," he said to a man seated on the step smoking a cob-pipe. "the old woman's calling me," said the swarthy joe. joe evidently held truth lightly. "so long, walt!" "good-by, joe. sit down, lad; sit down!" i sat in the doorway at his feet. "now isn't it queer--that fellow is a regular philosopher and works out some great problems, but he's ashamed to express 'em. he could no more give you his best than he could fly. ashamed, i s'pose, ashamed of the best that is in him. we are all a little that way--all but me--i try to write my best, regardless of whether the thing sounds ridiculous or not--regardless of what others think or say or have said. ashamed of our holiest, truest and best! is it not too bad? "you are twenty-five now? well, boy, you may grow until you are thirty and then you will be as wise as you ever will be. haven't you noticed that men of sixty have no clearer vision than men of forty? one reason is that we have been taught that we know all about life and death and the mysteries of the grave. but the main reason is that we are ashamed to shove out and be ourselves. jesus expressed his own individuality perhaps more than any other man we know of, and so he wields a wider influence than any other. and this though we only have a record of just twenty-seven days of his life. now that fellow that just left is an engineer, and he dreams some beautiful dreams; but he never expresses them to any one--only hints them to me, and this only at twilight. he is like a weasel or a mink or a whippoorwill--he comes out only at night. "'if the weather was like this all the time, people would never learn to read and write,' said joe to me just as you arrived. and isn't that so? here we can count a hundred people up and down this street, and not one is reading, not one but that is just lolling about, except the children--and they are happy only when playing in the dirt. why, if this tropical weather should continue we would all slip back into south sea islanders! you can raise good men only in a little strip around the north temperate zone--when you get out of the track of a glacier, a tender-hearted, sympathetic man of brains is an accident." then the old man suddenly ceased and i imagined that he was following the thought out in his own mind. we sat silent for a space. the twilight fell, and a lamplighter lit the street lamp on the corner. he stopped an instant to salute the poet cheerily as he passed. the man sitting on the doorstep, across the street, smoking, knocked the ashes out of his pipe on his boot-heel and went indoors. women called their children, who did not respond, but still played on. then the creepers were carried in, to be fed their bread-and-milk and put to bed; and, shortly, shrill feminine voices ordered the other children indoors, and some obeyed. the night crept slowly on. i heard old walt chuckle behind me, talking incoherently to himself, and then he said, "you are wondering why i live in such a place as this?" "yes; that is exactly what i was thinking of!" "you think i belong in the country, in some quiet, shady place. but all i have to do is to shut my eyes and go there. no man loves the woods more than i--i was born within sound of the sea--down on long island, and i know all the songs that the seashell sings. but this babble and babel of voices pleases me better, especially since my legs went on a strike, for although i can't walk, you see i can still mix with the throng, so i suffer no loss. "in the woods, a man must be all hands and feet. i like the folks, the plain, ignorant, unpretentious folks; and the youngsters that come and slide on my cellar-door do not disturb me a bit. i'm different from carlyle--you know he had a noise-proof room where he locked himself in. now, when a huckster goes by, crying his wares, i open the blinds, and often wrangle with the fellow over the price of things. but the rogues have got into a way lately of leaving truck for me and refusing pay. today an irishman passed in three quarts of berries and walked off pretending to be mad because i offered to pay. when he was gone, i beckoned to the babies over the way--they came over and we had a feast. "yes, i like the folks around here; i like the women, and i like the men, and i like the babies, and i like the youngsters that play in the alley and make mud pies on my steps. i expect to stay here until i die." "you speak of death as a matter of course--you are not afraid to die?" "oh, no, my boy; death is as natural as life, and a deal kinder. but it is all good--i accept it all and give thanks--you have not forgotten my chant to death?" "not i!" i repeated a few lines from "drum-taps." he followed me, rapping gently with his cane on the floor, and with little interjectory remarks of "that's so!" "very true!" "good, good!" and when i faltered and lost the lines he picked them up where "the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird." in a strong, clear voice, but a voice full of sublime feeling, he repeated those immortal lines, beginning, "come, lovely and soothing death." "come, lovely and soothing death, undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, in the day, in the night, to all, to each, sooner or later, delicate death. praised be the fathomless universe for life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, and for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise for the sure enwinding arms of cool, enfolding death. dark mother, always gliding near with soft feet, have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? then i chant for thee, i glorify thee above all, i bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. approach, strong deliveress, when it is so, when thou hast taken them i joyously sing the death, lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, laved in the flood of thy bliss, o death. from me to thee glad serenades, dances for thee i propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, and the sights of the open landscape and the high spread sky are fitting, and life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. the night in silence under many a star, the ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice i know, and the soul turning to thee, o vast and well-veil'd death, and the body gratefully nestling close to thee. over the tree-tops i float thee a song, over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide, over the dense-packed cities all, and the teeming wharves, and ways, i float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, o death." the last playing youngster had silently disappeared from the streets. the doorsteps were deserted--save where across the way a young man and maiden sat in the gloaming, conversing in low monotone. the clouds had drifted away. a great, yellow star shone out above the chimney-tops in the east. i arose to go. "i wish you'd come oftener--i see you so seldom, lad," said the old man, half-plaintively. i did not explain that we had never met before--that i had come from new york purposely to see him. he thought he knew me. and so he did--as much as i could impart. the rest was irrelevant. as to my occupation or name, what booted it!--he had no curiosity concerning me. i grasped his outstretched hand in both of my own. he said not a word; neither did i. i turned and made my way to the ferry--past the whispering lovers on the doorsteps, and over the railway-tracks where the noisy engines puffed. as i walked on board the boat, the wind blew up cool and fresh from the west. the star in the east grew brighter, and other stars came out, reflecting themselves like gems in the dark blue of the delaware. there was a soft sublimity in the sound of the bells that came echoing over the waters. my heart was very full, for i had felt the thrill of being in the presence of a great and loving soul. it was the first time and the last that i ever saw walt whitman. * * * * * a good many writers bear no message: they carry no torch. sometimes they excite wonder, or they amuse and divert--divert us from our work. to be diverted to a certain degree may be well, but there is a point where earth ends and cloud-land begins, and even great poets occasionally befog the things they would reveal. homer was seemingly blind to much simple truth; vergil carries you away from earth; horace was undone without his mæcenas; dante makes you an exile; shakespeare was singularly silent concerning the doubts, difficulties and common lives of common people; byron's corsair life does not help you in your toil, and in his fight with english bards and scotch reviewers we crave neutrality; to be caught in the meshes of pope's "dunciad" is not pleasant; and lowell's "fable for critics" is only another "dunciad." but above all other poets who have ever lived, the author of "leaves of grass" was the poet of humanity. milton knew all about heaven, and dante conducts us through hell, but it was left for whitman to show us earth. his voice never goes so high that it breaks into an impotent falsetto, neither does it growl and snarl at things it does not understand and not understanding does not like. he was so great that he had no envy, and his insight was so sure that he had no prejudice. he never boasted that he was higher, nor claimed to be less than any of the other sons of men. he met all on terms of absolute equality, mixing with the poor, the lowly, the fallen, the oppressed, the cultured, the rich--simply as brother with brother. and when he said to an outcast, "not till the sun excludes you will i exclude you," he voiced a sentiment worthy of a god. he was brother to the elements, the mountains, the seas, the clouds, the sky. he loved them all and partook of them all in his large, free, unselfish, untrammeled nature. his heart knew no limits, and feeling his feet mortised in granite and his footsteps tenoned in infinity he knew the amplitude of time. only the great are generous; only the strong are forgiving. like lot's wife, most poets look back over their shoulders; and those who are not looking backward insist that we shall look into the future, and the vast majority of the whole scribbling rabble accept the precept, "man never is, but always to be blest." we grieve for childhood's happy days, and long for sweet rest in heaven and sigh for mansions in the skies. and the people about us seem so indifferent, and our friends so lukewarm; and really no one understands us, and our environment queers our budding spirituality, and the frost of jealousy nips our aspirations: "o paradise, o paradise, the world is growing old; who would not be at rest and free where love is never cold." so sing the fearsome dyspeptics of the stylus. o anemic he, you bloodless she, nipping at crackers, sipping at tea, why not consider that, although evolutionists tell us where we came from, and theologians inform us where we are going to, yet the only thing we are really sure of is that we are here! the present is the perpetually moving spot where history ends and prophecy begins. it is our only possession: the past we reach through lapsing memory, halting recollection, hearsay and belief; we pierce the future by wistful faith or anxious hope; but the present is beneath our feet. whitman sings the beauty and the glory of the present. he rebukes our groans and sighs--bids us look about on every side at the wonders of creation, and at the miracles within our grasp. he lifts us up, restores us to our own, introduces us to man and to nature, and thus infuses into us courage, manly pride, self-reliance, and the strong faith that comes when we feel our kinship with god. he was so mixed with the universe that his voice took on the sway of elemental integrity and candor. absolutely honest, this man was unafraid and unashamed, for nature has neither apprehension, shame nor vainglory. in "leaves of grass" whitman speaks as all men have ever spoken who believe in god and in themselves--oracular, without apology or abasement--fearlessly. he tells of the powers and mysteries that pervade and guide all life, all death, all purpose. his work is masculine, as the sun is masculine; for the prophetic voice is as surely masculine as the lullaby and lyric cry are feminine. whitman brings the warmth of the sun to the buds of the heart, so that they open and bring forth form, color, perfume. he becomes for them aliment and dew; so these buds become blossoms, fruits, tall branches and stately trees that cast refreshing shadows. there are men who are to other men as the shadow of a mighty rock in a weary land--such is walt whitman. victor hugo man is neither master of his life nor of his fate. he can but offer to his fellowmen his efforts to diminish human suffering; he can but offer to god his indomitable faith in the growth of liberty. --_victor hugo_ [illustration: victor hugo] the father of victor hugo was a general in the army of napoleon, his mother a woman of rare grace and brave good sense. victor was the third of three sons. six weeks before the birth of her youngest boy, the mother wrote to a very dear friend of her husband, this letter: "to general victor lahorie, "citizen-general: "soon to become the mother of a third child, it would be very agreeable to me if you would act as its godfather. its name shall be yours--one which you have not belied and one which you have so well honored: victor or victorine. your consent will be a testimonial of your friendship for us. "please accept, citizen-general, the assurance of our sincere attachment. "femme hugo." victorine was expected, victor came. general lahorie acted as sponsor for the infant. a soldier's family lives here or there, everywhere or anywhere. in eighteen hundred eight, general hugo was with joseph bonaparte in spain. victor was then six years old. his mother had taken as a residence a quaint house in the impasse of the feullantines, paris. it was one of those peculiar old places occasionally seen in france. the environs of london have a few; america none of which i know. this house, roomy, comfortable and antiquated, was surrounded with trees and a tangle of shrubbery, vines and flowers; above it all was a high stone wall, and in front a picket iron gate. it was a mosaic--a sample of the sixteenth century inlaid in this; solitary as the woods; quiet as a convent; sacred as a forest; a place for dreams, and reverie, and rest. at the back of the house was a dilapidated little chapel. here an aged priest counted his beads, said daily mass, and endeavored to keep moth, rust and ruin from the house of prayer. this priest was a scholar, a man of learning: he taught the children of madame hugo. another man lived in this chapel. he never went outside the gate and used to take exercise at night. he had a cot-bed in the shelter of the altar; beneath his pillow were a pair of pistols and a copy of tacitus. this man lived there summer and winter, although there was no warmth save the scanty sunshine that stole in through the shattered windows. he, too, taught the children and gave them little lectures on history. he loved the youngest boy and would carry him on his shoulder and tell him stories of deeds of valor. one day a file of soldiers came. they took this man and manacled him. the mother sought to keep her children inside the house so that they should not witness the scene, but she did not succeed. the boys fought their mother and the servants in a mad frenzy trying to rescue the old man. the soldiers formed in columns of four and marched their prisoner away. not long after, madame hugo was passing the church of saint jacques du haut pas: her youngest boy's hand was in hers. she saw a large placard posted in front of the church. she paused and pointing to it said, "victor, read that!" the boy read. it was a notice that general lahorie had been shot that day on the plains of grenville by order of a court martial. general lahorie was a gentleman of brittany. he was a republican, and five years before had grievously offended the emperor. a charge of conspiracy being proved against him, a price was placed upon his head, and he found a temporary refuge with the mother of his godson. that tragic incident of the arrest, and the placard announcing general lahorie's death, burned deep into the soul of the manling, and who shall say to what extent it colored his future life? when napoleon met his downfall, it was also a waterloo for general hugo. his property was confiscated, and penury took the place of plenty. when victor was nineteen, his mother having died, the family life was broken up. in "les miserables" the early struggles of marius are described; and this, the author has told us, may be considered autobiography. he has related how the young man lived in a garret; how he would sweep this barren room; how he would buy a pennyworth of cheese, waiting until dusk to get a loaf of bread, and slink home as furtively as if he had stolen it; how carrying his book under his arm he would enter the butcher's shop, and after being elbowed by jeering servants till he felt the cold sweat standing out on his forehead, he would take off his hat to the astonished butcher and ask for a single mutton-chop. this he would carry to his garret, and cooking it himself it would be made to last for three days. in this way he managed to live on less than two hundred dollars a year, derived from the proceeds of poems, pamphlets and essays. at this time he was already an "academy laureate," having received honorable mention for a poem submitted in a competition. in his twentieth year, fortune came to him in triple form: he brought out a book of poems that netted him seven hundred francs; soon after the publication of this book, louis the eighteenth, who knew the value of having friends who were ready writers, bestowed on him a pension of one thousand francs a year; then these two pieces of good fortune made possible a third--his marriage. early marriages are like late ones: they may be wise and they may not. victor hugo's marriage with adele foucher was a most happy event. a man with a mind as independent as victor hugo's is sure to make enemies. the "classics" were positive that he was defiling the well of classic french, and they sought to write him down. but by writing a man up you can not write him down; the only thing that can smother a literary aspirant is silence. victor hugo coined the word when he could not find it, transposed phrases, inverted sentences, and never called a spade an agricultural implement. not content with this, he put the spade on exhibition and this often at unnecessary times, and occasionally prefaced the word with an adjective. had he been let alone he would not have done this. the censors told him he must not use the name of deity, nor should he refer so often to kings. at once, he doubled his topseys and put on his stage three uncle toms when one might have answered. like shakespeare, he used idioms and slang with profusion--anything to express the idea. will this convey the thought? if so, it was written down, and, once written, beelzebub and all his hosts could not make him change it. but in the interest of truth let me note one exception: "i do not like that word," said mademoiselle mars to victor hugo at a rehearsal of "hernani"; "can i not change it?" "i wrote it so and it must stand," was the answer. mademoiselle mars used another expression instead of the author's, and he promptly asked her to resign her part. she wept, and upon agreeing to adhere to the text was reinstated in favor. rehearsal after rehearsal occurred, and the words were repeated as written. the night of the performance came. superb was the stage-setting, splendid the audience. the play went forward amid loud applause. the scene was reached where came the objectionable word. did mademoiselle mars use it? of course not; she used the word she chose--she was a woman. fifty-three times she played the part, and not once did she use the author's pet phrase; and he was wise enough not to note the fact. the moral of this is that not even a strong man can cope with a small woman who weeps at the right time. the censorship forbade the placing of "marion delorme" on the stage until a certain historical episode in it had been changed. would the author be so kind as to change it? not he. "then it shall not be played," said m. de martignac. the author hastened to interview the minister in person. he got a north pole reception. in fact, m. de martignac said that it was his busy day, and that playwriting was foolish business anyway; but if a man were bound to write, he should write to amuse, not to instruct. and young hugo was bowed out. when he found himself well outside the door he was furious. he would see the king himself. and he did see the king. his majesty was gracious and very patient. he listened to the young author's plea, talked book-lore, recited poetry, showed that he knew hugo's verses, asked after the author's wife, then the baby, and--said that the play could not go on. hugo turned to go. charles the tenth called him back, and said that he was glad the author had called--in fact, he was about to send for him. his pension thereafter should be six thousand francs a year. victor hugo declined to receive it. of course, the papers were full of the subject. all cafedom took sides: paris had a topic for gesticulation, and paris improved the opportunity. conservatism having stopped this play, there was only one thing to do: write another; for a play of victor hugo's must be put upon the stage. all his friends said so; his honor was at stake. in three weeks another play was ready. the censors read it and gave their report. they said that "hernani" was whimsical in conception, defective in execution, a tissue of extravagances, generally trivial and often coarse. but they advised that it be put upon the stage, just to show the public to what extent of folly an author could go. in order to preserve the dignity of their office, they drew up a list of six places where the text should be changed. both sides were afraid, so each was willing to give in a point. the text was changed, and the important day for the presentation was drawing nigh. the romanticists were, of course, anxious that the play should be a great success; the classics were quite willing that it should be otherwise; in fact, they had bought up the claque and were making arrangements to hiss it down. but the author's friends were numerous; they were young and lusty; they held meetings behind locked doors, and swore terrible oaths that the play should go. on the day of the initial performance, five hours before the curtain rose, they were on hand, having taken the best seats in the house. they also took the worst, wherever a hisser might hide. these advocates of liberal art wore coats of green or red or blue, costumes like bullfighters, trousers and hats to match or not to match--anything to defy tradition. all during the performance there was an uproar. theophile gautier has described the event in most entertaining style, and in "l'historie de romanticisme" the record of it is found in detail. several american writers have touched upon this particular theme, and all who have seen fit to write of it seem to have stood under umbrellas when god rained humor. one writer calls it "the outburst of a tremendous revolution in literature." he speaks of "smoldering flames," "the hordes that furiously fought entrenched behind prestige, age, caste, wealth and tradition," "suppression and extermination of heresy," "those who sought to stop the onward march of civilization," etc. let us be sensible. a "cane-rush" is not a revolution, and "bloody monday" at harvard is not "a decisive battle in the onward and upward march." if "hernani" had been hissed down, victor hugo would have lived just as long and might have written better. civilization is not held in place by noisy youths in flaming waistcoats; and even if every cabbage had hit its mark, and every egg bespattered its target, the morning stars would still sing together. "the hunchback of notre dame" was next turned out--written in five months--and was a great success. publishers besieged the author for another story, but he preferred poetry. it was thirty years before his next novel, "les miserables," appeared. but all the time he wrote--plays, verses, essays, pamphlets. everything that he penned was widely read. amid storms of opposition and cries of bravo, continually making friends, he moved steadily forward. men like victor hugo can be killed or they may be banished, but they can not be bought; neither can they be intimidated into silence. he resigned his pension and boldly expressed himself in his own way. he knew history by heart and toyed with it; politics was his delight. but it is a mistake to call him a statesman. he was bold to rashness, impulsive, impatient and vehement. because a man is great is no reason why he should be proclaimed perfect. such men as victor hugo need no veneer--the truth will answer: he would explode a keg of powder to kill a fly. he was an agitator. but these zealous souls are needed--not to govern or to be blindly followed, but rather to make other men think for themselves. yet to do this in a monarchy is not safe. the years passed, and the time came for either hugo or royalty to go; france was not large enough for both. it proved to be hugo; a bounty of twenty-five thousand francs was offered for his body, dead or alive. through a woman's devotion he escaped to brussels. he was driven from there to jersey, then to guernsey. it was nineteen years before he returned to paris--years of banishment, but years of glory. exiled by fate that he might do his work! * * * * * each day a steamer starts from southampton for guernsey, alderney and jersey. these are names known to countless farmers' boys the wide world over. you can not mistake the channel island boats--they smell like a county fair, and though you be blind and deaf it is impossible to board the wrong craft. every time one of these staunch little steamers lands in england, crates containing mild-eyed, lusty calves are slid down the gangplank, marked for maine, iowa, california, or some uttermost part of the earth. there his vealship (worth his weight in gold) is going to found a kingdom. i stood on the dock watching the bovine passengers disembark, and furtively listened the while to an animated argument between two rather rough-looking, red-faced men, clothed in corduroys and carrying long, stout staffs. mixed up in their conversation i caught the names of royalty, then of celebrities great, and artists famous--warriors, orators, philanthropists and musicians. could it be possible that these rustics were poets? it must be so. and there came to me thoughts of thoreau, walt whitman, joaquin miller, and all that sublime company of singers in shirt-sleeves. suddenly the wind veered and the veil fell; all the sacred names so freely bandied about were those of "families" with mighty milk-records. when we went on board and the good ship was slipping down the solent, i made the acquaintance of these men and was regaled with more cow-talk than i had heard since i left texas. we saw the island of portsea, where dickens was born, and got a glimpse of the spires of portsmouth as we passed; then came the isle of wight and the quaint town of cowes. i made a bright joke on the latter place as it was pointed out to me by my jersey friend, but it went for naught. a pleasant sail of eight hours and the towering cliffs of guernsey came in sight. foam-dashed and spray-covered they rise right out of the sea at the south, to the height of two hundred seventy feet. about them great flocks of sea-fowl hover, swirl and soar. wild, rugged and romantic is the scene. the isle of guernsey is nine miles long and six wide. its principal town is saint peter port, a place of about sixteen thousand inhabitants, where a full dozen hotel porters meet the incoming steamer and struggle for your baggage. hotels and boarding-houses here are numerous and good. guernsey is a favorite resort for invalids and those who desire to flee the busy world for a space. in fact, the author of "les miserables" has made exile popular. emerging from my hotel at saint peter port i was accosted by a small edition of gavroche, all in tatters, who proposed showing me the way to hauteville house for a penny. i already knew the route, but accepted the offer on gavroche's promise to reveal to me a secret about the place. the secret is this: the house is haunted, and when the wind is east, and the setting moon shows only a narrow rim above the rocks, ghosts come and dance a solemn minuet on the glass roof above the study. had gavroche ever seen them? no, but he knew a boy who had. years and years--ever so many years ago--long before there were any steamboats, and when only a schooner came to guernsey once a week, a woman was murdered in hauteville house. her ghost came back with other ghosts and drove the folks away. so the big house remained vacant--save for the spooks, who paid no rent. then after a great, long time victor hugo came and lived in the house. the ghosts did not bother him. faith! they had been keeping the place just a' purpose for him. he rented the house first, and liked it so well that he bought it--got it at half-price on account of the ghosts. here, every christmas, victor hugo gave a big dinner in the great oak hall to all the children in guernsey: hundreds of them--all the way from babies that could barely creep, to "boys" with whiskers. they were all fed on turkey, tarts, apples, oranges and figs; and when they went away, each was given a bag of candy to take home. climbing a narrow, crooked street we came to the great, dark, gloomy edifice situated at the top of a cliff. the house was painted black by some strange whim of a former occupant. "we will leave it so," said victor hugo; "liberty is dead, and we are in mourning for her." but the gloom of hauteville house is only on the outside. within all is warm and homelike. the furnishings are almost as the poet left them, and the marks of his individuality are on every side. in the outer hall stands an elegant column of carved oak, its panels showing scenes from "the hunchback." in the dining-room there is fantastic wainscoting with plaques and porcelain tiles inlaid here and there. many of these ornaments were presents, sent by unknown admirers in all parts of the world. in "les miserables" there is a chance line revealing the author's love for the beautiful as shown in the grain of woods. the result was an influx of polished panels, slabs, chips, hewings, carvings, and in one instance a log sent "collect." samples of redwood, ebony, calamander, hamamelis, suradanni, tamarind, satinwood, mahogany, walnut, maples of many kinds and oaks without limit--all are there. a mammoth ax-helve i noticed on the wall was labeled, "shagbark-hickory from missouri." these specimens of wood were sometimes made up into hatracks, chairs, canes, or panels for doors, and are seen in odd corners of these rambling rooms. charles hugo once facetiously wrote to a friend: "we have bought no kindling for three years." at another time he writes: "father still is sure he can sketch and positive he can carve. he has several jackknives, and whittles names, dates and emblems on sticks and furniture--we tremble for the piano." in the dining-room, i noticed a huge oaken chair fastened to the wall with a chain. on the mantel was a statuette of the virgin; on the pedestal victor hugo had engraved lines speaking of her as "freedom's goddess." this dining-room affords a sunny view out into the garden; on this floor are also a reception-room, library and a smoking-room. on the next floor are various sleeping-apartments, and two cozy parlors, known respectively as the red room and the blue. both are rich in curious draperies, a little more pronounced in color than some folks admire. the next floor contains the "oak gallery": a ballroom we should call it. five large windows furnish a flood of light. in the center of this fine room is an enormous candelabrum with many branches, at the top a statue of wood, the whole carved by victor hugo's own hands. the oak gallery is a regular museum of curiosities of every sort--books, paintings, carvings, busts, firearms, musical instruments. a long glass case contains a large number of autograph-letters from the world's celebrities, written to hugo in exile. at the top of the house and built on its flat roof is the most interesting apartment of hauteville house--the study and workroom of victor hugo. three of its sides and the roof are of glass. the floor, too, is one immense slab of sea-green glass. sliding curtains worked by pulleys cut off the light as desired. "more light, more light," said the great man again and again. he gloried and reveled in the sunshine. here, in the winter, with no warmth but the sun's rays, his eyes shaded by his felt hat, he wrote, always standing at a shelf fixed in the wall. on this shelf were written all "the toilers," "the man who laughs," "shakespeare" and much of "les miserables." the leaves of manuscript were numbered and fell on the floor, to remain perhaps for days before being gathered up. when victor hugo went to guernsey he went to liberty, not to banishment. he arrived at hauteville house poor in purse and broken in health. here the fire of his youth came back, and his pen retrieved the fortune that royalty had confiscated. the forenoons were given to earnest work. the daughter composed music; the sons translated shakespeare and acted as their father's faithful helpers; madame hugo collected the notes of her husband's life and cheerfully looked after her household affairs. several hours of each afternoon were given to romp and play; the evenings were sacred to music, reading and conversation. horace greeley was once a prisoner in paris. from his cell he wrote, "the saint peter who holds the keys of this place has kindly locked the world out; and for once, thank heaven, i am free from intrusion." lovers of truth must thank exile for some of our richest and ripest literature. exile is not all exile. imagination can not be imprisoned. amid the winding bastions of the brain, thought roams free and untrammeled. liberty is only a comparative term, and victor hugo at guernsey enjoyed a thousand times more freedom than ever ruling monarch knew. standing at the shelf-desk where this "gentleman of france" stood for so many happy hours, i inscribed my name in the "visitors' book." i thanked the good woman who had shown me the place, and told me so much of interest--thanked her in words that seemed but a feeble echo of all that my heart would say. i went down the stairs--out at the great carved doorway--and descended the well-worn steps. perched on a crag waiting for me was little gavroche, his rags fluttering in the breeze. he offered to show me the great stone chair where gilliatt sat when the tide came up and carried him away. and did i want to buy a bull calf? gavroche knew where there was a fine one that could be bought cheap. gavroche would show me both the calf and the stone chair for threepence. i accepted the offer, and we went down the stony street toward the sea, hand in hand. * * * * * on the twenty-eighth day of june, eighteen hundred ninety-four, i took my place in the long line and passed slowly through the pantheon at paris and viewed the body of president carnot. the same look of proud dignity that i had seen in life was there--calm, composed, serene. the inanimate clay was clothed in the simple black of a citizen of the republic; the only mark of office being the red silken sash that covered the spot in the breast where the stiletto-stroke of hate had gone home. amid bursts of applause, surrounded by loving friends and loyal adherents, he was stricken down and passed out into the unknown. happy fate! to die before the fickle populace had taken up a new idol; to step in an instant beyond the reach of malice--to leave behind the self-seekers that pursue, the hungry horde that follows, the zealots who defame; to escape the dagger-thrust of calumny and receive only the glittering steel that at the same time wrote his name indelibly on the roll of honor. carnot, thrice happy thou! thy name is secure on history's page, and thy dust now resting beneath the dome of the pantheon is bedewed with the tears of thy countrymen. saint genevieve, the patron saint of paris, died in five hundred twelve. she was buried on a hilltop, the highest point in paris, on the left bank of the seine. over the grave was erected a chapel which for many years was a shrine for the faithful. this chapel with its additions remained until seventeen hundred fifty, when a church was designed which in beauty of style and solidity of structure has rarely been equaled. the object of the architect was to make the most enduring edifice possible, and still not sacrifice proportion. louis the fifteenth laid the cornerstone of this church in seventeen hundred sixty-four, and in seventeen hundred ninety the edifice was dedicated by the roman catholics with great pomp. but the spirit of revolution was at work; and in one year after, a mob sacked this beautiful building, burned its pews, destroyed its altar, and wrought havoc with its ecclesiastical furniture. the convention converted the structure into a memorial temple, inscribing on its front the words, "aux grandes hommes la patrie reconnaisante," and they named the building the pantheon. in eighteen hundred six, the catholics had gotten such influence with the government that the building was restored to them. after the revolution of eighteen hundred thirty, the church of saint genevieve was again taken from the priests. it was held until eighteen hundred fifty-one, when the romanists in the assembly succeeded in having it again reconsecrated. in the meantime, many of the great men of france had been buried there. the first interment in the pantheon was mirabeau. next came marat--stabbed while in the bath by charlotte corday. both bodies were removed by order of the convention when the church was given back to rome. in the pantheon, the visitor now sees the elaborate tombs of voltaire and rousseau. in the dim twilight he reads the glowing inscriptions, and from the tomb of rousseau he sees the hand thrust forth bearing a torch--but the bones of these men are not here. while robed priests chanted the litany, as the great organ pealed, and swinging censers gave off their perfume, visitors came, bringing children, and they stopped at the arches where rousseau and voltaire slept side by side, and they said, "it is here." and so the dust of infidel greatness seemed to interfere with the rites. a change was made. let victor hugo tell: "one night in may, eighteen hundred fourteen, about two o'clock in the morning, a cab stopped near the city gate of la gare at an opening in a board fence. this fence surrounded a large, vacant piece of ground belonging to the city of paris. the cab had come from the pantheon, and the coachman had been ordered to take the most deserted streets. three men alighted from the cab and crawled into the enclosure. two carried a sack between them. other men, some in cassocks, awaited them. they proceeded towards a hole dug in the middle of the field. at the bottom of the hole was quicklime. these men said nothing, they had no lanterns. the wan daybreak gave a ghastly light; the sack was opened. it was full of bones. these were the bones of jean jacques and of voltaire, which had been withdrawn from the pantheon. "the mouth of the sack was brought close to the hole, and the bones rattled down into that black pit. the two skulls struck against each other; a spark, not likely to be seen by those standing near, was doubtless exchanged between the head that made 'the philosophical dictionary' and the head that made 'the social contract,' when that was done, when the sack was shaken, when voltaire and rousseau had been emptied into that hole, a digger seized a spade, threw into the opening the heap of earth, and filled up the grave. the others stamped with their feet upon the ground, so as to remove from it the appearance of having been freshly disturbed. one of the assistants took for his trouble the sack--as the hangman takes the clothing of his victim--they left the enclosure, got into the cab without saying a word, and, hastily, before the sun had risen, these men got away." the ashes of the man who wrote these vivid words now rest next to the empty tombs of voltaire and rousseau. but a step away is the grave of sadi-carnot. when the visitor is conducted to the crypt of the pantheon, he is first taken to the tomb of victor hugo. the sarcophagus on each side is draped with the red, white and blue of france and the stars and stripes of america. with uncovered heads, we behold the mass of flowers and wreaths, and our minds go back to eighteen hundred eighty-five, when the body of the chief citizen of paris lay in state at the pantheon and five hundred thousand people passed by and laid the tribute of silence or of tears on his bier. the pantheon is now given over as a memorial to the men of france who have enriched the world with their lives. over the portals of this beautiful temple are the words, "liberte, egalite, fraternite." across its floors of rarest mosaic echo only the feet of pilgrims and those of the courteous and kindly old soldiers who have the place in charge. on the walls color revels in beautiful paintings, and in the niches and on the pedestals is marble that speaks of greatness which lives in lives made better. the history of the pantheon is one of strife. as late as eighteen hundred seventy the commune made it a stronghold, and the streets on every side were called upon to contribute their paving-stones for a barricade. yet it seems meet that victor hugo's dust should lie here amid the scenes he loved and knew, and where he struggled, worked, toiled, achieved; from whence he was banished, and to which he returned in triumph, to receive at last the complete approbation so long withheld. certainly not in the quiet of a mossy graveyard, nor in a church where priests mumble unmeaning words at fixed times, nor yet alone on the mountain-side--for he chafed at solitude--but he should have been buried at sea. in the midst of storm and driving sleet, at midnight, the sails should have been lowered, the great engines stopped, and with no requiem but the sobbing of the night-wind and the sighing of the breeze through the shrouds, and the moaning of the waves as they surged about the great, black ship, the plank should have been run out, and the body wrapped in the red, white and blue of the republic: the sea, the infinite mother of all, beloved and sung by him, should have taken his tired form to her arms, and there he would rest. if not this, then the pantheon. wm. wordsworth even such a shell the universe itself is to the ear of faith; and there are times, i doubt not, when to you it doth impart authentic tidings of invisible things; of ebb and flow and ever-during power; and central peace subsisting at the heart of endless agitation. here you stand, adore and worship, when you know it not; pious beyond the intention of your thought; devout above the meaning of your will. --_wordsworth_ [illustration: william wordsworth] some one has told us that heaven is not a place but a condition of mind, and it is possible that he is right. but if heaven is a place, surely it is not unlike grasmere. such loveliness of landscape--such sylvan stretches of crystal water--peace and quiet and rest! great, green hills lift their heads to the skies, and all the old stone walls and hedgerows are covered with trailing vines and blooming flowers. the air is rich with song of birds, sweet with perfume, and the blossoms gaily shower their petals on the passer-by. overhead, white, billowy clouds float lazily over their background of ethereal blue. cool june breezes fan the cheek. distant knolls are dotted with flocks of sheep whose bells tinkle dreamily; and drowsy hum of beetle makes the bass, while lark song forms the air of the sweet symphony that nature plays. such was grasmere as i first saw it. to love the plain, homely, common, simple things of earth, of these to sing; to make the familiar beautiful and the commonplace enchanting; to cause each bush to burn with the actual presence of the living god: this is the poet's office. and if the poet lives near grasmere, his task does not seem difficult. from seventeen hundred ninety-nine to eighteen hundred eight, wordsworth lived at dove cottage. thanks to a few earnest souls, the place is now secured to the people of england and the lovers of poetry wherever they may be. a good old woman has charge of the cottage, and for a slight fee shows you the house and garden and little orchard and objects of interest, all the while talking: and you are glad, for, although unlettered, she is reverent and honest. she was born here, and all she knows is wordsworth and the people and the things he loved. is not this enough? here wordsworth lived before anything he wrote was published in book form: here his best work was done, and here dorothy--splendid, sympathetic dorothy---was inspiration, critic, friend. but who inspired dorothy? coleridge perhaps more than all others, and we know somewhat of their relationship as told in dorothy's diary. there is a little wordsworth library in dove cottage, and i sat at the window of "de quincey's room" and read for an hour. says dorothy: "sat until four o'clock reading dear coleridge's letters." "we paced the garden until moonrise at one o'clock--we three, brother, coleridge and i." "i read spenser to him aloud and then we had a midnight tea." here in this little, terraced garden, behind the stone cottage with its low ceilings and wide window-seats and little, diamond panes, she in her misery wrote: "oh, the pity of it all! yet there is recompense; every sight reminds me of coleridge, dear, dear fellow; of our walks and talks by day and night; of all the bright and witty, and sad sweet things of which we spoke and read. i was melancholy and could not talk, and at last i eased my heart by weeping." alas, too often there is competition between brother and sister, then follow misunderstandings; but here the brotherly and sisterly love stands out clear and strong after these hundred years have passed, and we contemplate it with delight. was ever woman more honestly and better praised than dorothy? "the blessings of my later years were with me when i was a boy. she gave me eyes, she gave me ears, and humble cares and gentle fears, a heart! the fountain of sweet tears, and love and thought and joy. and she hath smiles to earth unknown, smiles that with motion of their own do spread and sink and rise; that come and go with endless play, and ever as they pass away are hidden in her eyes." and so in a dozen or more poems, we see dorothy reflected. she was the steel on which he tried his flint. everything he wrote was read to her, then she read it alone, balancing the sentences in the delicate scales of her womanly judgment. "heart of my heart, is this well done?" when she said, "this will do," it was no matter who said otherwise. back of the house on the rising hillside is the little garden. hewn out of the solid rock is "dorothy's seat." there i rested while mrs. dixon discoursed of poet lore, and told me of how, many times, coleridge and dorothy had sat in the same seat and watched the stars. then i drank from "the well," which is more properly a spring; the stones that curb it were placed in their present position by the hand that wrote "the prelude." above the garden is the orchard, where the green linnet still sings, for the birds never grow old. there, too, are the circling swallows; and in a snug little alcove of the cottage you can read "the butterfly" from a first edition; and then you can go sit in the orchard, white with blossoms, and see the butterflies that suggested the poem. and if your eye is good you can discover down by the lakeside the daffodils, and listen the while to the cuckoo call. then in the orchard you can see not only "the daisy," but many of them, and, if you wish, mrs. dixon will let you dig a bunch of the daisies to take back to america; and if you do, i hope that yours will prosper as have mine, and that wordsworth's flowers, like wordsworth's verse, will gladden your heart when the blue sky of your life threatens to be o'ercast with gray. here southey came, and "thalaber" was read aloud in this little garden. here, too, came clarkson, the man with a fine feminine carelessness, as dorothy said. charles lloyd sat here and discoursed with william calvert. sir george beaumont forgot his title and rapped often at the quaint, hinged door. an artist was beaumont, but his best picture they say is not equal to the lines that wordsworth wrote about it. sir george was not only a gentleman according to law, but one in heart, for he was a friend, kind, gentle and generous. with such a friend wordsworth was rich indeed. but perhaps the friends we have are only our other selves, and we get what we deserve. we must not forget the kindly face of humphry davy, whose gracious playfulness was ever a charm to the wordsworths. the safety-lamp was then only an unspoken word, and perhaps few foresaw the sweetness and light that these two men would yet give to earth. walter scott and his wife came to dove cottage in eighteen hundred five. he did not bring his title, for it, like humphry davy's, was as yet unpacked down in london town. they slept in the little cubby-hole of a room in the upper southwest corner. one can imagine dorothy taking sir walter's shaving-water up to him in the morning; and the savory smell of breakfast as mistress mary poured the tea, while england's future laureate served the toast and eggs: mr. scott eating everything in sight and talking a torrent the while about art and philosophy as he passed his cup back, to the consternation of the hostess, whose frugal ways were not used to such ravages of appetite. of course she did not know that a combined novelist and rhymster ate twice as much as a simple poet. afterwards mrs. scott tucked up her dress, putting on one of dorothy's aprons, and helped do the dishes. then coleridge came over and they all climbed to the summit of helm crag. shy little de quincey had read some of wordsworth's poems, and knew from their flavor that the man who penned them was a noble soul. he came to grasmere to call on him: he walked past dove cottage twice, but his heart failed him and he went away unannounced. later, he returned and found the occupants as simple folks as himself. happiness was there and good society; few books, but fine culture; plain living and high thinking. wordsworth lived at rydal mount for thirty-three years, yet the sweetest flowers of his life blossomed at dove cottage. for difficulty, toil, struggle, obscurity, poverty, mixed with aspiration and ambition---all these were here. success came later, but this is naught; for the achievement is more than the public acknowledgment of the deed. after wordsworth moved away, de quincey rented dove cottage and lived in it for twenty-seven years. he acquired a library of more than five thousand volumes, making bookshelves on four sides of the little rooms from floor to ceiling. some of these shelves still remain. here he turned night into day and dreamed the dreams of "the opium-eater." and all these are some of the things that mrs. dixon told me on that bright summer day. what if i had heard them before! no difference. dear old lady, i salute you and at your feet i lay my gratitude for a day of rare and quiet joy. "farewell, thou little nook of mountain ground, thou rocky corner in the lowest stair of that magnificent temple which does bound one side of our whole vale with gardens rare, sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, the loveliest spot that man has ever found, farewell! we leave thee to heaven's peaceful care, thee, and the cottage which thou dost surround." * * * * * at places of pleasure and entertainment in the far west, are often found functionaries known as "bouncers." it is the duty of the bouncer to give hints to objectionable visitors that their presence is not desired. and inasmuch as there are many men who can never take a hint without a kick, the bouncer is a person selected on account of his peculiar fitness--psychic and otherwise--for the place. we all have special talents, and these faculties should be used in a manner that will help our fellowmen on their way. my acquaintanceship with the bouncer has been only general, not particular. yet i have admired him from a distance, and the skill and eclat that he sometimes shows in a professional way has often excited my admiration. in social usages, america borrows constantly from the mother country. but like all borrowing it seems to be one-sided, for seldom, very, very seldom, in point of etiquette and manners does england borrow from us. yet there are exceptions. it is a beautiful highway that skirts lake windermere and follows up through ambleside. we get a glimpse of the old home of harriet martineau, and "fox howe," the home of matthew arnold. just before rydal water is reached comes rydal road, running straight up the hillside, off from the turnpike. rydal mount is the third house up on the left-hand side, i knew the location, for i had read of it many times, and in my pocketbook i carried a picture taken from an old "frank leslie's," showing the house. my heart beat fast as i climbed the hill. to visit the old home of one who was poet laureate of england is no small event in the life of a book-lover. i was full of poetry and murmured lines from "the excursion" as i walked. soon rare old rydal mount came in sight among the wealth of green. i stopped and sighed. yes, yes, wordsworth lived here for thirty-three years, and here he died; the spot whereon i then stood had been pressed many times by his feet. i walked slowly, with uncovered head, and approached the gate. it was locked. i fumbled at the latch; and just as there came a prospect of its opening, a loud, deep, guttural voice dashed over me like a wave: "there--you! now, wot you want?" the owner of this voice was not ten feet away, but he was standing up close to the wall and i had not seen him. i was somewhat startled at first. the man did not move. i stepped to one side to get a better view of my interlocutor, and saw him to be a large, red man of perhaps fifty. a handkerchief was knotted around his thick neck, and he held a heavy hoe in his hand. a genuine beefeater he was, only he ate too much beef and the ale he drank was evidently extra xxx. his scowl was so needlessly severe and his manner so belligerent that i--thrice armed, knowing my cause was just--could not restrain a smile. i touched my hat and said, "ah, excuse me, mr. falstaff, you are the bouncer?" "never mind wot i am, sir--'oo are you?" "i am a great admirer of wordsworth----" "that's the way they all begins. cawn't ye hadmire 'im on that side of the wall as well as this?" there is no use of wasting argument with a man of this stamp; besides that, his question was to the point. but there are several ways of overcoming one's adversary: i began feeling in my pocket for pence. my enemy ceased glaring, stepped up to the locked gate as though he half-wished to be friendly, and there was sorrow in his voice: "don't tempt me, sir; don't do ut! the missus is peekin' out of the shutters at us now." "and do you never admit visitors, even to the grounds?" "no, sir, never, god 'elp me! and there's many an honest bob i could turn by ut, and no one 'urt. but i've lost my place twic't by ut. they took me back though. the guv'ner 'ud never forgive me again. 'it's three times and out, mister 'opkins,' says 'ee, only last whitsuntide." "but visitors do come?" "yes, sir; but they never gets in. mostly 'mer'cans; they don't know no better, sir. they picks all the ivy orf the outside of the wall, and you sees yourself there's no leaves on the lower branches of that tree. then they carries away so many pebbles from out there that i've to dump in a fresh weelbarrel full o' gravel every week, sir, don't you know." he thrust a pudgy, freckled hand through the bars of the gate to show that he bore me no ill-will, and also, i suppose, to mollify my disappointment. for although i had come too late to see the great poet himself and had even failed to see the inside of his house, yet i had at least been greeted at the gate by his proxy. i pressed the hand firmly, pocketed a handful of gravel as a memento, then turned and went my way. and all there is to tell about my visit to rydal mount is this interview with the bouncer. * * * * * wordsworth lived eighty years. his habitation, except for short periods, was never more than a few miles from his birthplace. his education was not extensive, his learning not profound. he lacked humor and passion; in his character there was little personal magnetism, and in his work there is small dramatic power. he traveled more or less and knew humanity, but he did not know man. his experience in so-called practical things was slight, his judgment not accurate. so he lived--quietly, modestly, dreamily. his dust rests in a country churchyard, the grave marked by a simple slab. a gnarled, old yew-tree stands guard above the grass-grown mound. the nearest railroad is fifteen miles away. as a poet, wordsworth stands in the front rank of the second class. shelley, browning, mrs. browning, tennyson, far surpass him; and the sweet singer of michigan, even in uninspired moments, never "threw off" anything worse than this: "and he is lean and he is sick: his body, dwindled and awry, rests upon ankles swollen and thick; his legs are thin and dry. one prop he has, and only one, his wife, an aged woman, lives with him near the waterfall, upon the village common." jove may nod, but when he makes a move it counts. yet the influence of wordsworth upon the thought and feeling of the world has been very great. he himself said, "the young will read my poems and be better for their truth." many of his lines pass as current coin: "the child is father of the man," "the light that never was on land nor sea," "not too bright and good for human nature's daily food," "thoughts that do lie too deep for tears," "the mighty stream of tendency," and many others. "plain living and high thinking" is generally given to emerson, but he discovered it in wordsworth, and recognizing it as his own he took it. in a certain book of quotations, "the still sad music of humanity" is given to shakespeare; but to equalize matters we sometimes attribute to wordsworth "the old oaken bucket." the men who win are those who correct an abuse. wordsworth's work was a protest--mild yet firm--against the bombastic and artificial school of the eighteenth century. before his day the "timber" used by poets consisted of angels, devils, ghosts, gods; onslaught, tourneys, jousts, tempests of hate and torrents of wrath, always of course with a very beautiful and very susceptible young lady just around the corner. the women in those days were always young and ever beautiful, but seldom wise and not often good. the men were saints or else "bad," generally bad. like the cats of kilkenny, they fought on slight cause. our young man at hawkshead school saw this: it pleased him not, and he made a list of the things on which he would write poems. this list includes: sunset, moonrise, starlight, mist, brooks, shells, stones, butterflies, moths, swallows, linnets, thrushes, wagoners, babies, bark of trees, leaves, nests, fishes, rushes, leeches, cobwebs, clouds, deer, music, shade, swans, crags and snow. he kept his vow and "went it one better," for among his verses i find the following titles: "lines left upon a seat in a yew-tree," "lines composed a few miles above tintern abbey," "to a wounded butterfly," "to dora's portrait," "to the cuckoo," "on seeing a needlebook made in the shape of a harp," etc. wordsworth's service to humanity consists in the fact that he has shown us old truth in a new light, and has made plain the close relationship that exists between physical nature and the soul of man. is this much or little? i think it is much. when we realize that we are a part of all that we see, or hear, or feel, we are not lonely. but to feel a sense of separation is to feel the chill of death. wordsworth taught that the earth is the universal mother and that the life of the flower has its source in the same universal life from whence ours is derived. to know this truth is to feel a tenderness, a kindliness, a spirit of fraternalism, toward every manifestation of this universal life. no attempt was made to say the last word, only a wish to express the truth that the spirit of god is manifest on every hand. now this is a very simple philosophy. no far-reaching, syllogistic logic is required to prove it; no miracle, nor special dispensation is needed; you just feel that it is so, that's all, and it gives you peace. children, foolish folks, old men, whose sands of life are nearly run, comprehend it. but heaven bless you! you can't prove any such foolishness. jeffrey saw the ridiculousness of these assumptions and so he declared, "this will never do," and for twenty years "the edinburgh review" never ceased to fling off fleers and jeers--and to criticize and scoff. that a great periodical, rich and influential, in the city which was the very center of learning, should go so much out of its way to attack a quiet countryman living in a four-roomed cottage, away off in the hills of cumberland, seems a little queer. then, this countryman did not seek to found a kingdom, nor to revolutionize society, nor did he force upon the world his pattypan rhymes about linnets, and larks, and daffodils. far from it: he was very modest--diffident, in fact--and his song was quite in the minor key, but still the chain-shot and bombs of literary warfare were sent hissing in his direction. there is a little story about a certain general who figured as division-commander in the war of secession: this warrior had his headquarters, for a time, in a typical southern home in the tennessee mountains. the house had a large fireplace and chimney; in this chimney, swallows had nests. one day, as the great man was busy at his maps, working out a plan of campaign against the enemy, the swallows made quite an uproar. perhaps some of the eggs were hatching; anyway, the birds were needlessly noisy in their domestic affairs, and it disturbed the great man--he grew nervous. he called his adjutant. "sir," said the mighty warrior, "dislodge those damn pests in the chimney, without delay." two soldiers were ordered to climb the roof and dislodge the enemy. yet the swallows were not dislodged, for the soldiers could not reach them. so jeffrey's tirades were unavailing, and wordsworth was not dislodged. "he might as well try to crush skiddaw," said southey. william m. thackeray to mr. brookfield september , have you read dickens? oh, it is charming! brave dickens! "david copperfield" has some of his prettiest touches, and the reading of the book has done another author a great deal of good. --w.m.t. [illustration: w.m. thackeray] there are certain good old ladies in every community who wear perennial mourning. they attend every funeral, carrying black-bordered handkerchiefs, and weep gently at the right time. i have made it a point to hunt out these ancient dames at their homes, and, over the teacups, i have discovered that invariably they enjoy a sweet peace--a happiness with contentment--that is a great gain. they seem to be civilization's rudimentary relic of the irish keeners and the paid mourners of the orient. and there is just a little of this tendency to mourn with those who mourn in all mankind. it is not difficult to bear another's woe--and then there is always a grain of mitigation, even in the sorrow of the afflicted, that makes their tribulation bearable. burke affirms, in "on the sublime," that all men take a certain satisfaction in the disasters of others. just as frenchmen lift their hats when a funeral passes and thank god that they are not in the hearse, so do we in the presence of calamity thank heaven that it is not ours. perhaps this is why i get a strange delight from walking through a graveyard by night. all about are the white monuments that glisten in the ghostly starlight, the night-wind sighs softly among the grassy mounds--all else is silent--still. this is the city of the dead, and of all the hundreds or thousands who have traveled to this spot over long and weary miles, i, only i, have the power to leave at will. their ears are stopped, their eyes are closed, their hands are folded--but i am alive. one of the first places i visited on reaching london was kensal green cemetery. i quickly made the acquaintance of the first gravedigger, a rare wit, over whose gray head have passed full seventy pleasant summers. i presented him a copy of "the shroud," the organ of the american undertakers' association, published at syracuse, new york. i subscribe for "the shroud" because it has a bright wit-and-humor column, and also for the sweet satisfaction of knowing that there is still virtue left in syracuse. the first gravedigger greeted me courteously, and when i explained briefly my posthumous predilections we grasped hands across an open grave (that he had just digged) and were fast friends. "do you believe in cremation, sir?" he asked. "no, never; it's pagan." "aye, you are a gentleman--and about burying folks in churches?" "never! a grave should be out under the open sky, where the sun by day and the moon and stars----" "right you are. how shakespeare can ever stand it to have his grave walked over by a boy choir is more than i can understand. if i had him here i could look after him right. come, i'll show you the company i keep!" not twenty feet from where we stood was a fine but plain granite block to the memory of the second wife of james russell lowell. "just mr. lowell and one friend stood by the grave when we lowered the coffin--just two men and no one else but the young clergyman who belongs here. mr. lowell shook hands with me when he went away. he gave me a guinea and wrote me two letters afterward from america; the last was sent only a week before he died. i'll show 'em to you when we go to the office. say, did you know him?" he pointed to a slab, on which i read the name of sydney smith. then we went to the graves of mulready, the painter; kemble, the actor; sir charles eastlake, the artist. next came the resting-place of buckle--immortal for writing a preface--dead at thirty-seven, with his history unwrit; leigh hunt sleeps near, and above his dust a column that explains how it was erected by friends. in life he asked for bread; when dead they gave him a costly pile of stone. here are also the graves of madame tietjens; of charles mathews, the actor; and of admiral sir john ross, the arctic explorer. "and just down the hill aways another big man is buried. i knew him well; he used to come and visit us often. the last time i saw him i said as he was going away, 'come again, sir; you are always welcome!' "'thank you, mr. first gravedigger,' says he; 'i will come again before long, and make you an extended visit.' in less than a year the hearse brought him. that's his grave--push that ivy away and you can read the inscription. did you ever hear of him?" it was a plain, heavy slab placed horizontally, and the ivy had so run over it that the white of the marble was nearly obscured. but i made out this inscription: william makepeace thackeray born july , died dec. , anne carmichael smyth died dec. , , aged --his mother by her first marriage the unpoetic exactness of that pedigree gave me a slight chill. but here they sleep--mother and son in one grave. she who gave him his first caress also gave him his last; and when he was found dead in his bed, his mother, who lived under the same roof, was the first one called. he was the child of her girlhood--she was scarcely twenty when she bore him. in life they were never separated, and in death they are not divided. it is as both desired. thackeray was born in india, and was brought to england on the death of his father, when he was six years of age. on the way from calcutta the ship touched at the island of saint helena. a servant took the lad ashore and they walked up the rocky heights to longwood, and there, pacing back and forth in a garden, they saw a short, stout man. "lookee, lad, lookee quick--that's him! he eats three sheep every day and all the children he can get!" "and that's all i had to do with the battle of waterloo," said "old thack," forty years after. but you will never believe it after reading those masterly touches concerning the battle, in "vanity fair." young thackeray was sent to the charterhouse school, where he was considered rather a dull boy. he was big and good-natured, and read novels when he should have studied arithmetic. this tendency to "play off" stuck to him at cambridge--where he did not remain long enough to get a degree, but to the relief of his tutors went off on a tour through europe. travel as a means of education is a very seductive bit of sophistry. invalids whom the doctors can not cure, and scholars whom teachers can not teach, are often advised to take "a change." still there is reason in it. in england thackeray was intent on law; at paris he received a strong bent toward art; but when he reached weimar and was introduced at the court of letters and came into the living presence of goethe, he caught the infection and made a plan for translating schiller. schiller dead was considered in germany a greater man than goethe living, as if it were an offense to live and a virtue to die. and young william makepeace wrote home to his mother that schiller was the greatest man that ever lived and that he was going to translate his books and give them to england. no doubt there are certain people born with a tendency to infectiousness in regard to certain diseases; so there are those who catch the literary mania on slight exposure. "i've got it," said thackeray, and so he had. he went back to england and made groggy efforts at blackstone, and somebody's digest, and what's-his-name's compendium, but all the time he scribbled and sketched. the young man had come into possession of a goodly fortune from his father's estate--enough to yield him an income of over two thousand dollars a year. but bad investments and signing security for friends took the money the way that money usually goes when held by a man who has not earned it. "talk about riches having wings," said thackeray; "my fortune had pinions like a condor, and flew like a carrier-pigeon." when thackeray was thirty he was eking out a meager income writing poems, reviews, criticisms and editorials. his wife was a confirmed invalid, a victim of mental darkness, and his sorrows and anxieties were many. he was known as a bright writer, yet london is full of clever, unsuccessful men. but in thackeray's thirty-eighth year "vanity fair" came out, and it was a success from the first. in "yesterdays with authors," mr. fields says: "i once made a pilgrimage with thackeray to the various houses where his books had been written; and i remember when we came to young street, kensington, he said, with mock gravity, 'down on your knees, you rogue, for here "vanity fair" was penned; and i will go down with you, for i have a high opinion of that little production myself.'" young street is only a block from the kensington metropolitan railway-station. it is a little street running off kensington road. at number sixteen (formerly number thirteen), i saw a card in the window, "rooms to rent to single gentlemen." i rang the bell, and was shown a room that the landlady offered me for twelve shillings a week if i paid in advance; or if i would take another room one flight up with a "gent who was studying hart" it would be only eight and six. i suggested that we go up and see the "gent." we did so, and i found the young man very courteous and polite. he told me that he had never heard thackeray's name in connection with the house. the landlady protested that "no man by the name o' thack'ry has had rooms here since i rented the place; leastwise, if he has been here he called hisself by sumpthink else, which was like o'nuff the case, as most ev'rybody is crooked now'days--but surely no decent person can blame me for that!" i assured her that she was in no wise to blame. from this house in young street the author of "vanity fair" moved to number thirty-six onslow square, where he wrote "the virginians." on the south side of the square there is a row of three-storied brick houses. thackeray lived in one of these houses for nine years. they were the years when honors and wealth were being heaped upon him; and he was worldling enough to let his wants keep pace with his ability to gratify them. he was made of the same sort of clay as other men, for his standard of life conformed to his pocketbook and he always felt poor. from this fine house on onslow square he moved to a veritable palace, which he built to suit his own taste, at number two palace green, kensington. but mansions on earth are seldom for long--he died here on christmas eve, eighteen hundred sixty-three. and charles dickens, mark lemon, millais, trollope, robert browning, cruikshank, tom taylor, louis blanc, charles mathews and shirley brooks were among the friends who carried him to his rest. * * * * * to take one's self too seriously is a great mistake. complacency is the unpardonable sin, and the man who says, "now i'm sure of it," has at that moment lost it. villagers who have lived in one little place until they think themselves great, having lost the sense of proportion through lack of comparison, are generally "in dead earnest." surely they are often intellectually dead, and i do not dispute the fact that they are in earnest. all those excellent gentlemen in the days gone by who could not contemplate a celestial bliss that did not involve the damnation of those who disagreed with them were in dead earnest. cotton mather once saw a black cat perched on the shoulder of an innocent, chattering old gran'ma. the next day a neighbor had a convulsion; and cotton mather went forth and exorcised tabby with a hymn-book, and hanged gran'ma by the neck, high on gallows hill, until she was dead. had the reverend mr. mather possessed but a mere modicum of humor he might have exorcised the cat, but i am sure he would never have troubled old gran'ma. but alas, cotton mather's conversation was limited to yea, yea, and nay, nay--generally, nay, nay--and he was in dead earnest. in the boston public library is a book written in sixteen hundred eighty-five by cotton mather, entitled, "wonders of the invisible world." this book received the endorsement of the governor of the province and also of the president of harvard college. the author cites many cases of persons who were bewitched; and also makes the interesting statement that the devil knows greek, latin and hebrew, but speaks english with an accent. these facts were long used at harvard as an argument in favor of the classics. and when greek was at last made optional, the devil was supposed to have filed a protest with the dean of the faculty. the reverend francis gastrell, who razed new place, and cut down the poet's mulberry-tree to escape the importunities of visitors, was in dead earnest. attila, and herod, and john calvin were in dead earnest. and were it not for the fact that luther had lucid intervals when he went about with his tongue in his cheek he surely would have worked grievous wrong. recent discoveries in egyptian archeology show that in his lifetime moses was esteemed more as a wit than as a lawmaker. his jokes were posted upon the walls and explained to the populace, who it seems were a bit slow. job was a humorist of a high order, and when he said to the wise men, "no doubt but ye are the people, and wisdom shall die with you," he struck twelve. when the sons of jacob went down into egypt and joseph put up the price of corn, took their money, and then secretly replaced the coin in the sacks, he showed his artless love of a quiet joke. shakespeare's fools were the wisest and kindliest men at court. when the master decked a character in cap and bells, it was as though he had given bonds for the man's humanity. touchstone followed his master into exile; and when all seemed to have forsaken king lear the fool bared himself to the storm and covered the shaking old man with his own cloak. and if costard, trinculo, touchstone, jaques and mercutio had lived in salem in sixteen hundred ninety-two, there would have been not only a flashing of merry jests, but a flashing of rapiers as well, and every gray hair of every old dame's head would have been safe so long as there was a striped leg on which to stand. lincoln, liberator of men, loved the motley. in fact, the individual who is incapable of viewing the world from a jocular basis is unsafe, and can be trusted only when the opposition is strong enough to laugh him into line. in the realm of english letters, thackeray is prince of humorists. he could see right through a brick wall, and never mistook a hawk for a hernshaw. he had a just estimate of values, and the temperament that can laugh at all trivial misfits. and he had, too, that dread capacity for pain which every true humorist possesses, for the true essence of humor is sensibility. in all literature that lives there is mingled like pollen an indefinable element of the author's personality. in thackeray's "lectures on english humorists" this subtle quality is particularly apparent. elusive, delicate, alluring--it is the actinic ray that imparts vitality. when wit plays skittles with dulness, dulness gets revenge by taking wit at his word. vast numbers of people taking thackeray at his word consider him a bitter pessimist. he even disconcerted bright little charlotte bronte, who went down to london to see him, and then wrote back to haworth that "the great man talked steadily with never a smile. i could not tell when to laugh and when to cry, for i did not know what was fun and what fact." but finally the author of "jane eyre" found the combination, and she saw that beneath the brusk exterior of that bulky form there was a woman's tender sympathy. thackeray has told us what he thought of the author of "jane eyre," and the author of "jane eyre" has told us what she thought of the author of "vanity fair." one was big and whimsical, the other was little and sincere, but both were alike in this: their hearts were wrung at the sight of suffering, and both had tears for the erring, the groping, and the oppressed. a frenchman can not comprehend a joke that is not accompanied by grimace and gesticulation; and so m. taine chases thackeray through sixty solid pages, berating him for what he is pleased to term "bottled hate." taine is a cynic who charges thackeray with cynicism, all in the choicest of biting phrase. it is a beautiful example of sinners calling the righteous to repentance--a thing that is often done, but seldom with artistic finish. the fun is too deep for monsieur, or mayhap the brand is not the yellow label to which his palate is accustomed, so he spews it all. yet taine's criticism is charming reading, although he is only hot after an aniseed trail of his own dragging. but the chase is a deal more exciting than most men would lead, were there real live game to capture. if pushed, i might suggest several points in this man's make-up where god could have bettered his work. but accepting thackeray as we find him, we see a singer whose cage fate had overhung with black until he had caught the tune. the "ballad of boullabaisse" shows a tender side of his spirit that he often sought to conceal. his heart vibrated to all finer thrills of mercy; and his love for all created things was so delicately strung that he would, in childish shame, sometimes issue a growl to drown its rising, tearful tones. in the character of becky sharp, he has marshaled some of his own weak points and then lashed them with scorn. he looked into the mirror and seeing a potential snob he straightway inveighed against snobbery. the punishment does not always fit the crime--it is excess. but i still contest that where his ridicule is most severe, it is thackeray's own back that is bared to the knout. the primal recipe for roguery in art is, "know thyself." when a writer portrays a villain and does it well--make no mistake, he poses for the character himself. said gentle ralph waldo emerson, "i have capacity in me for every crime." the man of imagination knows those mystic spores of possibility that lie dormant, and like the magicians of the east who grow mango-trees in an hour, he develops the "inward potential" at will. the mere artisan in letters goes forth and finds a villain and then describes him, but the artist knows a better way: "i am that man." one of the very sweetest, gentlest characters in literature is colonel newcome. the stepfather of thackeray, major carmichael smyth, was made to stand for the portrait of the lovable colonel; and when that all-round athlete, f. hopkinson smith, gave us that other lovable old colonel he paid high tribute to "the newcomes." thackeray was a poet, and as such was often caught in the toils of doubt--the crux of the inquiring spirit. he aspired for better things, and at times his imperfections stood out before him in monstrous shape, and he sought to hiss them down. in the heart of the artist-poet there is an inmost self that sits over against the acting, breathing man and passes judgment on his every deed. to satisfy the world is little; to please the populace is naught; fame is vapor; gold is dross; and every love that has not the sanction of that inmost self is a viper's sting. to satisfy the demands of the god within is the poet's prayer. what doubts beset, what taunting fears surround, what crouching sorrows lie in wait, what dead hopes drag, what hot desires pursue, and what kindly lights do beckon on--ah! "'tis we musicians know." thackeray came to america to get a pot of money, and was in a fair way of securing it, when he chanced to pick up a paper in which a steamer was announced to sail that evening for england. a wave of homesickness swept over the big boy--he could not stand it. he hastily packed up his effects and without saying good-by to any one, and forgetting all his engagements, he hastened to the dock, leaving this note for the kindest of kind friends: "good-by, fields; good-by, mrs. fields--god bless everybody, says w.m.t." charles dickens i hope for the enlargement of my mind, and for the improvement of my understanding. if i have done but little good, i trust i have done less harm, and that none of my adventures will be other than a source of amusing and pleasant recollection. god bless you all! --_pickwick_ [illustration: charles dickens] the path of progress in certain problems seems barred as by a flaming sword. more than a thousand years before christ, an arab chief asked, "if a man die shall he live again?" every man who ever lived has asked the same question, but we know no more today about the subject than did job. there are one hundred five boy babies born to every one hundred girls. the law holds in every land where vital statistics have been kept; and sairey gamp knew just as much about the cause why as brown-sequard, pasteur, agnew or austin flint. there is still a third question that every parent, since adam and eve, has sought to solve: "how can i educate this child so that he will attain eminence?" and even in spite of shelves that groan beneath tomes and tomes, and advice from a million preachers, the answer is: nobody knows. "there is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will." moses was sent adrift, but the tide carried him into power. the brethren of joseph "deposited him into a cavity," but you can not dispose of genius that way! demosthenes was weighted (or blessed) with every disadvantage; shakespeare got into difficulty with a woman eight years his senior, stole deer, ran away, and--became the very first among english poets; erasmus was a foundling. once there was a woman by the name of nancy hanks; she was thin-breasted, gaunt, yellow and sad. at last, living in poverty, overworked, she was stricken by death. she called her son--homely as herself--and pointing to the lad's sister said, "be good to her, abe," and died--died, having no expectation for her boy beyond the hope that he might prosper in worldly affairs so as to care for himself and his sister. the boy became a man who wielded wisely a power mightier than that ever given to any other american. seven college-bred men composed his cabinet; and proctor knott once said that "if a teeter were evenly balanced, and the members of the cabinet were all placed on one end, and the president on the other, he would send the seven wise men flying into space." on the other hand, marcus aurelius wrote his "meditations" for a son who did not read them, and whose name is a symbol of profligacy; charles kingsley penned "greek heroes" for offspring who have never shown their father's heroism; and charles dickens wrote "a child's history of england" for his children--none of whom has proven his proficiency in historiology. charles dickens himself received his education at the university of hard knocks. very early in life he was cast upon the rocks and suckled by the she-wolf. yet he became the most popular author the world has ever known, and up to the present time no writer of books has approached him in point of number of readers and of financial returns. these are facts--facts so hard and true that they would be the delight of mr. gradgrind. at twelve years of age, charles dickens was pasting labels on blacking-boxes; his father was in prison. at sixteen, he was spending odd hours in the reading-room of the british museum. at nineteen, he was parliamentary reporter; at twenty-one, a writer of sketches; at twenty-three, he was getting a salary of thirty-five dollars a week, and the next year his pay was doubled. when twenty-five, he wrote a play that ran for seventy nights at drury lane theater. about the same time he received seven hundred dollars for a series of sketches written in two weeks. at twenty-six, publishers were at his feet. when dickens was at the flood-tide of prosperity, thackeray, one year his senior, waited on his doorstep with pictures to illustrate "pickwick." he worked steadily, and made from eight to twenty-five thousand dollars a year. his fame increased, and the "new york ledger" paid him ten thousand dollars for one story which he wrote in a fortnight. his collected works fill forty volumes. there are more of dickens' books sold every year now than in any year in which he lived. there were more of dickens' books sold last year than any previous year. "i am glad that the public buy his books," said macready; "for if they did not he would take to the stage and eclipse us all." "not so bad as we seem," by bulwer-lytton, was played at devonshire house in the presence of the queen, dickens taking the principal part. he gave theatrical performances in london, liverpool and manchester, for the benefit of leigh hunt, sheridan knowles and various other needy authors and actors. he wrote a dozen plays, and twice as many more have been constructed from his plots. he gave public readings through england, scotland and ireland, where the people fought for seats. the average receipts for these entertainments were eight hundred dollars per night. in eighteen hundred sixty-three, he made a six months' tour of the united states, giving a series of readings. the prices of admission were placed at extravagant figures, but the box-office was always besieged until the ticket-seller put out his lights and hung out a sign: "the standing-room is all taken." the gross receipts of these readings were two hundred twenty-nine thousand dollars; the expenses thirty-nine thousand dollars; net profit, one hundred ninety thousand dollars. charles dickens died of brain-rupture in eighteen hundred seventy, aged fifty-eight. his dust rests in westminster abbey. * * * * * "to know the london of dickens is a liberal education," once said james t. fields, who was affectionately referred to by charles dickens as "massachusetts jemmy." and i am aware of no better way to become acquainted with the greatest city in the world than to follow the winding footsteps of the author of "david copperfield." beginning his london life when ten years of age, he shifted from one lodging to another, zigzag, tacking back and forth from place to place, but all the time making head, and finally dwelling in palaces of which nobility might be proud. it took him forty-eight years to travel from the squalor of camden town to poet's corner in westminster abbey. he lodged first in bayham street. "a washerwoman lived next door, and a bow street officer over the way." it was a shabby district, chosen by the elder dickens because the rent was low. as he neglected to pay the rent, one wonders why he did not take quarters in piccadilly. i looked in vain for a sign reading, "washin dun heer," but i found a bow street orf'cer who told me that bayham street had long since disappeared. yet there is always a recompense in prowling about london, because if you do not find the thing you are looking for, you find something else equally interesting. my bow street friend proved to be a regular magazine of rare and useful information--historical, archeological and biographical. a lunnun bobby has his clothes cut after a pattern a hundred years old, and he always carries his gloves in his hand--never wearing them--because this was a habit of william the conqueror. but never mind; he is intelligent, courteous and obliging, and i am perfectly willing that he should wear skirts like a ballet-dancer and a helmet too small, if it is his humor. my perliceman knew an older orf'cer who was acquainted with mr. dickens. mr. dickens 'ad a full perliceman's suit 'imself, issued to 'im on an order from scotland yard, and he used to do patrol duty at night, carrying 'is bloomin' gloves in 'is 'and and 'is chinstrap in place. this was told me by my new-found friend, who volunteered to show me the way to north gower street. it's only gower street now and the houses have been renumbered, so number four is a matter of conjecture; but my guide showed me a door where were the marks of a full-grown plate that evidently had long since disappeared. some days afterward i found this identical brass plate at an old bookshop in cheapside. the plate read: "mrs. dickens' establishment." the man who kept the place advertised himself as a "bibliopole." he offered to sell me the plate for one pun ten; but i did not purchase, for i knew where i could get its mate with a deal more verdigris--all for six and eight. dickens has recorded that he can not recollect of any pupils coming to the establishment. but he remembers when his father was taken, like mr. dorrit, to the debtors' prison. he was lodged in the top story but one, in the very same room where his son afterwards put the dorrits. it's a queer thing to know that a book-writer can imprison folks without a warrant and even kill them and yet go unpunished--which thought was suggested to me by my philosophic guide. from this house in gower street, charles used to go daily to the marshalsea to visit micawber, who not so many years later was to act as the proud amanuensis of his son. the next morning after i first met bobby he was off duty. i met him by appointment at the three jolly beggars (a place pernicious snug). he was dressed in a fashionable, light-colored suit, the coat a trifle short, and a high silk hat. his large, red neckscarf--set off by his bright, brick-dust complexion--caused me to mistake him at first for a friend of mine who drives a holborn bus. mr. 'awkins (for it was he) greeted me cordially, pulled gently at his neck-whiskers, and, when he addressed me as me lud, the barmaid served us with much alacrity and things. we went first to the church of saint george; then we found angel court leading to bermondsey, also marshalsea place. here is the site of the prison, where the crowded ghosts of misery still hover; but small trace could we find of the prison itself, neither did we see the ghosts. we, however, saw a very pretty barmaid at the public in angel court. i think she is still prettier than the one to whom bobby introduced me at the sign of the meat-axe, which is saying a good deal. angel court is rightly named. the blacking-warehouse at old hungerford stairs, strand, in which charles dickens was shown by bob fagin how to tie up the pots of paste, has rotted down and been carted away. the coal-barges in the muddy river are still there, just as they were when charles, poll green and bob fagin played on them during the dinner-hour. i saw bob and several other boys, grimy with blacking, chasing each other across the flatboats, but dickens was not there. down the river aways there is a crazy, old warehouse with a rotten wharf of its own, abutting on the water when the tide is in, and on the mud when the tide is out--the whole place literally overrun with rats that scuffle and squeal on the moldy stairs. i asked bobby if it could not be that this was the blacking-factory; but he said, no, for this one allus wuz. dickens found lodgings in lant street while his father was awaiting in the marshalsea for something to turn up. bob sawyer afterward had the same quarters. when sawyer invited mr. pickwick "and the other chaps" to dine with him, he failed to give his number, so we can not locate the house. but i found the street and saw a big, wooden pickwick on wheels standing as a sign for a tobacco-shop. the old gentleman who runs the place, and runs the sign in every night, assured me that bob sawyer's room was the first floor back. i looked in at it, but seeing no one there whom i knew, i bought tuppence worth of pigtail in lieu of fee, and came away. if a man wished to abstract himself from the world, to remove himself from temptation, to place himself beyond the possibility of desire to look out of the window, he should live in lant street, said a great novelist. david copperfield lodged here when he ordered that glass of genuine stunning ale at the red lion and excited the sympathy of the landlord, winning a motherly kiss from his wife. the red lion still crouches (under another name) at the corner of derby and parliament streets, westminster. i daydreamed there for an hour one morning, pretending the while to read a newspaper. i can not, however, recommend their ale as particularly stunning. as there are authors of one book, so are there readers of one author--more than we wist. children want the same bear story over and over, preferring it to a new one; so "grown-ups" often prefer the dog-eared book to uncut leaves. mr. hawkins preferred the dog-eared, and at the station-house, where many times he had long hours to wait in anticipation of a hurry-up call, he whiled away the time by browsing in his dickens. he knew no other author, neither did he wish to. his epidermis was soaked with dickensology, and when inspired by gin and bitters he emitted information at every pore. to him all these bodiless beings of dickens' brain were living creatures. an anachronism was nothing to hawkins. charley bates was still at large, quilp was just around the corner, and gaffer hexam's boat was moored in the muddy river below. dickens used to haunt the publics, those curious resting-places where all sorts and conditions of thirsty philosophers meet to discuss all sorts of themes. my guide took me to many of these inns which the great novelist frequented, and we always had one legend with every drink. after we had called at three or four different snuggeries, hawkins would begin to shake out the facts. now, it is not generally known that the so-called stories of dickens are simply records of historic events, like what-do-you-call-um's plays! f'r instance, dombey and son was a well-known firm, who carried over into a joint stock company only a few years ago. the concern is now known as the dombey trading company; they occupy the same quarters that were used by their illustrious predecessors. i signified a desire to see the counting-house so minutely described by dickens, and mr. hawkins agreed to pilot me thither on our way to tavistock square. we twisted down to the first turning, then up three, then straight ahead to the first right-hand turn, where we cut to the left until we came to a stuffed dog, which is the sign of a glover. just beyond this my guide plucked me by the sleeve; we halted, and he silently and solemnly pointed across the street. sure enough! there it was, the warehouse with a great stretch of dirty windows in front, through which we could see dozens of clerks bending over ledgers, just as though mr. dombey were momentarily expected. over the door was a gilt sign, "the bombay trading co." bobby explained that it was all the same. i did not care to go in; but at my request hawkins entered and asked for mister carker, the junior, but no one knew him. then we dropped in at the silver shark, a little inn about the size of a large dustbin of two compartments and a sifter. here we rested a bit, as we had walked a long way. the barmaid who waited upon us was in curl-papers, but she was even then as pretty if not prettier than the barmaid at the public in angel court, and that is saying a good deal. she was about as tall as trilby or as ellen terry, which is a very nice height, i think. as we rested, mr. hawkins told the barmaid and me how rogue riderhood came to this very public, through that same doorway, just after he had his alfred david took down by the governors both. he was a slouching dog, was the rogue. he wore an old, sodden fur cap, winter and summer, formless and mangy; it looked like a drowned cat. his hands were always in his pockets up to his elbows, when they were not reaching for something, and when he was out after game his walk was a half-shuffle and run. hawkins saw him starting off this way one night and followed him--knowing there was mischief on hand--followed him for two hours through the fog and rain. it was midnight and the last stroke of the bells that tolled the hour had ceased, and their echo was dying away, when all at once---- but the story is too long to relate here. it is so long that when mr. hawkins had finished it was too late to reach tavistock square before dark. mr. hawkins explained that as bats and owls and rats come out only when the sun has disappeared, so there are other things that can be seen best by night. and as he did not go on until the next day at one, he proposed that we should go down to the cheshire cheese and get a bite of summat and then sally forth. so we hailed a bus and climbed to the top. "she rolls like a scow in the wake of a liner," said bobby, as we tumbled into seats. when the bus man came up the little winding ladder and jingled his punch, hawkins paid our fares with a heavy wink, and the guard said, "thank you, sir," and passed on. we got off at the cheese and settled ourselves comfortably in a corner. the same seats are there, running along the wall, where doctor johnson, "goldy" and boswell so often sat and waked the echoes with their laughter. we had chops and tomato-sauce in recollection of jingle and trotter. the chops were of that delicious kind unknown outside of england. i supplied the legend this time, for my messmate had never heard of boswell. hawkins introduced me to "the cove in the white apron" who waited upon us, and then explained that i was the man who wrote "martin chuzzlewit." he kissed his hand to the elderly woman who presided behind the nickel-plated american cash-register. the only thing that rang false about the place was that register, perked up there spick-span new. hawkins insisted that it was a typewriter, and as we passed out he took a handful of matches (thinking them toothpicks) and asked the cashier to play a tune on the thingumabob, but she declined. we made our way to london bridge as the night was settling down. no stars came out, but flickering, fluttering gaslights appeared, and around each post was a great, gray, fluffy aureole of mist. just at the entrance to the bridge we saw nancy dogged by noah claypole. they turned down towards billingsgate fish-market, and as the fog swallowed them, hawkins answered my question as to the language used at billingsgate. "it's not so bloomin' bad, you know; why, i'll take you to a market in islington where they talk twice as vile." he started to go into technicalities, but i excused him. then he leaned over the parapet and spat down at a rowboat that was passing below. as the boat moved out into the glimmering light we made out lizzie hexam at the oars, while gaffer sat in the stern on the lookout. the marchioness went by as we stood there, a bit of tattered shawl over her frowsy head, one stocking down around her shoetop. she had a penny loaf under her arm, and was breaking off bits, eating as she went. soon came snagsby, then mr. vincent crummels, mr. sleary, the horseback-rider, followed by chops, the dwarf, and pickleson, the giant. hawkins said there were two picklesons, but i saw only one. just below was the stone pier and there stood mrs. gamp, and i heard her ask: "and which of all them smoking monsters is the anxworks boat, i wonder? goodness me!" "which boat do you want?" asked ruth. "the anxworks package--i will not deceive you, sweet; why should i?" "why, that is the antwerp packet, in the middle," said ruth. "and i wish it was in jonidge's belly, i do," cried mrs. gamp. we came down from the bridge, moved over toward billingsgate, past the custom-house, where curious old sea-captains wait for ships that never come. captain cuttle lifted his hook to the brim of his glazed hat as we passed. we returned the salute and moved on toward the tower. "it's a rum place; let's not stop," said hawkins. thoughts of the ghosts of raleigh, of mary queen of scots and of lady jane grey seemed to steady his gait and to hasten his footsteps. in a few moments we saw just ahead of us david copperfield and mr. peggotty following a woman whom we could make out walking excitedly a block ahead. it was martha, intent on suicide. "we'll get to the dock first and 'ead 'er orf," said 'awkins. we ran down a side street. but a bright light in a little brick cottage caught our attention--men can't run arm in arm anyway. we forgot our errand of mercy and stood still with open mouths looking in at the window at little jenny wren hard at work dressing her dolls and stopping now and then to stab the air with her needle. bradley headstone and charlie and lizzie hexam came in, and we then passed on, not wishing to attract attention. there was an old smoke-stained tree on the corner which i felt sorry for, as i do for every city tree. just beyond was a blacksmith's forge and a timber-yard behind, where a dealer in old iron had a shop, in front of which was a rusty boiler and a gigantic flywheel half buried in the sand. there were no crowds to be seen now, but we walked on and on--generally in the middle of the narrow streets, turning up or down or across, through arches where tramps slept, by doorways where children crouched; passing drunken men, and women with shawls over their heads. now and again the screech of a fiddle could be heard or the lazy music of an accordion, coming from some "sailors' home." steps of dancing with rattle of iron-shod boot-heels clicking over sanded floors, the hoarse shout of the "caller-off," and now and again angry tones with cracked feminine falsettos broke on the air; and all the time the soft rain fell and the steam seemed to rise from the sewage-laden streets. we were in stepney, that curious parish so minutely described by walter besant in "all sorts and conditions of men"--the parish where all children born at sea were considered to belong. we saw brig place, where walter gay visited captain cuttle. then we went with pip in search of mrs. wimple's house, at mill-pond bank, chink's basin, old green copper rope walk; where lived old bill barley and his daughter clara, and where magwitch was hidden. it was the dingiest collection of shabby buildings ever squeezed together in a dark corner as a club for tomcats. then, standing out in the gloom, we saw limehouse church, where john rokesmith prowled about on a 'tective scent; and where john harmon waited for the third mate radfoot, intending to murder him. next we reached limehouse hole, where rogue riderhood took the plunge down the steps of leaving shop. hawkins thought he saw the artful dodger ahead of us on the dock. he went over and looked up and down and under an old upturned rowboat, then peered over the dock and swore a harmless oath that if we could catch him we would run him in without a warrant. yes, we'd clap the nippers on 'im and march 'im orf. "not if i can help it," i said; "i like the fellow too well." fortunately hawkins failed to find him. here it was that the uncommercial traveler did patrol duty on many sleepless nights. here it was that esther summerson and mr. bucket came. and by the light of a match held under my hat we read a handbill on the brick wall: "found drowned!" the heading stood out in big, fat letters, but the print below was too damp to read, yet there is no doubt it is the same bill that gaffer hexam, eugene wrayburn and mortimer lightwood read, for mr. hawkins said so. as we stood there we heard the gentle gurgle of the tide running under the pier, then a dip of oars coming from out the murky darkness of the muddy river: a challenge from the shore with orders to row in, a hoarse, defiant answer and a watchman's rattle. a policeman passed us running and called back, "i say, hawkins, is that you? there's murder broke loose in whitechapel again! the reserves have been ordered out!" hawkins stopped and seemed to pull himself together--his height increased three inches. a moment before i thought he was a candidate for fatty degeneration of the cerebrum, but now his sturdy frame was all atremble with life. "another murder! i knew it. bill sykes has killed nancy at last. there 's fifty pun for the man who puts the irons on 'im--i must make for the nearest stishun." he gave my hand a twist, shot down a narrow courtway--and i was left to fight the fog, and mayhap this bill sykes and all the other wild phantoms of dickens' brain, alone. * * * * * a certain great general once said that the only good indian is a dead indian. just why the maxim should be limited to aborigines i know not, for when one reads obituaries he is discouraged at the thoughts of competing in virtue with those who have gone hence. let us extend the remark--plagiarize a bit--and say that the only perfect men are those whom we find in books. the receipt for making them is simple, yet well worth pasting in your scrapbook. take the virtues of all the best men you ever knew or heard of, leave out the faults, then mix. in the hands of "the lady novelist" this composition, well molded, makes a scarecrow, in the hair of which the birds of the air come and build their nests. but manipulated by an expert a figure may appear that starts and moves and seems to feel the thrill of life. it may even take its place on a pedestal and be exhibited with other waxworks and thus become confounded with the historic and though these things make the unskilful laugh, yet the judicious say, "dickens made it, therefore let it pass for a man." dear old m. taine, ever glad to score a point against the british, and willing to take dickens at his word, says, "we have no such men in france as scrooge and squeers!" but, god bless you, m. taine, england has no such men either. the novelist takes the men and women he has known, and from life, plus imagination, he creates. if he sticks too close to nature he describes, not depicts: this is "veritism." if imagination's wing is too strong, it lifts the luckless writer off from earth and carries him to an unknown land. you may then fall down and worship his characters, and there is no violation of the first commandment. nothing can be imagined that has not been seen; but imagination can assort, omit, sift, select, construct. given a horse, an eagle, an elephant, and the "creative artist" can make an animal that is neither a horse, an eagle, nor an elephant, yet resembles each. this animal may have eight legs (or forty) with hoofs, claws and toes alternating; a beak, a trunk, a mane; and the whole can be feathered and given the power of rapid flight and also the ability to run like the east wind. it can neigh, roar or scream by turn, or can do all in concert, with a vibratory force multiplied by one thousand. the novelist must have lived, and the novelist must have imagination. but this is not enough. he must have power to analyze and separate, and then he should have the good taste to select and group, forming his parts into a harmonious whole. yet he must build large. life-size will not do: the statue must be heroic, and the artist's genius must breathe into its nostrils the breath of life. the men who live in history are those whose lives have been skilfully written. "plutarch is the most charming writer of fiction the world has ever known," said emerson. dickens' characters are personifications of traits, not men and women. yet they are a deal funnier--they are as funny as a box of monkeys, as entertaining as a punch-and-judy show, as interesting as a "fifteen puzzle," and sometimes as pretty as chromos. quilp munching the eggs, shells and all, to scare his wife, makes one shiver as though a jack-in-the-box had been popped out at him. mr. mould, the undertaker, and jaggers, the lawyer, are as amusing as humpty-dumpty and pantaloon. i am sure that no live lawyer ever gave me half the enjoyment that jaggers has, and doctor slammers' talk is better medicine than the pills of any living m.d. because the burnt-cork minstrel pleases me more than a real "nigger" is no reason why i should find fault! dickens takes the horse, the eagle and the elephant and makes an animal of his own. he rubs up the feathers, places the tail at a fierce angle, makes the glass eyes glare, and you are ready to swear that the thing is alive. by rummaging over the commercial world you can collect the harshness, greed, avarice, selfishness and vanity from a thousand men. with these sins you can, if you are very skilful, construct a ralph nickleby, a scrooge, a jonas chuzzlewit, an alderman cute, a mr. murdstone, a bounderby or a gradgrind at will. a little more pride, a trifle less hypocrisy, a molecule extra of untruth, and flavor with this fault or that, and your man is ready to place up against the fence to dry. then you can make a collection of all the ridiculous traits--the whims, silly pride, foibles, hopes founded on nothing and dreams touched with moonshine--and you make a micawber. put in a dash of assurance and a good thimbleful of hypocrisy, and pecksniff is the product. leave out the assurance, replacing it with cowardice, and the result is doctor chillip or uriah heap. muddle the whole with stupidity, and bumble comes forth. then, for the good people, collect the virtues and season to suit the taste and we have the cheeryble brothers, paul dombey or little nell. they have no development, therefore no history--the circumstances under which you meet them vary, that's all. they are people the like of whom are never seen on land or sea. little nell is good all day long, while live children are good for only five minutes at a time. the recurrence with which these five-minute periods return determines whether the child is "good" or "bad." in the intervals the restless little feet stray into flowerbeds; stand on chairs so that grimy, dimpled hands may reach forbidden jam; run and romp in pure joyous innocence, or kick spitefully at authority. then the little fellow may go to sleep, smile in his dreams so that mamma says angels are talking to him (nurse says wind on the stomach); when he awakens the five-minute good spell returns. men are only grown-up children. they are cheerful after breakfast, cross at night. houses, lands, barns, railroads, churches, books, racetracks are the playthings with which they amuse themselves until they grow tired, and death, the kind old nurse, puts them to sleep. so a man on earth is good or bad as mood moves him; in color his acts are seldom pure white, neither are they wholly black, but generally of a steel-gray. caprice, temper, accident, all act upon him. the north wind of hate, the simoon of jealousy, the cyclone of passion beat and buffet him. pilots strong and pilots cowardly stand at the helm by turn. but sometimes the south wind softly blows, the sun comes out by day, the stars at night: friendship holds the rudder firm, and love makes all secure. such is the life of man--a voyage on life's unresting sea; but dickens knows it not. esther is always good, fagin is always bad, bumble is always pompous, and scrooge is always--scrooge. at no dickens' party do you ever mistake cheeryble for carker; yet in real life carker is carker one day and cheeryble the next--yes, carker in the morning and cheeryble after dinner. there is no doubt that a dummy so ridiculous as pecksniff has reduced the number of hypocrites; and the domineering and unjust are not quite so popular since dickens painted their picture with a broom. from the yeasty deep of his imagination he conjured forth his strutting spirits; and the names he gave to each are as fitting and as funny as the absurd smallclothes and fluttering ribbons which they wear. shakespeare has his gobbo, touchstone, simpcox, sly, grumio, mopsa, pinch, nym, simple, quickly, overdone, elbow, froth, dogberry, puck, peablossom, taurus, bottom, bushy, hotspur, scroop, wall, flute, snout, starveling, moonshine, mouldy, shallow, wart, bullcalf, feeble, quince, snag, dull, mustardseed, fang, snare, rumor, tearsheet, cobweb, costard and moth; but in names as well as in plot "the father of pickwick" has distanced the master. in fact, to give all the odd and whimsical names invented by dickens would be to publish a book, for he compiled an indexed volume of names from which he drew at will. he used, however, but a fraction of his list. the rest are wisely kept from the public, else, forsooth, the fledgling writers of penny-shockers would seize upon them for raw stock. dickens has a watch that starts and stops in a way of its own--never mind the sun. he lets you see the wheels go round, but he never tells you why the wheels go round. he knows little of psychology--that curious, unseen thing that stands behind every act. he knows not the highest love, therefore he never depicts the highest joy. nowhere does he show the gradual awakening in man of godlike passion--nowhere does he show the evolution of a soul; very, very seldom does he touch the sublime. but he has given the athenians a day of pleasure, and for this let us all reverently give thanks. oliver goldsmith jarvis: a few of our usual cards of compliments--that's all. this bill from your tailor; this from your mercer; and this from the little broker in crooked lane. he says he has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed. honeydew: but i am sure we were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. jarvis: he has lost all patience. honeydew: then he has lost a good thing. jarvis: there's that ten guineas you were sending to the poor man and his children in the fleet. i believe that would stop his mouth for a while. honeydew: ay, jarvis; but what will fill their mouths in the meantime? --_goldsmith, "the good-natured man"_ [illustration: oliver goldsmith] the isle of erin has the same number of square miles as the state of indiana; it also has more kindness to the acre than any other country on earth. ireland has five million inhabitants; once it had eight. three millions have gone away, and when one thinks of landlordism he wonders why the five millions did not go, too. but the irish are a poetic people and love the land of their fathers with a childlike love, and their hearts are all bound up in sweet memories, rooted by song and legend into nooks and curious corners, so the tendrils of affection hold them fast. ireland is very beautiful. its pasture-lands and meadow-lands, blossom-decked and water-fed, crossed and recrossed by never-ending hedgerows, that stretch away and lose themselves in misty nothingness, are fair as a poet's dream. birds carol in the white hawthorn and the yellow furze all day long, and the fragrant summer winds that blow lazily across the fields are laden with the perfume of fairest flowers. it is like crossing the dark river called death, to many, to think of leaving ireland--besides that, even if they wanted to go they haven't money to buy a steerage ticket. from across the dark river called death come no remittances; but from america many dollars are sent back to ireland. this often supplies the obolus that secures the necessary bit of cunard passport. whenever an irishman embarks at queenstown, part of the five million inhabitants go down to the waterside to see him off. not long ago i stood with the crowd and watched two fine lads go up the gangplank, each carrying a red handkerchief containing his worldly goods. as the good ship moved away we lifted a wild wail of woe that drowned the sobbing of the waves. everybody cried--i wept, too--and as the great, black ship became but a speck on the western horizon we embraced each other in frenzied grief. there is beauty in ireland--physical beauty of so rare and radiant a type that it makes the heart of an artist ache to think that it can not endure. on country roads, at fair time, the traveler will see barefoot girls who are women, and just suspecting it, who have cheeks like ripe pippins; laughing eyes with long, dark, wicked lashes; teeth like ivory; necks of perfect poise; and waists that, never having known a corset, are pure greek. of course, these girls are aware that we admire them--how could they help it? they carry big baskets on either shapely arm, bundles balanced on their heads, and we, suddenly grown tired, sit on the bankside as they pass by, and feign indifference to their charms. once safely past, we admiringly examine their tracks in the soft mud (for there has been a shower during the night), and we vow that such footprints were never before left upon the sands of time. the typical young woman in ireland is juno before she was married; the old woman is sycorax after caliban was weaned. wrinkled, toothless, yellow old hags are seen sitting by the roadside, rocking back and forth, crooning a song that is mate to the chant of the witches in "macbeth" when they brew the hellbroth. see that wizened, scarred and cruel old face--how it speaks of a seared and bitter heart! so dull yet so alert, so changeful yet so impassive, so immobile yet so cunning--a paradox in wrinkles, where half-stifled desperation has clawed at the soul until it has fled, and only dead indifference or greedy expectation is left to tell the tragic tale. "in the name of god, charity, kind gentlemen, charity!" and the old crone stretches forth a long, bony claw. should you pass on she calls down curses on your head. if you are wise, you go back and fling her a copper to stop the cold streaks that are shooting up your spine. and these old women were the most trying sights i saw in ireland. "pshaw!" said a friend of mine when i told him this; "these old creatures are actors, and if you would sit down and talk to them, as i have done, they will laugh and joke, and tell you of sons in america who are policemen, and then they will fill black 'dhudeens' out of your tobacco and ask if you know mike mcguire who lives in she-ka-gy." the last trace of comeliness has long left the faces of these repulsive beggars, but there is a type of feminine beauty that comes with years. it is found only where intellect and affection keep step with spiritual desire; and in ireland, where it is often a crime to think, where superstition stalks, and avarice rules, and hunger crouches, it is very, very rare. but i met one woman in the emerald isle whose hair was snow-white, and whose face seemed to beam a benediction. it was a countenance refined by sorrow, purified by aspiration, made peaceful by right intellectual employment, strong through self-reliance, and gentle by an earnest faith in things unseen. it proved the possible. when the nations are disarmed, ireland will take first place, for in fistiana she is supreme. james russell lowell once said that where the "code duello" exists, men lift their hats to ladies, and say "excuse me" and "if you please." and if lowell was so bold as to say a good word for the gentlemen who hold themselves "personally responsible," i may venture the remark that men who strike from the shoulder are almost universally polite to strangers. a woman can do ireland afoot and alone with perfect safety. everywhere one finds courtesy, kindness and bubbling good-cheer. nineteen-twentieths of all lawlessness in ireland during the past two hundred years has been directed against the landlord's agent. this is a very irish-like proceeding--to punish the agent for the sins of the principal. when the landlord himself comes over from england he affects a fatherly interest in "his people." he gives out presents and cheap favors, and the people treat him with humble deference. when the landlord's agent goes to america he gets a place as first mate on a mississippi river steamboat; and before the war he was in demand in the south as overseer. he it is who has taught the "byes" the villainy that they execute; and it sometimes goes hard, for they better the instruction. but there is one other character that the boys occasionally look after in ireland, and that is the "squire." he is a merry wight in tight breeches, red coat, and a number-six hat. he has yellow side-whiskers and 'unts to 'ounds, riding over the wheatfields of honest men. the genuine landlord lives in london; the squire would like to but can not afford it. of course, there are squires and squires, but the kind i have in mind is an irishman who tries to pass for an englishman. he is that curious thing--a man without a country. there is a theory to the effect that the universal mother in giving out happiness bestows on each and all an equal portion--that the beggar trudging along the stony road is as happy as the king who rides by in his carriage. this is a very old belief, and it has been held by many learned men. from the time i first heard it, it appealed to me as truth. yet recently my faith has been shaken; for not long ago in new york i climbed the marble steps of a splendid mansion and was admitted by a servant in livery who carried my card on a silver tray to his master. this master had a son in the "keeley institute," a daughter in her grave, and a wife who shrank from his presence. his heart was as lonely as a winter night at sea. fate had sent him a coachman, a butler, a gardener and a footman, but she took his happiness and passed it through a hole in the thatch of a mud-plastered cottage in ireland, where, each night, six rosy children soundly slept in one straw bed. in that cottage i stayed two days. there was a stone floor and bare, whitewashed walls; but there was a rosebush climbing over the door, and within health and sunny temper that made mirth with a meal of herbs, and a tenderness that touched to poetry the prose of daily duties. but it is well to bear in mind that an irishman in america and an irishman in ireland are not necessarily the same thing. often the first effect of a higher civilization is degeneration. just as the chinaman quickly learns big swear-words, and the indian takes to drink, and certain young men on first reading emerson's essay on "self-reliance" go about with a chip on their shoulders, so sometimes does the first full breath of freedom's air develop the worst in paddy instead of the best. as one tramps through ireland and makes the acquaintance of a blue-eyed "broth of a bye," who weighs one hundred and ninety, and measures forty-four inches around the chest, he catches glimpses of noble traits and hints of mystic possibilities. there are actions that look like rudiments of greatness gone, and you think of the days when olympian games were played, and finger meanwhile the silver in your pocket and inwardly place it on this twenty-year-old, pink-faced, six-foot "boy" that stands before you. in ireland there are no forests, but in the peat-bogs are found remains of mighty trees that once lifted their outstretched branches to the sun. are these remains of stately forests symbols of a race of men that, too, have passed away? in any wayside village of leinster you can pick you a model for an apollo. he is in rags, is this giant, and can not read, but he can dance and sing and fight. he has an eye for color, an ear for music, a taste for rhyme, a love of novelty and a thirst for fun. and withal he has blundering sympathy and a pity whose tears are near the surface. now, will this fine savage be a victim of arrested development, and sink gradually through weight of years into mere animal stupidity and sodden superstition? the chances are that this is just what he will do, and that at twenty he will be in his intellectual zenith. summer does not fulfil the promise of spring. but as occasionally there is one of those beautiful, glowing irish girls who leaves footsteps that endure (in bettered lives), instead of merely transient tracks in mud, so there has been a burke, a wellington, an o'connell, a sheridan, a tom moore and an oliver goldsmith. * * * * * while goldsmith was an irishman, swift was an englishman who chanced to be born of irish parents in dublin. in comparing these men thackeray says: "i think i would rather have had a cold potato and a friendly word from goldsmith than to have been beholden to the dean for a guinea and a dinner. no; the dean was not an irishman, for no irishman ever gave but with a kind word and a kind heart." charles goldsmith was a clergyman, passing rich on forty pounds a year. he had a nice little family of eight children, and what became of the seven who went not astray i do not know. but the smallest and homeliest one of the brood became the best-loved man in london. these sickly boys who have been educated only because they were too weak to work--what a record their lives make! little oliver had a pug-nose and bandy legs, and fists not big enough to fight, but he had a large head, and because he was absent-minded, lots of folks thought him dull and stupid, and others were sure he was very bad. in fact, let us admit it, he did steal apples and rifle birds' nests, and on "the straggling fence that skirts the way," he drew pictures of paddy byrne, the schoolmaster, who amazed the rustics by the amount of knowledge he carried in one small head. but paddy byrne did not love art for art's sake, so he applied the ferule vigorously to little goldsmith's anatomy, with a hope of diverting the lad's inclinations from art to arithmetic. i do not think the plan was very successful, for the pockmarked youngster was often adorned with the dunce-cap. "and, sir," said doctor johnson, many years after, "it must have been very becoming." it seems that paddy byrne "boarded round," and part of the time was under the roof of the rectory. now we all know that schoolmasters are dual creatures, and that once away from the schoolyard, and having laid aside the robe of office, are often good, honest, simple folks. in his official capacity paddy byrne made things very uncomfortable for the pug-nosed little boy, but, like the true irishman that he was, when he got away from the schoolhouse he was sorry for it. whether dignity is the mask we wear to hide ignorance, i am not sure, yet when paddy byrne was the schoolmaster he was a man severe and stern to view; but when he was plain paddy byrne he was a first-rate good fellow. evenings he would hold little oliver on his knee, and instead of helping him in his lessons would tell him tales of robbers, pirates, smugglers--everything and anything in fact that boys like: stories of fairies, goblins, ghosts; lion-hunts and tiger-killing in which the redoubtable paddy was supposed to have taken a chief part. the schoolmaster had been a soldier and a sailor. he had been in many lands, and when he related his adventures, no doubt he often mistook imagination for memory. but the stories had the effect of choking the desire in oliver for useful knowledge, and gave instead a thirst for wandering and adventure. byrne also had a taste for poetry, and taught the lad to scribble rhymes. very proud was the boy's mother, and very carefully did she preserve these foolish lines. all this was in the village of lissoy, county westmeath; yet if you look on the map you will look in vain for lissoy. but six miles northeast from athlone and three miles from ballymahon is the village of auburn. when goldsmith was a boy lissoy was: "sweet auburn! loveliest village of the plain, where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain, where smiling spring the earliest visits paid, and parting summer's lingering blooms delayed-- dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, seats of my youth, when every sport could please-- how often have i loitered o'er thy green, where humble happiness endeared each scene; how often have i paused on every charm, the sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, the never-failing brook, the busy mill, the decent church, that topped the neighboring hill, the hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade for talking age and whispering lovers made: how often have i blessed the coming day, when toil remitting lent its turn to play, and all the village train from labor free, led up their sports beneath the spreading tree-- while many a pastime circled in the shade, the young contending as the old surveyed; and many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, and sleights of art and feats of strength went round." in america, when a "city" is to be started, the first thing is to divide up the land into town-lots and then sell these lots to whoever will buy. this is a very modern scheme. but in ireland whole villages belong to one man, and every one in the place pays tribute. then villages are passed down from generation to generation, and sometimes sold outright, but there is no wish to dispose of corner lots. for when a man lives in your house and you can put him out at any time, he is, of course, much more likely to be civil than if he owns the place. but it has happened many times that the inhabitants of irish villages have all packed up and deserted the place, leaving no one but the village squire and that nice man, the landlord's agent. the cottages then are turned into sheep-pens or hay-barns. they may be pulled down, or, if they are left standing, the weather looks after that. and these are common sights to the tourist. now the landlord, who owned every rood of the village of lissoy, lived in london. he lived well. he gambled a little, and as the cards did not run his way he got into debt. so he wrote to his agent in lissoy to raise the rents. he did so, threatened, applied the screws, and--the inhabitants packed up and let the landlord have his village all to himself. let goldsmith tell: "sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn: amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, and desolation saddens all thy green; one only master grasps the whole domain, and half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. no more thy glassy brook reflects the day, but choked with sedges, works its weedy way; along thy glades, a solitary guest, the hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, and tires their echoes with unvaried cries. sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, and the long grass overtops the moldering wall; and, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, far, far away, thy children leave the land." a titled gentleman by the name of napier was the owner of the estate at that time, and as his tenantry had left, he in wrath pulled down their rows of pretty white cottages, demolished the schoolhouse, blew up the mill, and took all the material and built a splendid mansion on the hillside. the cards had evidently turned in his direction, but anyway, he owned several other villages, so although he toiled not neither did he spin, yet he was well clothed and always fed. but my lord napier was not immortal, for he died, and was buried; and over his grave they erected a monument, and on it are these words: "he was the friend of the oppressed." the records of literature, so far as i know, show no such moving force in a simple poem as the re-birth of the village of auburn. no man can live in a village and illuminate it by his genius. his fellow townsmen and neighbors are not to be influenced by his eloquence except in a very limited way. his presence creates an opposition, for the "personal touch" repels as well as attracts. dying, seven cities may contend for the honor of his birthplace; or after his departure, knowledge of his fame may travel back across the scenes that he has known, and move to better things. the years went by and the napier estate got into a bad way and was sold. captain hogan became the owner of the site of the village of lissoy. now, captain hogan was a poet in feeling, and he set about to replace the village that goldsmith had loved and immortalized. he adopted the name that goldsmith supplied, and auburn it is even unto this day. in the village-green is the original spreading hawthorn-tree, all enclosed in a stone wall to preserve it. and on the wall is a sign requesting you not to break off branches. around the trees are seats. i sat there one evening with "talking age" and "whispering lovers." the mirth that night was of a quiet sort, and i listened to an old man who recited all "the deserted village" to the little group that was present. it cost me sixpence, but was cheap for the money, for the brogue was very choice. i was the only stranger present, and quickly guessed that the entertainment was for my sole benefit, as i saw that i was being furtively watched to see how i took my medicine. a young fellow sitting near me offered a little goldsmith information, then a woman on the other side did the same, and the old man who had recited suggested that we go over and see the alehouse "where the justly celebhrated docther goldsmith so often played his harp so feelin'ly." so we adjourned to the three jolly pigeons--a dozen of us, including the lovers, whom i personally invited. "and did oliver goldsmith really play his harp in this very room?" i asked. "aye, indade he did, yer honor, an' ef ye don't belave it, ye kin sit in the same chair that was his." so they led me to the big chair that stood on a little raised platform, and i sat in the great oaken seat which was surely made before goldsmith was born. then we all took ale (at my expense). the lovers sat in one corner, drinking from one glass, and very particular to drink from the same side, and giggling to themselves. the old man wanted to again recite "the deserted village," but was forcibly restrained. and instead, by invitation of himself, the landlord sang a song composed by goldsmith, but which i have failed to find in goldsmith's works, entitled, "when ireland is free." there were thirteen stanzas in this song, and a chorus and refrain in which the words of the title are repeated. after each stanza we all came in strong on the chorus, keeping time by tapping our glasses on the tables. then we all drank perdition to english landlords, had our glasses refilled, and i was called on for a speech. i responded in a few words that were loudly cheered, and the very good health of "the 'merican nobleman" was drunk with much fervor. the three jolly pigeons is arranged exactly to the letter: "the whitewashed walls, the nicely sanded floor, the varnished clock that clicked behind the door; the chest contrived a doubly debt to pay, a bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; the pictures placed for ornament and use, the twelve good rules, the royal game of goose." and behold, there on the wall behind the big oak chair are "the twelve good rules." the next morning i saw the modest mansion of the village preacher "whose house was known to all the vagrant train," then the little stone church, and beyond i came to the blossoming furze, unprofitably gay, where the village master taught his little school. a bright young woman teaches there now, and it is certain that she can write and cipher too, for i saw "sums" on the blackboard, and i also saw where she had written some very pretty mottoes on the wall with colored chalk, a thing i am sure that paddy byrne never thought to do. below the schoolhouse is a pretty little stream that dances over pebbles and untiringly turns the wheel in the old mill; and not far away i saw the round top of knockrue hill, where goldsmith said he would rather sit with a book in hand than mingle with the throng at the court of royalty. goldsmith's verse is all clean, sweet and wholesome, and i do not wonder that he was everywhere a favorite with women. this was true in his very babyhood. for he was the pet of several good old dames, one of whom taught him to count by using cards as object-lessons he proudly said that when he was three years of age he could pick out the "ten-spot." this love of pasteboard was not exactly an advantage, for when he was sixteen he went to dublin to attend college, and carried fifty pounds and a deck of cards in his pocket. the first day in dublin he met a man who thought he knew more about cards than oliver did--and the man did: in three days oliver arrived back in sweet auburn penniless, but wonderfully glad to get home and everybody glad to see him. "it seemed as if i 'd been away a year," he said. but in a few weeks he started out with no baggage but a harp, and he played in the villages and the inns, and sometimes at the homes of the rich. and his melodies won all hearts. the author of "vanity fair" says: "you come hot and tired from the day's battle, and this sweet minstrel sings to you. who could harm the kind vagrant harper? whom did he ever hurt? he carries no weapon--only the harp on which he plays to you; and with which he delights great and humble, young and old, the captains in the tent or the soldiers round the fire, or the women and children in the villages at whose porches he stops and sings his simple songs of love and beauty." * * * * * when goldsmith arrived in london in seventeen hundred fifty-six, he was ragged, penniless, friendless and forlorn. in the country he could always make his way, but the city to him was new and strange. for several days he begged a crust here and there, sleeping in the doorways at night and dreaming of the flowery wealth of gentle lissoy, where even the poorest had enough to eat and a warm place to huddle when the sun went down. he at length found work as clerk or porter in a chemist's shop, where he remained until he got money enough to buy a velvet coat and a ruffled shirt, and then he moved to the bankside and hung out a surgeon's sign. the neighbors thought the little doctor funny, and the women would call to him out of the second-story window that it was a fine day, but when they were ill they sent for some one else to attend them. goldsmith was twenty-eight, and the thought that he could make a living with his pen had never come to him. yet he loved books, and he would loiter about bookshops, pricing first editions, and talking poetry to the patrons. he chanced in this way to meet samuel richardson, who, because he wrote the first english romance, has earned the title of father of lies. in order to get a very necessary loaf of bread, doctor goldsmith asked richardson to let him read proof. so richardson gave him employment, and in correcting proof the discovery was made that the irish doctor could turn a sentence, too. he became affected with literary eczema, and wrote a tragedy which he read to richardson and a few assembled friends. they voted it "vile, demnition vile." but one man thought it wasn't so bad as it might be, and this man found a market for some of the little doctor's book reviews, but the tragedy was fed to the fireplace. with the money for his book reviews the doctor bought goose quills and ink, and inspiration in bottles. grub street dropped in, shabby, seedy, empty of pocket but full of hope, and little suppers were given in dingy coffeehouses where success to english letters was drunk. then we find goldsmith making a bold stand for reform. he hired out to write magazine articles by the day; going to work in the morning when the bell rang, an hour off at noon, and then at it again until nightfall. mr. griffiths, publisher of the "monthly review," was his employer. and in order to hold his newly captured prize, the publisher boarded the pockmarked irishman in his own house. mrs. griffiths looked after him closely, spurring him on when he lagged, correcting his copy, striking out such portions as showed too much genius and inserting a word here and there in order to make a purely neutral decoction, which it seems is what magazine readers have always desired. occasionally these articles were duly fathered by great men, as this gave them the required specific gravity. it is said that even in our day there are editors who employ convict labor in this way. but i am sure that this is not so, for we live in an age of competition, and it is just as cheap to hire the great men to supply twaddle direct as it is to employ foreign paupers to turn it out with the extra expense of elderly women to revise. after working in the griffith literary mill for five months, goldsmith scaled the barricade one dark night, leaving behind, pasted on the wall, a ballad not only to mrs. griffiths' eyebrow, but to her wig as well. soon after this, when goldsmith was thirty years of age, his first book, "enquiry into the present state of polite learning in europe," was published. it brought him a little money and tuppence worth of fame, so he took better lodgings, in green arbor court, proposing to do great things. half a century after the death of goldsmith, irving visited green arbor court: "at length we came upon fleet market, and traversing it, turned up a narrow street to the bottom of a long, steep flight of stone steps called breakneck stairs. these led to green arbor court, and down them goldsmith many a time risked his neck. when we entered the court, i could not but smile to think in what out of the way corners genius produces her bantlings. the court i found to be a small square surrounded by tall, miserable houses, with old garments and frippery fluttering from every window. it appeared to be a region of washerwomen, and lines were stretched about the square on which clothes were dangling to dry. poor goldsmith! what a time he must have had of it, with his quiet disposition and nervous habits, penned up in this den of noise and vulgarity." one can imagine goldsmith running the whole gamut of possible jokes on breakneck stairs, and green arbor court, which, by the way, was never green and where there was no arbor. "i've been admitted to court, gentlemen!" said goldsmith proudly, one day at the mitre tavern. "ah, yes, doctor, we know--green arbor court! and any man who has climbed breakneck stairs has surely achieved," said tom davies. in seventeen hundred sixty, goldsmith moved to number six wine-office court, where he wrote the "vicar of wakefield." boswell reports doctor johnson's account of visiting him there: "i received, one morning, a message from poor goldsmith that he was in great distress, and, as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that i would come to him as soon as possible. i sent him a guinea and promised to come to him directly. i accordingly went to him as soon as i was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. i perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had half a bottle of madeira and a glass before him. i put the cork in the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. he then told me he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced for me. i looked into it and saw its merits; told the landlady i would soon return, and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. i brought goldsmith the money, and he discharged the rent, not without rating his landlady for having used him so ill." for the play of "the good-natured man" goldsmith received five hundred pounds. and he immediately expended four hundred in mahogany furniture, easy chairs, lace curtains and wilton carpets. then he called in his friends. this was at number two brick court, middle temple. blackstone had chambers just below, and was working as hard over his commentaries as many a lawyer's clerk has done since. he complained of the abominable noise and racket of "those fellows upstairs," but was asked to come in and listen to wit while he had the chance. i believe the bailiffs eventually captured the mahogany furniture, but goldsmith held the quarters. they are today in good repair, and the people who occupy the house are very courteous, and obligingly show the rooms to the curious. no attempt at a museum is made, but there are to be seen various articles which belonged to goldsmith and a collection of portraits that are interesting. when "the traveler" was published goldsmith's fame was made secure. as long as he wrote plays, reviews, history and criticism he was working for hire. people said it was "clever," "brilliant," and all that, but their hearts were not won until the poet had poured out his soul to his brother in that gentlest of all sweet rhymes. i pity the man who can read the opening lines of "the traveler" without a misty something coming over his vision: "where'er i roam, whatever realms i see, my heart untraveled fondly turns to thee; still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, and drags at each remove a lengthening chain." this is the earliest english poem which i can recall that makes use of our american indian names: "where wild oswego spreads her swamps around, and niagara stuns with thundering sound." indeed, we came near having goldsmith for an adopted citizen. according to his own report he once secured passage to boston, and after carrying his baggage aboard the ship he went back to town to say a last hurried word of farewell to a fair lady, and when he got back to the dock the ship had sailed away with his luggage. his earnest wish was to spend his last days in sweet auburn. "in all my wand'rings round this world of care, in all my griefs--and god has given my share-- i still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, amidst those humble bowers to lay me down; to husband out life's taper at its close, and keep the flame from wasting by repose. i still had hopes--for pride attends us still-- amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, around my fire an evening group to draw, and tell of all i felt and all i saw. and as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, pants to the place from whence at first she flew, i still had hopes, my long vexations past, here to return--and die at home at last." but he never saw ireland after he left it in seventeen hundred fifty-four. he died in london in seventeen hundred seventy-four, aged forty-six. on the plain little monument in temple church where he was buried are only these words: here lies oliver goldsmith. hawkins once called on the earl of northumberland and found goldsmith waiting in an outer room, having come in response to an invitation from the nobleman. hawkins, having finished his business, waited until goldsmith came out, as he had a curiosity to know why the earl had sent for him. "well," said hawkins, "what did he say to you?" "his lordship told me that he had read 'the traveler,' and that he was pleased with it, and that inasmuch as he was soon to be lord-lieutenant of ireland, and knowing i was an irishman, asked what he could do for me!" "and what did you tell him?" inquired the eager hawkins. "why, there was nothing for me to say, but that i was glad he liked my poem, and--that i had a brother in ireland, a clergyman, who stood in need of help----" "enough!" cried hawkins, and left him. to hawkins himself are we indebted for the incident, and after relating it hawkins adds: "and thus did this idiot in the affairs of the world trifle with his fortunes!" let him who wishes preach a sermon on this story. but there you have it! "a brother in ireland who needs help----" the brother in london, the brother in america, the brother in ireland who needs help! all men were his brothers, and those who needed help were first in his mind. dear little doctor goldsmith, you were not a hustler, but when i get to the spirit world, i'll surely hunt you up! william shakespeare it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness. --_as you like it_ [illustration: william shakespeare] i have on several occasions been to the shakespeare country, approaching it from different directions, but each time i am set down at leamington. perhaps this is by some act of parliament--i really do not know; anyway, i have ceased to kick against the pricks and now meekly accept my fate. leamington seems largely under subjection to that triumvirate of despots--the butler, the coachman and the gardener. you hear the jingle of keys, the flick of the whip and the rattle of the lawnmower; and a cold, secret fear takes possession of you--a sort of half-frenzied impulse to flee, before smug modernity takes you captive and whisks you off to play tiddledywinks or to dance the racquet. but the tram is at the door--the outside fare is a penny, inside it's two--and we are soon safe, for we have reached the point where the leam and the avon meet. warwick is worth our while. for here we see scenes such as shakespeare saw, and our delight is in the things that his eyes beheld. at the foot of mill street are the ruins of the old gothic bridge that leads off to banbury. oft have i ridden to banbury cross on my mother's foot, and when i saw that sign and pointing finger i felt like leaving all and flying thence. just beyond the bridge, settled snugly in a forest of waving branches, we see storied old warwick castle, with cæsar's tower lifting itself from the mass of green. all about are quaint old houses and shops, with red-tiled roofs, and little windows, with diamond panes, hung on hinges, where maidens fair have looked down on brave men in coats of mail. these narrow, stony streets have rung with the clang and echo of hurrying hoofs; the tramp of royalist and parliamentarian, horse and foot, drum and banner; the stir of princely visits, of mail-coach, market, assize and kingly court. colbrand, armed with giant club; sir guy; richard neville, kingmaker, and his barbaric train, all trod these streets, watered their horses in this river, camped on yonder bank, or huddled in this castle yard. and again they came back when will shakespeare, a youth from stratford, eight miles away, came here and waved his magic wand. warwick castle is probably in better condition now than it was in the sixteenth century. but practically it is the same. it is the only castle in england where the portcullis is lowered at ten o'clock every night and raised in the morning (if the coast happens to be clear) to tap of drum. it costs a shilling to visit the castle. a fine old soldier in spotless uniform, with waxed white moustache and dangling sword, conducts the visitors. he imparts full two shillings' worth of facts as we go, all with a fierce roll of r's, as becomes a man of war. the long line of battlements, the massive buttresses, the angular entrance cut through solid rock, crooked, abrupt, with places where fighting men can lie in ambush, all is as shakespeare knew it. there are the cedars of lebanon, brought by crusaders from the east, and the screaming peacocks in the paved courtway: and in the great hall are to be seen the sword and accouterments of the fabled guy, the mace of the "kingmaker," the helmet of cromwell, and the armor of lord brooke, killed at litchfield. and that shakespeare saw these things there is no doubt. but he saw them as a countryman who came on certain fete-days, and stared with open mouth. we know this, because he has covered all with the glamour of his rich, boyish imagination that failed to perceive the cruel mockery of such selfish pageantry. had his view been from the inside he would not have made his kings noble nor his princes generous; for the stress of strife would have stilled his laughter, and from his brain the dazzling pictures would have fled. yet his fancies serve us better than the facts. shakespeare shows us many castles, but they are always different views of warwick or kenilworth. when he pictures macbeth's castle he has warwick in his inward eye: "this castle hath a pleasant seat: the air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself unto our gentle senses. this guest of summer, the temple-haunting martlet, does approve, by his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle; where they most breed and haunt, i have observed, the air is delicate." five miles from warwick (ten, if you believe the cab-drivers) are the ruins of kenilworth castle. in fifteen hundred seventy-five, when shakespeare was eleven years of age, queen elizabeth came to kenilworth. whether her ticket was by way of leamington i do not know. but she remained from july ninth to july twenty-seventh, and there were great doings 'most every day, to which the yeomanry were oft invited. john shakespeare was a worthy citizen of warwickshire, and it is very probable that he received an invitation, and that he drove over with mary arden, his wife, sitting on the front seat holding the baby, and all the other seven children sitting on the straw behind. and we may be sure that the eldest boy in that brood never forgot the day. in fact, in "midsummer night's dream" he has called on his memory for certain features of the show. elizabeth was forty-one years old then, but apparently very attractive and glib of tongue. no doubt kenilworth was stupendous in its magnificence, and it will pay you to take down from its shelf sir walter's novel and read about it. but today it is all a crumbling heap; ivy, rooks and daws hold the place in fee, each pushing hard for sole possession. it is eight miles from warwick to stratford by the direct road, but ten by the river. i have walked both routes and consider the latter the shorter. two miles down the river is barford, and a mile farther is wasperton, with its quaint old stone church. it is a good place to rest: for nothing is so soothing as a cool church where the dim light streams through colored windows, and out of sight somewhere an organ softly plays. soon after leaving the church a rustic swain hailed me and asked for a match. the pipe and the virginia weed--they mean amity the world over. if i had questions to ask, now was the time! so i asked, and rusticus informed me that hampton lucy was only a mile beyond and that shakespeare never stole deer at all; so i hope we shall hear no more of that libelous accusation. "but did shakespeare run away?" i demanded. "ave coorse he deed, sir; 'most all good men 'ave roon away sometime!" and come to think of it rusticus is right. most great men have at some time departed hastily without leaving orders where to forward their mail. indeed, it seems necessary that a man should have "run away" at least once, in order afterward to attain eminence. moses, lot, tarquin, pericles, demosthenes, saint paul, shakespeare, rousseau, voltaire, goldsmith, hugo--but the list is too long to give. but just suppose that shakespeare had not run away! and to whom do we owe it that he did leave--justice shallow or ann hathaway, or both? i should say to ann first and his honor second. i think if shakespeare could write an article for "the ladies' home journal" on "women who have helped me," and tell the whole truth (as no man ever will in print), he would put ann hathaway first. he signed a bond when eighteen years old agreeing to marry her; she was twenty-six. no record is found of the marriage. but we should think of her gratefully, for no doubt it was she who started the lad off for london. that's the way i expressed it to my new-found friend, and he agreed with me, so we shook hands and parted. charlcote is as fair as a dream of paradise. the winding avon, full to its banks, strays lazily through rich fields and across green meadows, past the bright red-brick pile of charlcote mansion. the river-bank is lined with rushes, and in one place i saw the prongs of antlers shaking the elders. i sent a shrill whistle and a stick that way, and out ran four fine deer that loped gracefully across the turf. the sight brought my poacher instincts to the surface, but i bottled them, and trudged on until i came to the little church that stands at the entrance to the park. all mansions, castles and prisons in england have chapels or churches attached. and this is well, for in the good old days it seemed wise to keep in close communication with the other world. for often, on short notice, the proud scion of royalty was compelled hastily to pack a ghostly valise and his him hence with his battered soul; or if he did not go himself he compelled others to do so, and who but a brute would kill a man without benefit of the clergy! so each estate hired its priests by the year, just as men with a taste for litigation hold attorneys in constant retainer. in charlcote church is a memorial to sir thomas lucy; and there is a glowing epitaph that quite upsets any of those taunting and defaming allusions in "the merry wives." at the foot of the monument is a line to the effect that the inscription thereon was written by the only one in possession of the facts, sir thomas himself. several epitaphs in the churchyard are worthy of space in your commonplace book, but the lines on the slab to john gibbs and wife struck me as having the true ring: "farewell, proud, vain, false, treacherous world, we have seen enough of thee: we value not what thou canst say of we." when the charlcote mansion was built, there was a housewarming, and good queen bess (who was not so awful good) came in great state; so we see that she had various calling acquaintances in these parts. but we have no proof that she ever knew that any such person as w. shakespeare lived. however, she came to charlcote and dined on venison, and what a pity it is that she and shakespeare did not meet in london afterward and talk it over! some hasty individual has put forth a statement to the effect that poets can only be bred in a mountainous country, where they could lift up their eyes to the hills. rock and ravine, beetling crag, singing cascade, and the heights where the lightning plays and the mists hover are certainly good timber for poetry--after you have caught your poet--but nature eludes all formula. again, it is the human interest that adds vitality to art--they reckon ill to leave man out. drayton before shakespeare's time called warwick "the heart of england," and the heart of england it is today--rich, luxuriant, slow. the great colonies of rabbits that i saw at charlcote seemed too fat to frolic, save more than to play a trick or two on the hounds that blinked in the sun. down toward stratford there are flat islands covered with sedge, long rows of weeping-willows, low hazel, hawthorn, and places where "green grow the rushes, o." then, if the farmer leaves a spot untilled, the dogrose pre-empts the place and showers its petals on the vagrant winds. meadowsweet, forget-me-nots and wild geranium snuggle themselves below the boughs of the sturdy yews. the first glimpse we get of stratford is the spire of holy trinity; then comes the tower of the new memorial theater, which, by the way, is exactly like the city hall at dead horse, colorado. stratford is just another village of niagara falls. the same shops, the same guides, the same hackmen--all are there, save poor lo, with his beadwork and sassafras. in fact, a "cabby" just outside of new place offered to take me to the whirlpool and the canada side for a dollar. at least, this is what i thought he said. of course, it is barely possible that i was daydreaming, but i think the facts are that it was he who dozed, and waking suddenly as i passed gave me the wrong cue. there is a macbeth livery-stable, a falstaff bakery, and all the shops and stores keep othello this and hamlet that. i saw briarwood pipes with shakespeare's face carved on the bowl, all for one-and-six; feather fans with advice to the players printed across the folds; the "seven ages" on handkerchiefs; and souvenir-spoons galore, all warranted gorham's best. the visitor at the birthplace is given a cheerful little lecture on the various relics and curiosities as they are shown. the young ladies who perform this office are clever women with pleasant voices and big, starched, white aprons. i was at stratford four days and went just four times to the old curiosity-shop. each day the same bright british damsel conducted me through, and told her tale, but it was always with animation, and a certain sweet satisfaction in her mission and starched apron that was very charming. no man can tell the same story over and over without soon reaching a point where he betrays his weariness, and then he flavors the whole with a dash of contempt; but a good woman, heaven bless her! is ever eager to please. each time when we came to that document certified to by her "judith x shakespeare," mark i was told that it was very probable that judith could write, but that she affixed her name thus in merry jest. john shakespeare could not write, we have no reason to suppose that ann hathaway could, and this little explanation about the daughter is so very good that it deserves to rank with that other pleasant subterfuge, "the age of miracles is past"; or that bit of jolly claptrap concerning the sacred baboons that are seen about certain temples in india: "they can talk," explain the priests, "but being wise they never do." judith married thomas quiney. the only letter addressed to shakespeare that can be found is one from the happy father of thomas, mr. richard quiney, wherein he asks for a loan of thirty pounds. whether he was accommodated we can not say; and if he was, did he pay it back, is a question that has caused much hot debate. but it is worthy of note that, although considerable doubt as to authenticity has smooched the other shakespearian relics, yet the fact of the poet having been "struck" for a loan by richard quiney stands out in a solemn way as the one undisputed thing in the master's career. little did mr. quiney think, when he wrote that letter, that he was writing for the ages. philanthropists have won all by giving money, but who save quiney has reaped immortality by asking for it! the inscription over shakespeare's grave is an offer of reward if you do, and a threat of punishment if you don't, all in choice doggerel. why did he not learn at the feet of sir thomas lucy and write his own epitaph? but i rather guess i know why his grave was not marked with his name. he was a play-actor, and the church people would have been outraged at the thought of burying a "strolling player" in that sacred chancel. but his son-in-law, doctor john hall, honored the great man and was bound he should have a worthy resting-place; so at midnight, with the help of a few trusted friends, he dug the grave and lowered the dust of england's greatest son. then they hastily replaced the stones, and over the grave they placed the slab that they had brought: "good friend, for jesus' sake forbear, to dig the dust enclosed here, blest be the man who spares these stones, and cursed be he who moves my bones." a threat from a ghost! ah, no one dare molest that grave--besides they didn't know who was buried there--neither are we quite sure. long years after the interment, some one set a bust of the poet, and a tablet, on the wall over against the grave. under certain circumstances, if occasion demands, i might muster a sublime conceit; but considering the fact that ten thousand americans visit stratford every year, and all write descriptions of the place, i dare not in the face of baedeker do it. further than that, in every library there are washington irving, hawthorne, and william winter's three lacrimose but charming volumes. and i am glad to remember that the columbus who discovered stratford and gave it to the people was an american: i am proud to think that americans have written so charmingly of shakespeare: i am proud to know that at stratford no man besides the master is as honored as irving, and while i can not restrain a blush for our english cousins, i am proud that over half the visitors at the birthplace are americans, and prouder still am i to remember that they all write letters to the newspapers at home about stratford-on-avon. * * * * * in england poets are relegated to a "corner." the earth and the fulness thereof belongs to the men who can kill; on this rock have the english state and church been built. as the tourist approaches the city of london for the first time, there are four monuments that probably will attract his attention. they lift themselves out of the fog and smoke and soot, and seem to struggle toward the blue. one of these monuments is to commemorate a calamity--the conflagration of sixteen hundred sixty-six--and the others are in honor of deeds of war. the finest memorial in saint paul's is to a certain eminent irishman, arthur wellesley. the mines and quarries of earth have been called on for their richest contributions; and talent and skill have given their all to produce this enduring work of beauty, that tells posterity of the mighty acts of this mighty man. the rare richness and lavish beauty of the wellington mausoleum are only surpassed by a certain tomb in france. as an exploiter, the corsican overdid the thing a bit--so the world arose and put him down; but safely dead, his shade can boast a grave so sumptuous that englishmen in paris refuse to look upon it. but england need not be ashamed. her land is spiked with glistening monuments to greatness gone. and on these monuments one often gets the epitomized life of the man whose dust lies below. on the carved marble to lord cornwallis i read that, "he defeated the americans with great slaughter." and so, wherever in england i see a beautiful monument, i know that probably the inscription will tell how "he defeated" somebody. and one grows to the belief that, while woman's glory is her hair, man's glory is to defeat some one. and if he can "defeat with great slaughter" his monument is twice as high as if he had only visited on his brother man a plain undoing. in truth, i am told by a friend who has a bias for statistics, that all monuments above fifty feet high in england are to the honor of men who have defeated other men "with great slaughter." the only exceptions to this rule are the albert memorial--which is a tribute of wifely affection rather than a public testimonial, so therefore need not be considered here--and a monument to a worthy brewer who died and left three hundred thousand pounds to charity. i mentioned this fact to my friend, but he unhorsed me by declaring that modesty forbade carving truth on monuments, yet it was a fact that the brewer, too, had brought defeat to vast numbers and had, like saul, slaughtered his thousands. when i visited the site of the globe theater and found thereon a brewery, whose shares are warranted to make the owner rich beyond the dream of avarice, i was depressed. in my boyhood i had supposed that if ever i should reach this spot where shakespeare's plays were first produced, i should see a beautiful park and a splendid monument; while some white-haired old patriarch would greet me, and give a little lecture to the assembled pilgrims on the great man whose footsteps had made sacred the soil beneath our feet. but there is no park, and no monument, and no white-haired old poet to give you welcome--only a brewery. "ay, mon, but ain't ut a big un?" protested an englishman who heard my murmurs. yes, yes, i must be truthful--it is a big brewery, and there are four big bulldogs in the courtway; and there are big vats, and big workmen in big aprons. and each of these workmen is allowed to drink six quarts of beer each day, without charge, which proves that kindliness is not dead. then there are big horses that draw the big wagons, and on the corner there is a big taproom where the thirsty are served with big glasses. the founder of this brewery became rich; and if my statistical friend is right, the owners of these mighty vats have defeated mankind with "great slaughter." we have seen that, although napoleon, the defeated, has a more gorgeous tomb than wellington, who defeated him, yet there is consolation in the thought that although england has no monument to shakespeare he now has the freedom of elysium; while the present address of the british worthies who have battened and fattened on poor humanity's thirst for strong drink, since samuel johnson was executor of thrale's estate, is unknown. we have this on the authority of a solid englishman, who says: "the virtues essential and peculiar to the exalted station of british worthy debar the unfortunate possessor from entering paradise. there is not a lord chancellor, or lord mayor, or lord of the chamber, or master of the hounds, or beefeater in ordinary, or any sort of british bigwig, out of the whole of british beadledom, upon which the sun never sets, in elysium. this is the only dignity beyond their reach." the writer quoted is an honorable man, and i am sure he would not make this assertion if he did not have proof of the fact. so, for the present, i will allow him to go on his own recognizance, believing that he will adduce his documents at the proper time. but still, should not england have a fitting monument to shakespeare? he is her one universal citizen. his name is honored in every school or college of earth where books are prized. there is no scholar in any clime who is not his debtor. he was born in england; he never was out of england; his ashes rest in england. but england's budget has never been ballasted with a single pound to help preserve inviolate the memory of her one son to whom the world uncovers. victor hugo has said something on this subject which runs about like this: why a monument to shakespeare? he is his own monument and england is its pedestal. shakespeare has no need of a pyramid; he has his work. what can bronze or marble do for him? malachite and alabaster are of no avail; jasper, serpentine, basalt, porphyry, granite: stones from paros and marble from carrara--they are all a waste of pains: genius can do without them. what is as indestructible as these: "the tempest," "the winter's tale," "julius cæsar," "coriolanus"? what monument sublimer than "lear," sterner than "the merchant of venice," more dazzling than "romeo and juliet," more amazing than "richard iii"? what moon could shed about the pile a light more mystic than that of "a midsummer night's dream"? what capital, were it even in london, could rumble around it as tumultuously as macbeth's perturbed soul? what framework of cedar or oak will last as long as "othello"? what bronze can equal the bronze of "hamlet"? no construction of lime, or rock, of iron and of cement is worth the deep breath of genius, which is the respiration of god through man. what edifice can equal thought? babel is less lofty than isaiah; cheops is smaller than homer; the colosseum is inferior to juvenal; the giralda of seville is dwarfish by the side of cervantes; saint peter's of rome does not reach to the ankle of dante. what architect has the skill to build a tower so high as the name of shakespeare? add anything if you can to mind! then why a monument to shakespeare? i answer, not for the glory of shakespeare, but for the honor of england! thomas a. edison the mind can not conceive what man will do in the twentieth century with his chained lightning. --_thomas a. edison_ [illustration: thomas a. edison _photogravure from drawing by gaspard_] some years ago, a law was passed out in ohio, making any man ineligible to act as a magistrate who had not studied law and been duly admitted to the bar. men who had not studied law were deemed lacking in the sense of justice. this law was designed purely for one man--samuel m. jones of toledo. was ever a jones so honored before? in athens, of old, a law was once passed declaring that every man, either of whose parents was an alien, was not a citizen and therefore ineligible to hold office. this law was aimed at the head of one man--themistocles. "and so you are an alien?" was the taunting remark flung at the mother of themistocles. and the greek matron proudly answered, "yes, i am an alien--but my son is themistocles." down at lilly dale the other day, a woman told me that she had talked with the mother of edison, and the spirit-voice had said: "it is true i was a canadian schoolteacher, and this at a time when very few women taught, but i am the mother of him you call thomas a. edison. i studied and read and wrote and in degree i educated myself. i had great ambition--i thirsted to know, to do, to become. but i was hampered and chained in an uncongenial atmosphere. my body struggled with its bonds, so that i grew weak, worried, sick, and died, leaving my boy to struggle his way alone. my only regret at death was the thought that i was leaving my boy. i thought that through my marriage i had killed my career--sacrificed myself. but my boy became heir to all my hunger for knowledge, and he has accomplished what i dimly dreamed. he has made plain what i only guessed. from my position here i have whispered secrets to him that only the freed spirits knew. i once thought my life was a failure, but now i know that the word 'failure' is a term used only by foolish mortals. in the universal sense there is no such thing as failure." just here it seems to me that some one once said that we get no mind without brain. but we had here the brain of the medium, otherwise this alleged message from the spirit realm would not be ours. so we will not now tarry to discuss psychic phenomena, but go on to other things. but the woman from lilly dale said something, just the same. * * * * * edison was born at the little village of milan, ohio, which lies six miles from norwalk on the road between cleveland and toledo. on the breaking out of the civil war the boy was fourteen years old. his parents had moved to sarnia, canada, and then across to port huron. young edison used to ride up and down from detroit on the passenger-boats and sell newspapers. his standing with the detroit "free press," backed up by his good-cheer and readiness to help the passengers with their babies and bundles, gave him free passage on all railroads and steamboat-lines. there was a public library at detroit where any one could read, but books could not be taken away. all edison's spare time was spent at the library, which to him was a gold-mine. all his mother's books had been sold, stolen or given away. and ahoy there, all you folks who have books! do you not know what books are to a child hungry for truth, that has no books? of course you do not! books to a boy like young edison are treasures-trove, in which is stored the learning of all great and good and wise who have ever lived. and the boy has to read, and read for a decade, in order to find that books are not much after all. when edison saw the inside of that library and was told he could read any or all of the books, he said, "if you please, mister, i'll begin here." and he tackled the first shelf, mentally deciding that he would go through the books ten feet at a time. a little later he bought at an auction fifty volumes of the "north american review," and moving the books up to his home at port huron proceeded to read them. the war was on--papers sold for ten cents each and business was good. edison was making money--and saving it. he only plunged on books. over at mount clemens, at the springs, folks congregated, and there young edison took weekly trips selling papers. on one such visit he rescued the little son of the station-agent from in front of a moving train. in gratitude, the man took the boy to his house and told him he must make it his home while in mount clemens; and then after supper the youngster went down to the station; and what was more, the station-agent took him in behind the ticket-window, where the telegraph-instrument clicked off dots and dashes on a long strip of paper. edison looked on with open mouth. "would you like to become a telegraph-operator?" asked the agent. "sure!" was the reply. already the boy had read up on the subject in his library of the "north american review," and he really knew the history of the thing better than did the agent. edison was now a newsboy on the grand trunk, and he arranged his route so as to spend every other night at mount clemens. in a few months he could handle the key about as well as the station-agent. about this time the ice had carried out the telegraph-line between port huron and sarnia. the telegraph people were in sore straits. edison happened along and said to the local operator, "come out here, bill, on this switch-engine and we'll fix things!" by short snorts of the whistle for dots and long ones for dashes, they soon caught the ear of the operator on the other side. he answered back, "what t'ell is the matter with you fellows?" and edison and the other operator roared with laughter, so that the engineer thought their think-boxes needed re-babbitting. and that scheme of telegraphy with a steam-whistle was edison's first invention. * * * * * instead of going to college edison started a newspaper--a kind of amateur affair, in which he himself wrote editorials, news-items and advertisements--this when he was seventeen years old. the best way to become a skilled writer is to write; and if there is a better way to learn than by doing, the world has not yet discovered it. also, if there is a finer advantage for a youth who would be a financier than to have a shiftless father, it has not been recorded. when nineteen, edison had two thousand dollars in cash--more money than his father had ever seen at any one time. the grand trunk folks found that their ex-trainboy could operate, and so they called on him to help them out, up and down the line. then the western union wanted extra good men, and young edison was given double pay to go to new orleans, where there was a pitiful dearth of operators, the southern operators being mostly dead, and northern men not caring to live in the south. so edison traveled north and south and east and west, gathering gear. he had studied the science of telegraphy closely enough to see that it could be improved upon. one message at a time for one wire was absurd--why not two, or four, and why not send messages both ways at once! it was the general idea then that electricity traveled: edison knew better--electricity merely rendered the wire sensitive. edison was getting a reputation among his associates. he had read everything, and when his key was not busy, there was in his hand a copy of gibbon's "decline and fall." he wrote a hand like copperplate and could "take" as fast as the best could send. and when it came to "sending," he had made the pride of chicago cry quits. the western union had need of a specially good man at albany while the legislature was in session, and edison was sent there. he took the key and never looked at the clock--he cleaned up the stuff. he sat glued to his chair for ten hours, straight. at one time, the line suddenly became blocked between albany and new york. the manager was in distress, and after exhausting all known expedients went to edison. the lanky youth called up a friend of his in pittsburgh and ordered that new york give the pittsburgh man the albany wire. "feel your way up the river until you find me," were the orders. edison started feeling his way down the river. in twenty minutes he called to the manager, "the break is two miles below poughkeepsie--i've ordered the section-boss at poughkeepsie to take a repairer on his handcar and go and fix it!" of course, this plain telegraph-operator had no right to order out a section-boss; but nevertheless he did it. he shouldered responsibility like tom potter of the c., b. & q. not long after the albany experience, edison was in new york, not looking for work as some say, but nosing around wall street investigating the "laws automatic ticker." the machine he was looking at suddenly stopped, and this blocked all the tickers on the line. an expert was sent for, but he could not start it. "i'll fix it," said a tall, awkward volunteer, the same which was edison. history is not yet clear as to whether edison had not originally "fixed" it, and edison so far has not confessed. and there being no one else to start the machine, edison was given a chance, and soon the tickers were going again. this gave him an introduction to the stock-ticker folks, and the western union people he already knew. this was in eighteen hundred seventy, and edison was then twenty-three years old. he studied out how stock-reporting could be bettered and invented a plan which he duly patented, and then laid his scheme before the western union managers. a stock company was formed, and young edison, aged twenty-four, was paid exactly forty thousand dollars for his patent, and retained by the company as electrical adviser at three hundred dollars a month. in eighteen hundred seventy-four, when he was twenty-seven, he had perfected his duplex telegraph apparatus and had a factory turning out telegraph-instruments and appliances at newark, new jersey, where three hundred men were employed. in eighteen hundred seventy-six, the year of the centennial exposition, edison told the exposition managers that if they would wait a year or so he would light their show with electricity. he moved to the then secluded spot of menlo park to devote himself to experiments, spending an even hundred thousand dollars in equipment as a starter. results followed fast, and soon we had the incandescent lamp, trolley-car, electric pen and many other inventions. it was on the night of october the twenty-third, eighteen hundred seventy-nine, that edison first turned the current through an incandescent burner and got the perfect light. he sat and looked at the soft, mild, beautiful light and laughed a joyous peal of laughter that was heard in the adjoining rooms. "we've got it, boys!" he cried, and the boys, a dozen of them, came tumbling in. arguments started as to how long it would last. one said an hour. "twenty-four hours," said edison. they all vowed they would watch it without sleep until the carbon film was destroyed and the light went out. it lasted just forty hours. around edison grew up a group of great workers--proud to be called "edison men"--and some of these went out and made for themselves names and fortunes. edison was born in eighteen hundred forty-seven. consequently, at this writing he is sixty-three years old. he is big and looks awkward, because his dusty-gray clothes do not fit, and he walks with a slight stoop. when he wants clothes he telephones for them. his necktie is worn by the right oblique, his iron-gray hair is combed by the wind. on his cherubic face usually sits a half-quizzical, pleased smile, that fades into a look plaintive and very gentle. the face is that of a man who has borne burdens and known sorrow, of one who has overcome only after mighty effort. i was going to say that edison looks like a roman emperor, but i recall that no roman emperor deserves to rank with him--not even julius cæsar! the face is that of napoleon at saint helena, unsubdued. the predominant characteristics of the man are his faith, hope, good-cheer and courage. but at all times his humor is apt to be near the surface. had edison been as keen a businessman as rockefeller, and kept his own in his own hands, he would today be as rich as rockefeller. but edison is worth, oh, say, two million dollars, and that is all any man should be worth--it is all he needs. yet there are at least a hundred men in the world today, far richer than edison, who have made their fortunes wholly and solely by appropriating his ideas. edison has trusted people, and some of them have taken advantage of his great, big, generous, boyish spirit to do him grievous wrong. but the nearest i ever heard him come to making a complaint was when he said to me, "fra elbertus, you never wrote but one really true thing!" "well, what was that, mr. edison?" "you said, 'there is one thing worse than to be deceived by men, and that is to distrust them.' now people say i have been successful, and so i have, in degree, and it has been through trusting men. there are a few fellows who always know just what i am doing--i confide in them--i explain things to them just to straighten the matter out in my own mind." but of the men who have used edison's money and ideas, who have made it a life business to study his patents and then use them, evading the law, not a word! from eighteen hundred seventy to eighteen hundred ninety, edison secured over nine hundred patents, or at the rate of one patent every ten days. very few indeed of these patents ever brought him any direct return, and now his plan is to invent and keep the matter a secret in his "family." "the value of an idea lies in the using of it," he said to me. "you patent a thing and the other fellow starts even with you. keep it to yourself and you have the machinery going before the other fellow is awake. patents may protect some things, and still others they only advertise. up in buffalo you have a great lawyer who says he can drive a coach and four through any will that was ever made--and i guess he can. all good lawyers know how to break wills and contracts, and there are now specialists who secure goodly fees for busting patents. if you have an idea, go ahead and invent a way to use it and keep your process secret." * * * * * the edison factories at west orange cover a space of about thirty acres, all fenced in with high pickets and barb-wire. over two thousand people are employed inside that fence. there are guards at the gates, and the would-be visitor is challenged as if he were an enemy. if you want to see any particular person, you do not go in and see him--he comes to you and you sit in a place like the visitors' dock at sing-sing. with me it was different: i had a note that made the gates swing wide. however, one gatekeeper scrutinized the note and scrutinized me, and then went back into a maze of buildings for advice. when he came back, the general manager was with him and was reproving him. in a voice full of defense the county down watchman said: "ah, now, and how did i know but that it was a forgery? and anyhow, i'd never let in a man what looks like that, even if he had an order from bill taft." the edison factories, all enclosed in the high fence and under guard, include four separate and distinct corporations, each with its own set of offices. edison himself owns a controlling interest in each corporation, and the rest of the stock is owned by the managers or "family." with his few trusted helpers he is most liberal. not only do they draw goodly salaries, but they have an interest in the profits that is no small matter. the secrets of the place are protected by having each workman stick right to one thing and work in one room. no running around is allowed--each employee goes to a certain place and remains there all day. to be found elsewhere is a misdemeanor, and while spies at the edison factory are not shot, they have been known to disappear into space with great velocity. to make amends for the close restrictions on workers, an extra wage is paid and the eight-hour day prevails, so help is never wanting. ninety-nine workers out of a hundred want their wages, and nothing else. promotion, advancement and education are things that never occur to them. but for the few that have the stuff in them, edison is always on the lookout. his place is really a college, for to know the man is an education. he radiates good-cheer and his animation is catching. to a woman who wanted him to write a motto for her son, edison wrote, "never look at the clock!" the argument is plain--get the thing done. and around the edison laboratory there is no use of looking at the clock, for none of them runs. that is the classic joke of the place. years ago edison expressed his contempt for the man who watched the clock, and now every christmas his office family take up a collection and buy him a clock, and present it with great ceremony. he replies in a speech on the nebular hypothesis and all are very happy. one year the present assumed the form of an ingersoll dollar watch, which the wizard showed to me with great pride. in the stockade is a beautiful library building and here you see clocks galore, some of which must have cost a thousand dollars a piece, all silent. one clock had a neatly printed card attached, "don't look at this clock--it has stopped." and another, "you may look at this clock, for you can't stop it!" it was already stopped. one very elegant clock had a solid block of wood where the works should have been, but the face and golden hands were all complete. however, one clock was running, with a tick needlessly loud, but this clock had no hands. the edison library is a gigantic affair, with two balconies and bookstacks limitless. the intent was to have a scientific library right at hand that would compass the knowledge of the world. the laboratory is quite as complete, for in it is every chemical substance known to man, all labeled, classified and indexed. seemingly, edison is the most careless, indifferent and slipshod of men, but the real fact is that such a thorough business general the world has seldom seen. if he wants, say, the "electrical review" for march, eighteen hundred ninety-one, he hands a boy a slip of paper and the book is in his hands in five minutes. edison of all men understands that knowledge consists in having a clerk who can quickly find the thing. in his hands the card-index has reached perfection. edison has no private office, and his desk in the great library has not had a letter written on it since eighteen hundred ninety-five. "i hate to disturb the mice," he said as he pointed it out indifferently. he arrives at the stockade early--often by seven o'clock, and makes his way direct to the laboratory, which stands in the center of the campus. all around are high factory buildings, vibrating with the suppressed roar and hum of industry. in the laboratory, edison works, secure and free from interruption unless he invites it. much of his time is spent in the chemical building, a low, one-story structure, lighted from the top. it has a cement floor and very simple furniture, the shelves and tables being mostly of iron. "we are always prepared for fires and explosions here," said edison in half-apology for the barrenness of the rooms. the place is a maze of retorts, kettles, tubes, siphons and tiny brass machinery. in the midst of the mess stood two old-fashioned armchairs--both sacred to edison. one he sits in, and the other is for his feet, his books, pads and paper. here he sits and thinks, reads or muses or tells stories or shuffles about with his hands in his pockets. edison is a man of infinite leisure. he has the faculty of throwing details upon others. at his elbow, shod in sneakers silent, is always a stenographer. then there is a bookkeeper who does nothing but record the result of every experiment, and these experiments are going on constantly, attended to by half a dozen quiet and alert men, who work like automatons. "i have tried a million schemes that will not work--i know everything that is no good. i work by elimination," says edison. when hot on the trail of an idea he may work here for three days and nights without going home, and his wife is good enough and great enough to leave him absolutely to himself. in a little room in the corner of the laboratory is a little iron cot and three gray army blankets. he can sleep at any time, and half an hour's rest will enable him to go on. when he can't quite catch the idea, he closes up his brain-cells for ten minutes and sleeps, then up and after it again. mrs. edison occasionally sends meals down for the wizard when he is on the trail of a thought and does not want to take time to go home. one day the dinner arrived when edison was just putting salt on the tail of an idea. there was no time to eat, but it occurred to the inventor that if he would just quit thinking for ten minutes and sleep, he could awaken with enough brain-power to throw the lariat successfully. so he just leaned back, put his feet in the other chair and went to sleep. the general manager came in and saw the dinner on the table and edison sleeping, so he just sat down and began to eat the dinner. he ate it all, and tiptoed out. edison slept twenty minutes, awoke, looked at the empty dishes, pulled down his vest, took out his regular after-dinner cigar, lighted it and smoked away in sweet satisfaction, fully believing that he had had his dinner; and even after the general manager had come in and offered to bet him a dollar he hadn't, he was still of the same mind. this spirit of sly joking fills the place, set afloat by the master himself. edison dearly loves a joke, and will quit work any time to hear one. it is the five minutes' sleep and the good laugh that keep his brain from becoming a hotbox--he gets his rest! "when do you take your vacation, mr. edison?" a lady asked him. "election night every november," was the reply. and this is literally true, for on that night there is a special wire run into the orange clubhouse, and edison takes the key and sits there until daylight taking the returns, writing them out carefully in that copperplate western union hand. he is as careful about his handwriting now as if he were writing out train-orders. "if i wanted to live a hundred years i would use neither tobacco nor coffee," said edison as we sat at lunch. "but you see i'd rather get a little really good work done than live long and do nothing to speak of. and so i spur what i am pleased to call my mind, at times with coffee and a good cigar--just pass the matches, thank you! some day some fellow will invent a way of concentrating and storing up sunshine to use instead of this old, absurd prometheus scheme of fire. i'll do the trick myself if some one else doesn't get at it. why, that is all there is about my work in electricity--you know, i never claimed to have invented electricity--that is a campaign lie--nail it!" "sunshine is spread out thin and so is electricity. perhaps they are the same, but we will take that up later. now the trick was, you see, to concentrate the juice and liberate it as you needed it. the old-fashioned way inaugurated by jove, of letting it off in a clap of thunder, is dangerous, disconcerting and wasteful. it doesn't fetch up anywhere. my task was to subdivide the current and use it in a great number of little lights, and to do this i had to store it. and we haven't really found out how to store it yet and let it off real easy-like and cheap. why, we have just begun to commence to get ready to find out about electricity. this scheme of combustion to get power makes me sick to think of--it is so wasteful. it is just the old, foolish prometheus idea, and the father of prometheus was a baboon." "when we learn how to store electricity, we will cease being apes ourselves; until then we are tailless orangutans. you see, we should utilize natural forces and thus get all of our power. sunshine is a form of energy, and the winds and the tides are manifestations of energy." "do we use them? oh, no! we burn up wood and coal, as renters burn up the front fence for fuel. we live like squatters, not as if we owned the property. "there must surely come a time when heat and power will be stored in unlimited quantities in every community, all gathered by natural forces. electricity ought to be as cheap as oxygen, for it can not be destroyed. "now, i am not sure but that my new storage-battery is the thing. i'd tell you about that, but i don't want to bore you. of course, i know that nothing is more interesting to the public than a good lie. you see, i have been a newspaperman myself--used to run a newspaper--in fact, veritas and old subscriber once took exception to one of my editorials and threw me into the detroit river--that is where i got my little deafness--what's that? no, i did not say my deftness--i got that in another way. but about lies, you have heard that one about my smoking big, black cigars! well, the story is that the boys in the office used to steal my cigars, and so i got a cigarmaker to make me up a box that looked just like my favorite brand, only i had 'em filled with hemp, horsehair and a touch of asafetida. then i just left the box where the boys would be sure to dip into it; but it seems the cigarman put them on, and so they just put that box into my own private stock and i smoked the fumigators and never knew the difference. "that whole story is a pernicious malrepresentation invented by the enemy of mankind in order to throw obloquy over a virtuous old telegraph-operator--brand it!" witness, therefore, that i have branded it, forevermore! * * * * * once upon a day i wrote an article on alexander humboldt. and in that article among other things i said, "this world of ours, round like an orange and slightly flattened at the poles, has produced but five educated men." and ironical ladies and gents from all parts of the united states wrote me on postal cards, begging that i should name the other four. let us leave the cynics to their little pleasantries, and make our appeal to people who think. education means evolution, development, growth. education is comparative, for there is no fixed standard--all men know more than some men, and some men know more than some other men. "every man i meet is my master in some particular," said emerson. but there are five men in history who had minds so developed, and evolved beyond the rest of mankind so far, that they form a class by themselves, and deserve to be called educated men. the men i have in mind were the following: pericles, builder of athens. aristotle, tutor of alexander, and the world's first naturalist. leonardo, the all-round man--the man who could do more things, and do them well, than any other man who every lived. sir isaac newton, the mathematician, who analyzed light and discovered the law of gravitation. alexander von humboldt, explorer and naturalist, who compassed the entire scientific knowledge of the world, issued his books in deluxe limited editions at his own expense, and sold them for three thousand dollars a set. newton and humboldt each wore a seven and three-fourths hat. leonardo and aristotle went untaped, but pericles had a head so high and so big that he looked like a caricature, and aristophanes, a nice man who lived at the same time, said that the head of pericles looked like a pumpkin that had been sat upon. all the busts of pericles represent him wearing a helmet--this to avoid what the artists thought an abnormality, the average greek having a round, smooth chucklehead like that of a bowery bartender. america has produced two men who stand out so far beyond the rest of mankind that they form a class by themselves: benjamin franklin and thomas a. edison. franklin wore a seven and a half hat; edison wears a seven and three-fourths. the difference in men is the difference in brain-power. and while size does not always token quality, yet size and surface are necessary to get power, and there is no record of a man with a six and a half head ever making a ripple on the intellectual sea. without the cells you get no mind, and if mind exists without the cells, it has not yet been proven. the brain is a storage-battery made up of millions of minute cells. the weight of an average man's brain is forty-nine ounces. now, humboldt's brain weighed fifty-six ounces, and newton's and franklin's weighed fifty-seven. let us hope the autopsist will not have a chance to weigh edison's brain for many years, but when he does the mark will register fifty-seven ounces. an orang-utan weighs about the same as a man, but its brain weighs only a pound, against three pounds for a man. give a gorilla a brain weighing fifty ounces, and he would be a methodist presiding elder. give him a brain the same size of edison's, say fifty-seven ounces, and instead of spending life in hunting for snakes and heaving cocoanuts at monkeys as respectable gorillas are wont, he would be weighing the world in scales of his own invention and making, and measuring the distances of the stars. pericles was taught by the gentle anaxagoras, who gave all his money to the state in order that he might be free. the state reciprocated by cutting off his head, for republics are always ungrateful. aristotle was a pupil of plato and worked his way through college, sifting ashes, washing windows and sweeping sidewalks. leonardo was self-taught and gathered knowledge as a bee gathers honey, although honey isn't honey until the bee digests it. sir isaac newton was a cambridge man. he held the office of master of the mint, and to relieve himself of the charge of atheism he anticipated the enemy and wrote a book on the hebrew prophets, which gave the scientists the laugh on him, but made his position with the state secure. newton is the only man herein mentioned who knew anything about theology, all the others being "infidels" in their day, devoting themselves strictly to this world. humboldt was taught by the "natural method," and never took a college degree. franklin was a graduate of the university of hard knocks, and edison's alma mater is the same. there is one special characteristic manifested by the seven educated men i have named--good-cheer, a great welling sense of happiness! they were all good animals: they gloried in life; they loved the men and women who were still on earth; they feasted on the good things in life; breathed deeply; slept soundly and did not bother about the future. their working motto was, "one world at a time." they were all able to laugh. genius is a great fund of joyousness. each and all of these men influenced the world profoundly. we are different people because they lived. every house, school, library and workshop in christendom is touched by their presence. all are dead but edison, yet their influence can never die. and no one in the list has influenced civilization so profoundly as edison. you can not look out of a window in any city in europe or america without beholding the influence of his thought. you may say that the science of electricity has gone past him, but all the sons of jove have built on him. he gave us the electric light and the electric car and pointed the way to the telephone--three things that have revolutionized society. as athens at her height was the age of pericles, so will our time be known as the age of edison. so here endeth "little journeys to the homes of good men and great," being volume one of the series, as written by elbert hubbard: edited and arranged by fred bann; borders and initials by roycroft artists and produced by the roycrofters, at their shops, which are in east aurora, erie county, new york, mcmxxii the life of john ruskin by w. g. collingwood m.a., f.s.a., late professor of fine art, university college, reading preface to the seventh edition this book in its first form was written nearly twenty years ago with the intention of contributing a volume to a series of university extension manuals. for that purpose it included a sketch of ruskin's "work," with some attempt to describe the continuous development of his thought. it had the advantage--and the disadvantage--of being written under his eye; that is to say, he saw as much of it as his health allowed; and it received his general approval. to explain my venturing upon the subject at all, i may perhaps be allowed to state that i became his pupil in (having seen him earlier), and continued to be in some relation to him--as visitor, resident assistant, or near neighbour--until his death. after his death the biographical part of my book was enlarged at the expense of the description of his writings; and in revising once more i have thrown out much relating to his works, chiefly because they are now accessible as they were not formerly. w.g.c. coniston, may contents book i the boy poet ( - ) chapter i. his ancestors ii. the father of the man ( - ) iii. perfervidum ingenium ( - ) iv. mountain-worship ( - ) v. the germ of "modern painters" ( ) vi. a love-story ( - ) vii. "kata phusin" ( - ) viii. sir roger newdigate's prize ( - ) ix. "the broken chain" ( - ) x. the graduate of oxford ( - ) book ii the art critic ( - ) i. "turner and the ancients" ( - ) ii. christian art ( - ) iii. "the seven lamps" ( - ) iv. "stones of venice" ( - ) v. pre-raphaelitism ( - ) vi. the edinburgh lectures ( - ) vii. the working men's college ( - ) viii. "modern painters" continued ( - ) ix. "the political economy of art" ( - ) x. "modern painters" concluded ( - ) book iii hermit and heretic ( - ) chapter i. "unto this last" ( - ) ii. "munera pulveris" ( ) iii. the limestone alps ( ) iv. "sesame and lilies" ( ) v. "ethics of the dust" ( ) vi. "the crown of wild olive" ( - ) vii. "time and tide" ( ) viii. agates, and abbeville ( ) ix. "the queen of the air" ( ) x. verona and oxford ( - ) book iv professor and prophet ( - ) i. first oxford lectures ( - ) ii. "fors" begun ( - ) iii. oxford teaching ( - ) iv. st. george and st. mark ( - ) v. "deucalion" and "proserpina" ( - ) vi. the diversions of brantwood ( - ) vii. "fors" resumed ( - ) viii. the recall to oxford ( - ) ix. the storm-cloud ( - ) x. datur hora quieti ( - ) the life of john ruskin book i the boy poet ( - ) the life of john ruskin chapter i his ancestors if origin, if early training and habits of life, if tastes, and character, and associations, fix a man's nationality, then john ruskin must be reckoned a scotsman. he was born in london, but his family was from scotland. he was brought up in england, but the friends and teachers, the standards and influences of his early life, were chiefly scottish. the writers who directed him into the main lines of his thought and work were scotsmen--from sir walter and lord lindsay and principal forbes to the master of his later studies of men and the means of life, thomas carlyle. the religious instinct so conspicuous in him was a heritage from scotland; thence the combination of shrewd common-sense and romantic sentiment; the oscillation between levity and dignity, from caustic jest to tender earnest; the restlessness, the fervour, the impetuosity--all these are the tokens of a scotsman of parts, and were highly developed in john ruskin. in the days of auld lang syne the rhynns of galloway--that hammer-headed promontory of scotland which looks towards belfast lough--was the home of two great families, the agnews and the adairs. the agnews, of norman race, occupied the northern half, centring about their island-fortress of lochnaw, where they became celebrated for a long line of hereditary sheriffs and baronets who have played no inconsiderable part in public affairs. the southern half, from portpatrick to the mull of galloway, was held by the adairs (or, as formerly spelt, edzears) who took their name from edgar, son of dovenald, one of the two galloway leaders at the battle of the standard. three hundred years later robert edzear--who does not know his descendant and namesake, robin adair?--settled at gainoch, near the head of luce bay; and for another space of years his children kept the same estate, in spite of private feud, and civil war, and religious persecution, of which they had more than their share. at the beginning of the eighteenth century, john adair, the laird of little genoch, was married to mary agnew, a near kinswoman of the celebrated sir andrew, colonel of the scots fusiliers at dettingen. the exact relationship of mary agnew to "the bravest man in the british army" remains undecided, but letters still extant from the lady agnew of the day address her as "dear molly," and end, "your affectionate cousin" or "kinswoman." her son thomas succeeded his father in , and, retiring with his captaincy, settled on the estate. he married jean, daughter of andrew ross of balsarroch and balkail, a lady noted for her beauty, her wit, and her latin scholarship, and a member of a family which has given many distinguished men to the army and navy. among them admiral sir john ross, the arctic explorer, sir hew dalrymple, and field-marshal sir hew dalrymple ross, were all her great-nephews, and her son, dr. john adair, was the man in whose arms wolfe died at the taking of quebec; it is he who is shown in benjamin west's picture supporting the general. dr. adair's sister catherine, the daughter of thomas adair and jean ross, married the rev. james tweddale, minister of glenluce from to , representative of an old covenanting family, and holder of the original covenant, which had been confided to the care of his great-aunt catherine by baillie of jarviswood on his way to execution in the "killing time." the document was sold with his library at his death, his children being then under age, and is now in the glasgow museum. one of these children, catherine, married a john ruskin. the origin of the name of ruskin is english, dating from the middle ages. soon after the dissolution of furness abbey, richerde ruskyn and his family were land-owners at dalton-in-furness. one branch, and that with which we are especially concerned, settled in edinburgh. john ruskin--our subject's grandfather--when he ran away with catherine tweddale in , was a handsome lad of twenty. his portrait as a child proves his looks, and he evidently had some charm of character or promise of power, for the escapade did not lose him the friendship of the lady's family. major ross, her uncle and guardian, remained a good friend to the young couple. she herself was only sixteen at her marriage--a bright and animated brunette, as her miniature shows, in later years ripening to a woman of uncommon strength, with old-fashioned piety of a robust, practical type, and a spirit which the trials of her after-life--and they were many--could not subdue. her husband set up in the wine trade in edinburgh. for many years they lived in the old town, then a respectable neighbourhood, among a cultivated and well-bred society, in which they moved as equals, entertaining, with others, such a man as dr. thomas brown, the professor of philosophy, a great light in his own day, and still conspicuous in the constellation of scotch metaphysicians. john adair, = mary, cousin of sir andrew agnew, of lochnaw, of little genoch. | hereditary sheriff of wigtownshire. | | capt. thomas adair, = jean ross, of balsarroch, great-aunt of sir of little genoch. | john ross, the arctic explorer, | of sir hew dalrymple, and of sir | hew dalrymple ross. | +-----------------------+============+ | | | | rev. = isobel dr. mrs. cath. = rev. john andrew mcdouall, adair, maitland adair | james ruskin adair, of of grand- | twaddle, ( - minister logan quebec mother | of ) of and of | glen- | whithorn london j.e. | luce | maitland | | of | | kenmure | | castle | | | | +---------+=======+ +==========+--------------+ | | | | | cath. = james cath. = john margt. = capt. other mactaggart | tweddale, tweddale| ruskin ruskin | cox issue (aunt of | of ( - | of (b. )| of sir john | glen- [?]) | edinburgh | yarmouth joseph mactaggart, | laggan | ( - | ( - severn bart., m.p., | | [?]) | [?]) of of | | | rome ardwell) | | | | | | | +-+ +----+ +----+==+ +====+---+ | | | | | | | | george = cath. | peter = jessie j.j. = margaret bridget= mr. | agnew, |tweddale| richard- | ruskin ruskin, | cox cox |richard- | hered- | | son, | of | ( - | son | itary | +----+ of | billiter | ) | of | sheriff- | | bridgend,| street | | market | clerk | other perth | and | | street, | of | isssue | denmark | | croydon | wigtown | | hill | | | | | ( - | | | | | ) | | | | | | | | | | | | +-+------+ +-------+------+ +-+-+-+-+-+-+ | +-+++-+-+-+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | other arthur = joan other james john john (d. issue severn, | ruskin issue (d. young), ruskin in r.i., | agnew john, of (b. ) australia), of | glasgow, william hearne | william, m.d., george (of hill | (tunbridge croydon) | wells), charles +-+-+++-+ andrew (d. in (drowned | | | | | australia), ) lily catherine margaret arthur (d. young), bridget agnew margaret and violet peter herbert (d. young) mary ( - ), jessie ( - ) their son, john james ruskin (born may , ), was sent to the famous high school of edinburgh, under dr. adam, the most renowned of scottish head-masters, and there he received the sound old-fashioned classical education. before he was sixteen, his sister jessie was already married at perth to peter richardson, a tanner living at bridge end, by the tay; and so his cousin, margaret cox, was sent for to fill the vacant place. she was a daughter of old mr. ruskin's sister, who had married a captain cox, sailing from yarmouth for the herring fishery. he had died in , or thereabouts, from the results of an accident while riding homewards to his family after one of his voyages, and his widow maintained herself in comfort by keeping the old king's head inn at croydon market-place. of her two daughters the younger married another mr. richardson, a baker at croydon, so that, by an odd coincidence, there were two families of richardsons, unconnected with one another except through their relationship to the ruskins. margaret, the elder daughter, who came to keep house for her uncle in edinburgh, was then nearly twenty years of age. she had been the model pupil at her croydon day-school; tall and handsome, pious and practical, she was just the girl to become the confidante and adviser of her dark-eyed, active, and romantic young cousin. some time before the beginning of , john james, having finished his education at the high school, went to london, where a place had been found for him by his uncle's brother-in-law, mr. mactaggart. he was followed by a kind letter from dr. thomas brown, who advised him to keep up his latin, and to study political economy, for the professor looked upon him as a young man of unusual promise and power. during some two years, he worked as a clerk in the house of sir william gordon, murphy and co., where he made friends, and laid the foundation of his prosperity; for along with him at the office there was a mr. peter domecq, owner of the spanish vineyards of macharnudo, learning the commercial part of his business in london, the headquarters of the sherry trade. he admired his fellow-clerk's capacity so much as to offer him the london agency of his family business. mr. mactaggart found the capital in consideration of their taking his relative, mr. telford, into the concern. and so they entered into partnership, about , as ruskin, telford and domecq: domecq contributing the sherry, mr. henry telford the capital, and ruskin the brains. how he came by his business capacity may be understood--and in some measure, perhaps, how his son came by his flexible and forcible style--from a letter of mrs. catherine ruskin, written about this time; in which, moreover, there are a few details of family circumstances and character, not without interest. john james ruskin had been protesting that he was never going to marry, but meant to devote himself to his mother; she replied: "... but my son an old batchelor--believe me my beloved child i feel the full force and value of that affection that could prompt to such a plan--dear as your society is to me it would then become the misery of my existence--could i see my child so formed for domestick happiness deprived of every blessing on my account. no my dr john i do not know a more unhappy being than an old batchelor ... may god preserve my child from realizing the dreary picture--as soon as you can keep a wife you must marry with all possible speed--that is as soon as you find a very amiable woman. she must be a good daughter and fond of domestick life--and pious, without ostentation, for remember no woman without the fear of god, can either make a good wife or a good mother--freethinking men are shocking to nature, but from an infidel woman good lord deliver us. i have thought more of it than you have done--for i have two or three presents carefully [laid] by for her, and i have also been so foresightly as to purchase two dutch toys for your children in case you might marry before we had free intercourse with that country.... who can say what i can say 'here is my son--a hansome accomplished young man of three and twenty--he will not marry that he may take care of his mother--here is my dr margaret, hansome, amiable and good and she would not leave her _ant_ (i mean aunt) for any man on earth.' ah my dear and valuable children, dear is your affection to my heart, but i will never make so base a use of it. i entreat my dr john that you will not give yourself one moment's uneasiness about me--i will at all events have £ a year for life that your father cannot deprive me of, and tho' i could not live very splendidly in a town on this, yet with a neat little house and garden in the country, it would afford all the means of life in fullness to meggy myself and our servant. you forget, my dr how much a woman can do without in domestick affairs to save money--a woman that has any management at all can live with more comfort on £ a year than a man could do on two hundred. there was a year of my life that i maintained myself and two children on twenty pound, the bread too was / the loave that year: we did not indeed live very sumptuously nor shall i say our strength improved much but i did not contract one farthing of debt and that to me supplyed the want of luxuries. now my dr john let me never hear a fear expressed on my account; there is no fear of me; make yourself happy and all will be well, and for god sake my beloved boy take care of your health, take a good drink of porter to dinner and supper and a little wine now and then, and tell me particularly about yr new lodgings," etc. he returned home to edinburgh on a visit and arranged a marriage with his cousin margaret, if she would wait for him until he was safely established; and then he set to work at the responsibilities of creating a new business. it was a severer task than he had anticipated, for his father's brain and business, as the above letter hints, had both gone wrong; he left edinburgh and settled at bower's well, perth, ended tragically, and left a load of debt behind him, which the son, sensitive to the family honour, undertook to pay before laying by a penny for himself. it took nine years of assiduous labour and economy. he worked the business entirely by himself. the various departments that most men entrust to others he filled in person. he managed the correspondence, he travelled for orders, he arranged the importation, he directed the growers out in spain, and gradually built up a great business, paid off his father's creditors, and secured his own competence. this was not done without sacrifice of health, which he never recovered, nor without forming habits of over-anxiety and toilsome minuteness which lasted his life long. but his business cares were relieved by cultured tastes. he loved art, painted in water-colours in the old style, and knew a good picture when he saw it. he loved literature, and read aloud finely all the old standard authors, though he was not too old-fashioned to admire "pickwick" and the "noctes ambrosianæ" when they appeared. he loved the scenery and architecture among which he had travelled in scotland and spain; but he could find interest in almost any place and any subject; an alert man, in whom practical judgment was joined to a romantic temperament, strong feelings and opinions to extended sympathies. his letters, of which there are many preserved, bear witness to his character, taste, and intellect, curiously anticipating, on some points, those of his son. his portraits give the idea of an expressive face, sensitive, refined, every feature a gentleman's. so, after those nine years of work and waiting, he went to perth to claim his cousin's hand. she was for further delay; but with the minister's help he persuaded her one evening into a prompt marriage in the scotch fashion, drove off with her next morning to edinburgh, and on to the home he had prepared in london at , hunter street, brunswick square (february , ). the heroine of this little drama was no ordinary bride. at edinburgh she had found herself, though well brought up for croydon, inferior to the society of the modern athens. as the affianced of a man of ability, she felt it her duty to make herself his match in mental culture, as she was already in her own department of practical matters. under dr. brown's direction, and stimulated by his notice, she soon became--not a blue-stocking--but well-read, well-informed above the average. she was one of those persons who set themselves a very high standard, and resolve to drag both themselves and their neighbours up to it. but, as the process is difficult, so it is disappointing. people became rather shy of mrs. ruskin, and she of them, so that her life was solitary and her household quiet. it was not merely from narrow puritanism that she made so few friends; her morality and her piety, strict as they were within their own lines, permitted her most of the enjoyments and amusements of life; still less was there any cynicism or misanthropy. but she devoted herself to her husband and son. she was too proud to court those above her in worldly rank, and she was not easily approached except by people fully equal to her in strength of character, of whom there could never be many. the few who made their way to her friendship found her a true and valuable friend. chapter ii the father of the man ( - ) into this family john ruskin was born on february , , at half-past seven in the morning. he was baptised on the twentieth by the rev. mr. boyd. the first account of him in writing is in a letter from his mother when he was six weeks old. she chronicles--not without a touch of superstition--the breaking of a looking-glass, and continues: "john grows finely; he is just now on my knees sleeping and looking so sweetly; i hope i shall not get proud of him." he was a fine healthy baby, and at four months was "beginning to give more decided proofs that he knows what he wants, and will have it if crying and passion will get it." at a year his mother resolves that "this will be cured by a good whipping when he can understand what it is," and we know that she carried out her spartan resolve. this, and the story in "arachne," how she let him touch the tea-kettle; and the reminiscences in "præterita" of playthings locked up, and a lone little boy staring at the water-cart and the pattern on the carpet--all these give a gloomy impression of his mother, against which we must set the proofs of affection and kindliness shown in her letters. in these we can see her anxiously nursing him through childish ailments, taking him out for his daily walk to duppas hill with a captain's biscuit in her muff, for fear he should be hungry by the way; we hear her teaching him his first lessons, with astonishment at his wonderful memory, and glorying with nurse anne over his behaviour in church; and all these things she retails in gossiping letters to her husband, while mr. richard gray gives two-year-old john "his first lesson on the flute, both sitting on the drawing-room floor, very deeply engaged." "i am sure," she says, "there is no other love, no other feeling, like a mother's towards her first boy when she loves his father;" and her pride in his looks, and precocity, and docility--"i never met with a child of his age so sensible to praise or blame"--found a justification in his passionate devotion to the man who was so dear to them both. though he was born in the thick of london, he was not city-bred. his first three summers were spent in lodgings in hampstead or dulwich, then "the country." so early as his fourth summer he was taken to scotland by sea to stay with his aunt jessie, mrs. richardson of perth. there he found cousins to play with, especially one, little jessie, of nearly his own age; he found a river with deep swirling pools, that impressed him more than the sea, and he found the mountains. coming home in the autumn, he sat for his full-length portrait to james northcote, r.a., and being asked what he would choose for background, he replied, "blue hills." northcote had painted mr. and mrs. ruskin, and, as they were fond of artistic company, remained their friend. a certain friendship too, was struck up between the old academician, then in his seventy-seventh year, the acknowledged cynic and satirist, and the little wise boy who asked shrewd questions, and could sit still to be painted; who, moreover, had a face worth painting, not unlike the model from whom northcote's master, the great sir joshua, had painted his famous cherubs. the painter asked him to come again, and sit as the hero of a fancy picture, bought at the academy by the flattered parents. there is a grove, a flock of toy sheep, drapery in the grand style, a mahogany satyr taking a thorn out of the little pink foot of a conventional nudity--poor survivals of the titianesque. but the head is an obvious portrait, and a happy one; far more like the real boy, so tradition says, than the generalized chubbiness of the commissioned picture. in the next year ( ) they quitted the town for a suburban home. the spot they chose was in rural dulwich, on herne hill, a long offshoot of the surrey downs; low, and yet commanding green fields and scattered houses in the foreground, with rich undulating country to the south, and looking across london toward windsor and harrow. it is all built up now; but their house (later no. ) must have been as secluded as any in a country village. there were ample gardens front and rear, well stocked with fruit and flowers--quite an eden for a little boy, and all the more that the fruit of it was forbidden. it was here that all his years of youth were spent. here, under his parents' roof, he wrote his earlier works, as far as vol. i. of "modern painters." to the adjoining house, as his own separate home, he returned for a period of his middle life; and in the old home, handed over to his adopted daughter, he still used to find his own rooms ready when he cared to visit london. so he was brought up almost as a country boy, though near enough to town to get the benefit of it, and far enough from the more exciting scenes of landscape nature to find them ever fresh, when summer after summer he revisited the river scenery of the west or the mountains of the north. for by a neat arrangement, and one fortunate for his education, the summer tours were continued yearly. mr. john james ruskin still travelled for the business, then greatly extending. "strange," he writes on one occasion, "that watson [his right-hand man] went this journey without getting one order, and everyone gives me an order directly." in return for these services to the firm, mr. telford, the capitalist partner, took the vacant chair at the office, and even lent his carriage for the journeys. there was room for two, so mrs. ruskin accompanied her husband, whose indifferent health gave her and his friends constant anxiety during long separations. and the boy could easily be packed in, sitting on his little portmanteau, and playing horses with his father's knees; the nurse riding on the dickey behind. they started usually after the great family anniversary, the father's birthday, on may , and journeyed by easy stages through the south of england, working up the west to the north, and then home by the east-central route, zigzagging from one provincial town to another, calling at the great country seats, to leave no customer or possible customer unvisited; and in the intervals of business seeing all the sights of the places they passed through--colleges and churches, galleries and parks, ruins, castles, caves, lakes, and mountains--and seeing them all, not listlessly, but with keen interest, noting everything, inquiring for local information, looking up books of reference, setting down the results, as if they had been meaning to write a guide-book and gazetteer of great britain. _they_, i say, did all this, for as soon as the boy could write, he was only imitating his father in keeping his little journal of the tours, so that all he learned stayed by him, and the habit of descriptive writing was formed. in they seem to have travelled only through the south and south-west; in they pushed north to the lakes, stayed awhile at keswick, and while the father went about his business, the child was rambling with his nurse on friar's crag, among the steep rocks and gnarled roots, which suggested, even at that age, the feelings expressed in one of the notable passages in "modern painters." thence they went on to scotland, and revisited their relatives at perth. in they took a more extended tour, and spent a few weeks in paris, partly for the festivities at the coronation of charles x., partly for business conference with mr. domecq, who had just been appointed wine-merchant to the king of spain. thence they went to brussels and the field of waterloo, of greater interest than the sights of paris to six-year-old john, who often during his boyhood celebrated the battle, and the heroes of the battle, in verse. before he was quite three he used to climb into a chair and preach. there is nothing so uncommon in that. of robert browning, his neighbour and seven-years-older contemporary, the same tale is told. but while the incident that marks the baby browning is the aside, _à propos_ of a whimpering sister, "pew-opener, remove that child," the baby ruskin is seen in his sermon: "people, be dood. if you are dood, dod will love you; if you are not dood, dod will not love you. people, be dood." at the age of four he had begun to read and write, refusing to be taught in the orthodox way--this is so accurately characteristic--by syllabic spelling and copy-book pothooks. he preferred to find a method out for himself, and he found out how to read whole words at a time by the look of them, and to write in vertical characters like book-print, just as the latest improved theories of education suggest. his first letter may be quoted as illustrating his own account of his childhood, and as proving how entirely scotch was the atmosphere in which he was brought up. the postmark gives the date march , . mrs. ruskin premises that john was scribbling on a paper from which he proceeded to read what she writes down (i omit certain details about the whip): "my dear papa, "i love you. i have got new things. waterloo bridge--aunt bridget brought me it. john and aunt helped to put it up, but the pillars they did not put right, upside down. instead of a book bring me a whip, coloured red and black.... to-morrow is sabbath. tuesday i go to croydon. i am going to take my boats and my ship to croydon. i'll sail them on the pond near the burn which the bridge is over. i will be very glad to see my cousins. i was very happy when i saw aunt come from croydon. i love mrs. gray and i love mr. gray. i would like you to come home, and my kiss and my love." [first autograph in straggling capitals] "john ruskin" when once he could read, thenceforward his mother gave him regular morning lessons in bible-reading and in reciting the scotch paraphrases of the psalms and other verse, which for his good memory was an easy task. he made rhymes before he could write them, of course. at five he was a bookworm, and the books he read fixed him in certain grooves of thought, or, rather, say they were chosen as favourites from an especial interest in their subjects--an interest which arose from his character of mind, and displayed it. but with all this precocity, he was no milksop or weakling; he was a bright, active lad, full of fun and pranks, not without companions, though solitary when at home, and kept precisely, in the hope of guarding him from every danger. he was so little afraid of animals--a great test of a child's nerves--that about this time he must needs meddle with their fierce newfoundland dog, lion, which bit him in the mouth, and spoiled his looks. another time he showed some address in extricating himself from the water-butt--a common child-trap. he did not fear ghosts or thunder; instead of that, his early-developed landscape feeling showed itself in dread of foxglove dells and dark pools of water, in coiling roots of trees--things that to the average english fancy have no significance whatever. at seven he began to imitate the books he was reading, to write books himself. he had found out how to _print_, as children do; and it was his ambition to make real books, with title-pages and illustrations, not only books, indeed, but sets of volumes, a complete library of his whole works. but in a letter of march , , his mother says to his father: "if you think of writing john, would you impress on him the propriety of not beginning too eagerly and becoming careless towards the end of his _works_, as he calls them? i think in a letter from you it would have great weight. he is never idle, and he is even uncommonly persevering for a child of his age; but he often spoils a good beginning by not taking the trouble to think, and concluding in a hurry." the first of these sets was imitated in style from miss edgeworth; he called it, "harry and lucy concluded; or, early lessons." didactic he was from the beginning. it was to be in four volumes, uniform in red leather, with proper title, frontispiece, and "copper-plates," "printed and composed by a little boy, and also drawn." it was begun in , and continued at intervals until . it was all done laboriously in imitation of print, and, to complete the illusion, contained a page of errata. this great work was, of course, never completed, though he laboured through three volumes; but when he tired of it, he would turn his book upside down, and begin at the other end with other matters; so that the red books contain all sorts of notes on his minerals and travels, reports of sermons, and miscellaneous information, besides their professed contents; in this respect also being very like his later works. there you have our author ready made, with his ever-fresh interest in everything, and all-attempting eagerness, out of which the first thing that crystallizes into any definite shape is the verse-writing. chapter iii perfervidum ingenium ( - ) the first dated "poem" was written a month before little john ruskin reached the age of seven. it is a tale of a mouse, in seven octosyllabic couplets, "the needless alarm," remarkable only for an unexpected correctness in rhyme, rhythm, and reason. his early verse owes much to the summer tours, which were prolific in notes; everything was observed and turned into verse. the other inspiring source was his father--the household deity of both wife and child, whose chief delight was in his daily return from the city, and in his reading to them in the drawing-room at herne hill. john was packed into a recess, where he was out of the way and the draught; he was barricaded by a little table that held his own materials for amusement, and if he liked to listen to the reading, he had the chance of hearing good literature, the chance sometimes of hearing passages from byron and christopher north and cervantes, rather beyond his comprehension, for his parents were not of the shockable sort: with all their religion and strict scotch morality, they could laugh at a broad jest, as old-fashioned people could. so he associated his father and his father's readings with the poetry of reflection, as he associated the regular summer round with the poetry of description. as every summer brought its crop of description, so against the new year (for, being scotch, they did not then keep our christmas) and against his father's birthday in may he used always to prepare some little drama or story or "address" of a reflective nature, beginning with the verses on "time," written for new year's day, . that year they were again at perth, and on their way home some early morning frost suggested the not ungraceful verses on the icicles at glenfarg. by a childish misconception, the little boy seems to have confused the real valley that interested him so with scott's ideal glendearg, and, partly for this reason, to have found a greater pleasure in "the monastery," which he thereupon undertook to paraphrase in verse. there remain some hundreds of doggerel rhymes; but his affection for that particular novel survived the fatal facility of his octosyllabics, and reappears time after time in his later writings. next year, , their tour was stopped at plymouth by the painful news of the death of his aunt jessie, to whom they were on their way. it was hardly a year since the bright little cousin, jessie of perth, had died of water on the brain. she had been john's especial pet and playfellow, clever, like him, and precocious; and her death must have come to his parents as a warning, if they needed it, to keep their own child's brain from over-pressure. it is evident that they did their best to "keep him back"; they did not send him to school for fear of the excitement of competitive study. his mother put him through the latin grammar herself, using the old adam's manual which his father had used at edinburgh high school. even this old grammar became a sort of sacred book to him; and when at last he went to school, and his english master threw the book back to him, saying, "that's a scotch thing," the boy was shocked and affronted, as which of us would be at a criticism on _our_ first instrument of torture? he remembered the incident all his life, and pilloried the want of tact with acerbity in his reminiscences. they could keep him from school, but they did not keep him from study. the year saw the beginning of another great work, "eudosia, a poem on the universe"; it was "printed" with even greater neatness and labour; but this, too, after being toiled at during the winter months, was dropped in the middle of its second "book." it was not idleness that made him break off such plans, but just the reverse--a too great activity of brain. his parents seem to have thought that there was no harm in this apparently quiet reading and writing. they were extremely energetic themselves, and hated idleness. they appear to have held a theory that their little boy was safe so long as he was not obviously excited; and to have thought that the proper way of giving children pocket-money was to let them earn it. so they used to pay him for his literary labours; "homer" was one shilling a page; "composition," one penny for twenty lines; "mineralogy," one penny an article. the death of his aunt jessie left a large family of boys and one girl to the care of their widowed father, and the ruskins felt it their duty to help. they fetched mary richardson away, and brought her up as a sister to their solitary son. she was not so beloved as jessie had been, but a good girl and a nice girl, four years older than john, and able to be a companion to him in his lessons and travels. there was no sentimentality about his attachment to her, but a steady fraternal relationship, he, of course, being the little lord and master; but she was not without spirit, which enabled her to hold her own, and perseverance, which sometimes helped her to eclipse, for the moment, his brilliancy. they learnt together, wrote their journals together, and shared alike with the scrupulous fairness which mrs. ruskin's sensible nature felt called on to show. and so she remained his sister, and not quite his sister, until she married, and after a very short married life died. another accession to the family took place in the same year ( ); the croydon aunt, too, had died, and left a dear dog, dash, a brown and white spaniel, which at first refused to leave her coffin, but was coaxed away, and found a happy home at herne hill, and frequent celebration in his young master's verses. so the family was now complete--papa and mamma, mary and john and dash. one other figure must not be forgotten, nurse anne, who had come from the edinburgh home, and remained always with them, john's nurse and then mrs. ruskin's attendant, as devoted and as censorious as any old-style scotch servant in a story-book. the year marked an advance in poetical composition. for his father's birthday he made a book more elaborate than any, sixteen pages in a red cover, with a title-page quite like print: "battle of waterloo | a play | in two acts | with other small | poems dedicated to his father | by john ruskin | hernhill _(sic)_ dulwich." to this are appended, among other pieces, fair copies of "skiddaw," and "derwentwater." a recast of these, touched up by some older hand, and printed in _the spiritual times_ for february, , may be called his first appearance in type. an illness of his postponed their tour for , until it was too late for more than a little journey in kent. he has referred his earliest sketching to this occasion, but it seems likely that the drawings attributed to this year were done in . he was, however, busy writing poetry. at tunbridge, for example, he wrote that fragment "on happiness" which catches so cleverly the tones of young--a writer whose orthodox moralizing suited with the creed in which john ruskin was brought up, alternating, be it remembered, with "don quixote." coming home, he began a new edition of his verses, on a more pretentious scale than the old red books, in a fine bound volume, exquisitely "printed," with the poems dated. this new energy seems to have been roused by the gift from his croydon cousin charles, a clerk in the publishing house of smith, elder, and co., of their annual "friendship's offering." mrs. ruskin, in a letter of october , , finds "the poetry very so-so"; but john evidently made the book his model. he was now growing out of his mother's tutorship, and during this autumn he was put under the care of dr. andrews for his latin. he relates the introduction in "præterita," and, more circumstantially, in a letter of the time, to mrs. monro, the mother of his charming mrs. richard gray, the indulgent neighbour who used to pamper the little gourmand with delicacies unknown in severe mrs. ruskin's dining-room. he says in the letter--this is at ten years old: "well, papa, seeing how fond i was of the doctor, and knowing him to be an excellent latin scholar, got him for me as a tutor, and every lesson i get i like him better and better, for he makes me laugh 'almost, if not quite'--to use one of his own expressions--the whole time. he is so funny, comparing neptune's lifting up the wrecked ships of Ã�neas with his trident to my lifting up a potato with a fork, or taking a piece of bread out of a bowl of milk with a spoon! and as he is always saying [things] of that kind, or relating some droll anecdote, or explaining the part of virgil (the book which i am in) very nicely, i am always delighted when mondays, wednesdays, and fridays are come." dr. andrews was no doubt a genial teacher, and had been a scholar of some distinction in his university of glasgow; but mrs. ruskin thought him "flighty," as well she might, when, after six months' greek, he proposed (in march, ) to begin hebrew with john. it was a great misfortune for the young genius that he was not more sternly drilled at the outset, and he suffered for it through many a long year of struggles with deficient scholarship. the doctor had a large family and pretty daughters. one, who wrote verses in john's note-book, and sang "tambourgi," mrs. orme, lived until in bedford park; the other lives in coventry patmore's "angel in the house." when ruskin, thirty years later, wrote of that doubtfully-received poem, that it was the "sweetest analysis we possess of quiet, modern, domestic feeling," few of his readers could have known all the grounds of his appreciation, or suspected the weight of meaning in the words. chapter iv mountain-worship ( - ) critics who are least disposed to give ruskin credit for his artistic doctrines or economical theories unite in allowing that he taught his generation to look at nature, and especially at the sublime in nature--at storms and sunrises, and the forests and snows of the alps. this mission of mountain-worship was the outcome of a passion beside which the other interests and occupations of his youth were only toys. he could take up his mineralogy and his moralizing and lay them down, but the love of mountain scenery was something beyond his control. we have seen him leave his heart in the highlands at three years old; we have now to follow his passionate pilgrimages to skiddaw and snowdon, to the jungfrau and mont blanc. they had planned a great tour through the lakes and the north two years before, but were stopped at plymouth by the news of mrs. richardson's death. at last the plan was carried out. a prose diary was written alternately by john and mary, one carrying it on when the other tired, with rather curious effect of unequally-yoked collaboration. we read how they "set off from london at seven o'clock on tuesday morning, the th may," and thenceforward we are spared no detail: the furniture of the inns; the bills of fare; when they got out of the carriage and walked; how they lost their luggage; what they thought of colleges and chapels, music and may races at oxford, of shakespeare's tomb, and the pin-factory at birmingham; we have a complete guide-book to blenheim and warwick castle, to haddon and chatsworth, and the full itinerary of derbyshire. "matlock bath," we read, "is a most delightful place"; but after an enthusiastic description of high tor, john reacts into bathos with a minute description of wetting their shoes in a puddle. the cavern with a bengal light was fairyland to him, and among the minerals he was quite at home. then they hurried north to windermere. once at lowwood, the excitement thickens, with storms and rainbows, mountains and waterfalls, boats on the lake and coaching on the steep roads. this journey through lakeland is described in the galloping anapæsts of the "iteriad," which was simply the prose journal versified on his return, one of the few enterprises of the sort which were really completed. to readers who know the country it is interesting as giving a detailed account in the days when this "nook of english ground" was "secure from rash assault." one learns that, even then, there were jarring sights at bowness bay and along derwentwater shore, elements unkind and bills exorbitant. coniston especially was dreary with rain, and its inn--the old waterhead, now destroyed--extravagantly dear; "_but_," says john, with his eye for mineral specimens, "it contains several rich coppermines." an interesting touch is the hero-worship with which they went reverently to peep at southey and wordsworth in church; too humble to dream of an introduction, and too polite to besiege the poets in their homes, but independent enough to form their own opinions on the personality of the heroes. they did not like the look of wordsworth at all; southey they adored. the dominant note of the tour is, however, an ecstatic delight in the mountain scenery; on skiddaw and helvellyn all the gamut of admiration is lavished. on returning home, john began greek under dr. andrews, and was soon versifying anacreontics in his notebooks. he began to read byron for himself, with what result we shall see before long; but the most important new departure was the attempt to copy cruikshank's etchings to grimm's fairy tales, his real beginning at art. from this practice he learnt the value of the pure, clean line that expresses form. it is a good instance of the authority of these early years over ruskin's whole life and teaching that in his "elements of drawing" he advised young artists to begin with cruikshank, as he began, and that he wrote appreciatively both of the stories and the etchings so many decades afterwards in the preface to a reprint by j.c. hotten. his cousin-sister mary had been sent to a day-school when mrs. ruskin's lessons were superseded by dr. andrews, and she had learnt enough drawing to attempt a view of the hotel at matlock, a thing which john could not do. so, now that he too showed some power of neat draughtsmanship, it was felt that he ought to have her advantages. they got mr. runciman the drawing-master, chosen, it may be, as a relative of the well-known edinburgh artist of the same name, to give him lessons, in the early part of . his teaching was of the kind which preceded the hardingesque: it aimed at a bold use of the soft pencil, with a certain roundness of composition and richness of texture, a conventional "right way" of drawing anything. this was hardly what john wanted; but, not to be beaten, he facsimiled the master's freehand in a sort of engraver's stipple, which his habitual neatness helped him to do in perfection. runciman soon put a stop to that, and took pains with a pupil who took such pains with himself--taught him, at any rate, the principles of perspective, and remained his only drawing-master for several years. a sample of john ruskin's early lessons in drawing, described by him in letters to his father, may be not without interest. on february , , he writes: "... you saw the two models that were last sent, before you went away. well, i took my paper, and i fixed my points, and i drew my perspective, and then, as mr. runciman told me, i began to invent a scene. you remember the cottage that we saw as we went to rhaidyr dhu (_sic_), near maentwrog, where the old woman lived whose grandson went with us to the fall, so very silently? i thought my model resembled that; so i drew a tree--such a tree, such an enormous fellow--and i sketched the waterfall, with its dark rocks, and its luxuriant wood, and its high mountains; and then i examined one of mary's pictures to see how the rocks were done, and another to see how the woods were done, and another to see how the mountains were done, and another to see how the cottages were done, and i patched them all together, and i made such a lovely scene--oh, i should get such a scold from mr. runciman (that is, if he ever scolded)!" after the next lesson he wrote, february , : "you know the beautiful model drawing that i gave you an account of in my last. i showed it to mr. runciman. he contemplated it for a moment in silence, and then, turning, asked me if i had copied. i told him how i had patched it up; but he said that that was not copying, and although he was not satisfied with the picture, he said there was something in it that would make him totally change the method he had hitherto pursued with me. he then asked mary for some gray paper, which was produced; then inquired if i had a colour-box; i produced the one you gave me, and he then told me he should begin with a few of the simplest colours, in order to teach me better the effects of light and shade. he should then proceed to teach me water-colour painting, but the latter only as a basis for oil; this last, however, to use his own words, all in due time.... oh, if i could paint well before we went to dover! i should have such sea-pieces...." in march , runciman was encouraging him in his oil-painting; but a year later he wrote to his father: "i cannot bear to paint in oil, c. fielding's tints alone for me! the other costs me double toil, and wants some fifty coats to be splashed on each spot successively. faugh, wie es stinckt! i can't bring out, with all, a picture fit to see. my bladders burst; my oils are out-- and then, what's all the work about?" after a few lessons he could rival mary when they went for their summer excursion. he set to work at once at sevenoaks to draw cottages; at dover and battle he attempted castles. it may be that these first sketches are of the pre-runciman period; but the ruskins made the round of kent in , and though the drawings are by no means in the master's style, they show some practice in using the pencil. the journey was extended by the old route, conditioned by business as before, round the south coast to the west of england, and then into wales. there his powers of drawing failed him; moonlight on snowdon was too vague a subject for the blacklead point but a hint of it could be conveyed in rhyme: "folding like an airy vest, the very clouds had sunk to rest; light gilds the rugged mountain's breast, calmly as they lay below; every hill seemed topped with snow, as the flowing tide of light broke the slumbers of the night." harlech castle was too sublime for a sketch, but it was painted with the pen: "so mighty, so majestic, and so lone; and all thy music, now, the ocean's murmuring." and the enthusiasm of mountain glory, a sort of ecstacy of uncontrollable passion, strives for articulate deliverance in the climbing song, "i love ye, ye eternal hills." it was hard to come back to the daily round, the common task, especially when, in this autumn of , to dr. andrews' latin and greek, the french grammar and euclid were added, under mr. rowbotham. and the new tutor had no funny stories to tell; he was not so engaging a man as the "dear doctor," and his memory was not sweet to his wayward pupil. but the parents had chosen for the work one who was favourably known by his manuals, and capable of interesting even a budding poet in the mathematics; for our author tells that at oxford, and ever after, he knew his euclid without the figures, and that he spent all his spare time in trying to trisect an angle. an old letter from rowbotham informs mr. j.j. ruskin that an eminent mathematician had seen john's attempt, and had said that it was the cleverest he knew. in french, too, he progressed enough to be able to find his way alone in paris two years later. and however the saucy boy may have satirized his tutor in the droll verses on "bedtime," mr. rowbotham always remembered him with affection, and spoke of him with respect. in spite of these tedious tutorships, he managed to scribble energetically all this winter, writing with amazing rapidity, as his mother notes: attempts at waverley novels, which never got beyond the first chapter, imitations of "childe harold" and "don juan" and scraps in the style of everybody in turn. no wonder his mother sent him to bed at nine punctually, and kept him from school, in vain efforts to quiet his brain. the lack of companions was made up to him in the friendship of richard fall, son of a neighbour on "the hill," a boy without affectation or morbidity of disposition whose complementary character suited him well. an affectionate comradeship sprang up between the two lads, and lasted, until in middle life they drifted apart, in no ill-will, but each going on his own course to his own destiny. some real advance was made this winter ( - ) with his shelleyan "sonnet to a cloud" and his imitations of byron's "hebrew melodies," from which he learnt how to concentrate expression, and to use rich vowel-sounds and liquid consonants with rolling effect. a deeper and more serious turn of thought, that gradually usurped the place of the first boyish effervescence, has been traced by him to the influence of byron, in whom, while others saw nothing more than wit and passion, ruskin perceived an earnest mind and a sound judgment. but the most sincere poem--if sincerity be marked by unstudied phrase and neglected rhyme--the most genuine "lyrical cry" of this period, is that song in which our boy-poet poured forth his longing for the "blue hills" he had loved as a baby, and for those coniston crags over which, when he became old and sorely stricken, he was still to see the morning break. when he wrote these verses he was nearly fourteen, or just past his birthday. it had been eighteen months since he had been in wales, and all the weary while he had seen no mountains; but in his regrets he goes back a year farther still, to fix upon the lakeland hills, less majestic than snowdon, but more endeared, and he describes his sensations on approaching the beloved objects in the very terms that dante uses for his first sight of beatrice: "i weary for the fountain foaming, for shady holm and hill; my mind is on the mountain roaming, my spirit's voice is still. "the crags are lone on coniston and glaramara's dell; and dreary on the mighty one, the cloud-enwreathed sea-fell...." "there is a thrill of strange delight that passes quivering o'er me, when blue hills rise upon the sight, like summer clouds before me." judge, then, of the delight with which he turned over the pages of a new book, given him this birthday by the kind mr. telford, in whose carriage he had first seen those blue hills--a book in which all his mountain ideals, and more, were caught and kept enshrined--visions still, and of mightier peaks and ampler valleys, romantically "tost" and sublimely "lost," as he had so often written in his favourite rhymes. in the vignettes to rogers' "italy," turner had touched the chord for which john ruskin had been feeling all these years. no wonder that he took turner for his leader and master, and fondly tried to copy the wonderful "alps at daybreak" to begin with, and then to imitate this new-found magic art with his own subjects and finally to come boldly before the world in passionate defence of a man who had done such great things for him. this mountain-worship was not inherited from his father, who never was enthusiastic about peaks and clouds and glaciers, though he was interested in all travelling in a general way. so that it was not rogers' "italy" that sent the family off to the alps that summer; but, fortunately for john, his father's eye was caught by the romantic architecture of prout's "sketches in flanders and germany," when it came out in april, , and his mother proposed to make both of them happy in a tour on the continent. the business-round was abandoned, but they could see mr. domecq on their way back through paris, and not wholly lose the time. they waited to keep papa's birthday on may , and early next morning drove off--father and mother, john and mary, nurse anne, and the courier salvador. they crossed to calais, and posted, as people did in the old times, slowly from point to point; starting betimes, halting at the roadside inns, where john tried to snatch a sketch, reaching their destination early enough to investigate the cathedral or the citadel, monuments of antiquity or achievements of modern civilisation, with impartial eagerness; and before bedtime john would write up his journal and work up his sketches just as if he were at home. so they went through flanders and germany, following prout's lead by the castles of the rhine; but at last, at schaffhausen one sunday evening--"suddenly--behold--beyond!"--they had seen the alps. thenceforward turner was their guide as they crossed the splügen, sailed the italian lakes, wondered at milan cathedral, and the mediterranean at genoa, and then roamed through the oberland and back to chamouni. all this while a great plan shaped itself in the boy's head, no less than to make a rogers' "italy" for himself, just as he tried to make a "harry and lucy" or a "dictionary of minerals." on every place they passed he would write verses and prose sketches, to give respectively the romance and the reality or ridicule; for he saw the comic side of it all, keenly; and he would illustrate the series with turneresque vignettes, drawn with the finest crowquill pen, to imitate the delicate engravings. by this he learnt more drawing in two or three years than most amateur students do in seven. for the first year he had the "watchtower of andernach" and the "jungfrau from interlaken" to show, with others of similar style, and thenceforward alternated between turner and prout, until he settled into something different from either. but turner and prout were not the only artists he knew; at paris he found his way into the louvre, and got leave from the directors, though he was under the age required, to copy. the picture he chose was a rembrandt. between this foreign tour and the next, his amusement was to draw these vignettes, and to write the poems suggested by the scenes he had visited. he had outgrown the evening lessons with dr. andrews, and as he was fifteen, it was time to think more seriously of preparing him for oxford, where his name was put down at christ church. his father hoped he would go into the church, and eventually turn out a combination of a byron and a bishop--something like dean milman, only better. for this, college was a necessary preliminary; for college, some little schooling. so they picked the best day-school in the neighbourhood, that of the rev. thomas dale (afterwards dean of rochester), in grove lane, peckham. john ruskin worked there rather less than two years. in he was taken from school in consequence of an attack of pleurisy, and lost the rest of that year from regular studies. more interesting to him than school was the british museum collection of minerals, where he worked occasionally with his jamieson's dictionary. by this time he had a fair student's collection of his own, and he increased it by picking up specimens at matlock, or clifton, or in the alps, wherever he went, for he was not short of pocket-money. he took the greatest pains over his catalogues, and wrote elaborate accounts of the various minerals in a shorthand he invented out of greek letters and crystal forms. grafted on this mineralogy, and stimulated by the swiss tour, was a new interest in physical geology, which his father so far approved as to give him saussure's "voyages dans les alpes" for his birthday in . in this book he found the complement of turner's vignettes, something like a key to the "reason why" of all the wonderful forms and marvellous mountain-architecture of the alps. he soon wrote a short essay on the subject, and had the pleasure of seeing it in print, in loudon's _magazine of natural history_ for march, , along with another bit of his writing, asking for information on the cause of the colour of the rhine-water. he had already some acquaintance with j.c. loudon, f.l.s., h.s., etc., and he was on the staff of that versatile editor not long afterwards, and took a lion's share of the writing in the _magazine of architecture_. meanwhile he had been introduced to another editor, and to the publishers with whom he did business for many a year to come. the acquaintance was made in a curious, accidental manner. his cousin charles richardson, clerk to smith, elder, and co., had the opportunity of mentioning the young poet's name to thomas pringle, editor of the "friendship's offering" which john had admired and imitated. mr. pringle came out to herne hill, and was hospitably entertained as a brother scot, as not only an editor, but a poet himself--not _only_ a poet, but a man of respectability and piety, who had been a missionary in south africa. in return for this hospitality he gave a good report of john's verses, and, after getting him to re-write two of the best passages in the last tour, carried them off for insertion in his forthcoming number. he did more: he carried john to see the actual samuel rogers, whose verses had been adorned by the great turner's vignettes. after the pleurisy of april, , his parents took him abroad again, and he made great preparations to use the opportunity to the utmost. he would study geology in the field, and took saussure in his trunk he would note meteorology: he made a cyanometer--a scale of blue to measure the depth of tone, the colour whether of rhine-water or of alpine skies. he would sketch. by now he had abandoned the desire to make ms. albums, after seeing himself in print, and so chose rather to imitate the imitable, and to follow prout, this time with careful outlines on the spot, than to idealize his notes in mimic turnerism. he kept a prose journal, chiefly of geology and scenery, as well as a versified description, written in a metre imitated from "don juan," but more elaborate, and somewhat of a _tour de force_ in rhyming. but that poetical journal was dropped after he had carried it through france, across the jura, and to chamouni. the drawing crowded it out, and for the first time he found himself as ready with his pencil as he had been with his pen. his route is marked by the drawings of that year, from chamouni to the st. bernard and aosta, back to the oberland and up the st. gothard; then back again to lucerne and round by the stelvio to venice and verona, and finally through the tyrol and germany homewards. the ascent of the st. bernard was told in a dramatic sketch of great humour and power of characterization, and a letter to richard fall records the night on the rigi, when he saw the splendid sequence of storm, sunset, moonlight, and daybreak, which forms the subject of one of the most impressive passages of "modern painters." it happened that pringle had a plate of salzburg which he wanted to print in order to make up the volume of "friendship's offering" for the next christmas. he seems to have asked john ruskin to furnish a copy of verses for the picture, and at salzburg, accordingly, a bit of rhymed description was written and re-written, and sent home to the editor. early in december the ruskins returned, and at christmas there came to herne hill a gorgeous gilt morocco volume, "to john ruskin, from the publishers." on opening it there were his "andernach" and "st. goar," and his "salzburg" opposite a beautifully-engraved plate, all hills, towers, boats, and figures moving picturesquely under the sunset, in turner's manner more or less, "engraved by e. goodall from a drawing by w. purser." it was almost like being mr. rogers himself. chapter v the germ of "modern painters" ( ) he was now close upon seventeen, and it was time to think seriously of his future. his father went to oxford early in the year to consult the authorities about matriculation. meantime they sent him to mr. dale for some private lessons, and for the lectures on logic, english literature, and translation, which were given on tuesdays, thursdays, and fridays at king's college, london. john enjoyed his new circumstances heartily. from voluminous letters, it is evident that he was in high spirits and in pleasant company. he was a thorough boy among boys--matson, willoughby, tom dale and the rest. he joined in their pranks, and contributed to their amusement with his ready good-humour and unflagging drollery. mr. dale told him there was plenty of time before october, and no fear about his passing, if he worked hard. he found the work easy, except epigram-writing, which he thought "excessively stupid and laborious," but helped himself out, when scholarship failed, with native wit. some of his exercises remain, not very brilliant latinity; some he saucily evaded, thus: "subject: _non sapere maximum est malum._ "non sapere est grave; sed, cum dura epigrammata oportet scribere, tunc sentis præcipue esse malum." in switzerland and italy, during the autumn of , he had made a great many drawings, carefully outlined in pencil or pen on gray paper, and sparsely touched with body colour, in direct imitation of the prout lithographs. prout's original coloured sketches he had seen, no doubt, in the exhibition; but he does not seem to have thought of imitating them, for his work in this kind was all intended to be for illustration and not for framing. the "italy" vignettes likewise, with all their inspiration, suggested to him only pen-etching; he was hardly conscious that somewhere there existed the tiny, coloured pictures that turner had made for the engraver. still, now that he could draw really well, his father, who painted in water-colours himself, complied with the demand for better teaching than runciman's, went straight to the president of the old water-colour society, and engaged him for the usual course of half a dozen lessons at a guinea a piece. copley fielding could draw mountains as nobody else but turner could, in water-colour; he had enough mystery and poetry to interest the younger ruskin, and enough resemblance to ordinary views of nature to please the elder. so they both went to newman street to his painting-room, and john worked through the course, and a few extra lessons, but, after all, found fielding's art was not what he wanted. some sketches exist, showing the influence of the spongy style; but his characteristic way of work remained for him to devise for himself. at the royal academy exhibition of turner showed the first striking examples of his later style in "juliet and her nurse," "mercury and argus," and "rome from mount aventine." the strange idealism, the unusualness, the mystery, of these pictures, united with evidence of intense significance and subtle observation, appealed to young ruskin as it appealed to few other spectators. public opinion regretted this change in its old favourite, the draughtsman of oxford colleges, the painter of shipwrecks and castles. and _blackwood's magazine_, which the ruskins, as edinburgh people and admirers of christopher north, read with respect, spoke about turner, in a review of the picture-season, with that freedom of speech which scotch reviewers claim as a heritage from the days of jeffrey. young ruskin at once dashed off an answer. the critic had found that turner was "out of nature"; ruskin tried to show that the pictures were full of facts, but treated with poetical license. the critic pronounced turner's colour bad, his execution neglected, and his chiaroscuro childish; in answer to which ruskin explained that turner's reasoned system was to represent light and shade by the contrast of warm and cold colour, rather than by the opposition of white and black which other painters used. he denied that his execution was other than his aims necessitated, and maintained that the critic had no right to force his cut-and-dried academic rules of composition on a great genius; at the same time admitting that: "the faults of turner are numerous, and perhaps more egregious than those of any other great existing artist; but if he has greater faults, he has also greater beauties. "his imagination is shakespearian in its mightiness. had the scene of 'juliet and her nurse' risen up before the mind of a poet, and been described in 'words that burn,' it had been the admiration of the world.... many-coloured mists are floating above the distant city, but such mists as you might imagine to be ethereal spirits, souls of the mighty dead breathed out of the tombs of italy into the blue of her bright heaven, and wandering in vague and infinite glory around the earth that they have loved. instinct with the beauty of uncertain light, they move and mingle among the pale stars, and rise up into the brightness of the illimitable heaven, whose soft, sad blue eye gazes down into the deep waters of the sea for ever--that sea whose motionless and silent transparency is beaming with phosphor light, that emanates out of its sapphire serenity like bright dreams breathed into the spirit of a deep sleep. and the spires of the glorious city rise indistinctly bright into those living mists, like pyramids of pale fire from some vast altar; and amidst the glory of the dream there is, as it were, the voice of a multitude entering by the eye, arising from the stillness of the city like the summer wind passing over the leaves of the forest, when a murmur is heard amidst their multitudes. "this, o maga, is the picture which your critic has pronounced to be 'like models of different parts of venice, streaked blue and white, and thrown into a flour-tub'!" before sending his reply to the editor of _blackwood_, as had been intended, it was thought only right that turner should be consulted. the ms. was enclosed to his address in london, with a courteous note from mr. john james ruskin, asking his permission to publish. turner replied, expressing the scorn he felt for anonymous attacks, and jestingly hinting that the art-critics of the old scotch school found their "meal-tub" in danger from his "flour-tub"; but "he never moved in such matters," so he sent on the ms. to mr. munro of novar, who had bought the picture. ten days or so after this episode john ruskin was matriculated at oxford (october , ). he told the story of his first appearance as a gownsman in one of his gossiping letters in verse: "a night, a day past o'er--the time drew near-- the morning came--i felt a little queer; came to the push; paid some tremendous fees; past; and was capped and gowned with marvellous ease. then went to the vice-chancellor to swear not to wear boots, nor cut or comb my hair fantastically--to shun all such sins as playing marbles or frequenting inns; always to walk with breeches black or brown on; when i go out, to put my cap and gown on; with other regulations of the sort, meant for the just ordering of my comportment. which done, in less time than i can rehearse it, i found myself member of the university!" in pursuance of his plan for getting the best of everything, his father had chosen the best college, as far as he knew, that in which social and scholastic advantages were believed to be found in pre-eminent combination, and he had chosen what was thought to be the best position in the college; so that it was as gentleman-commoner of christ church that john ruskin made his entrance into the academic world. after matriculation, the ruskins made a fortnight's tour to southampton and the coast, and returned to herne hill. john went back to king's college, and in december was examined in the subjects of his lectures. he wrote to his father on christmas eve about the examination in english literature: "the students were numerous, and so were the questions; the room was hot, the papers long, the pens bad, the ink pale, and the interrogations difficult. it lasted only three hours. i wrote answers in very magnificent style to all the questions except three or four; gave in my paper and heard no more of the matter: _sic transeunt bore-ia mundi_." he went on to mention his "very longitudinal essay," which, since no other essays are reported in his letters about king's college, must be the paper published in , in answer to the question. "does the perusal of works of fiction act favourably or unfavourably on the moral character?" at his farewell interview with mr. dale he was asked, as he writes to his father, what books he had read, and replied with a pretty long list, including quintilian and grotius. mr. dale inquired what "light books" he was taking to oxford: "saussure, humboldt, and other works on natural philosophy and geology," he answered. "then he asked if i ever read any of the modern fashionable novels; on this point i thought he began to look positive, so i gave him a negative, with the exception of bulwer's, and now and then a laughable one of the theodore hook's or captain marryat's." and so, with much excellent advice about exercise and sleep, and the way to win the newdigate, he parted from mr. dale. this christmas was marked by his first introduction to the scientific world. mr. charlesworth, of the british museum, invited him to a meeting of the geological society (january , ), with promise of introduction to buckland and lyell. the meeting, as he wrote, was "amusing and interesting, and very comfortable for frosty weather, as mr. murchison got warm and mr. greenau _(sic)_ witty. the warmth, however, got the better of the wit." the meteorological society also claimed his attention, and in this month he contributed a paper which "richard [fall] says will frighten them out of their meteorological wits, containing six close-written folio pages, and having, at its conclusion, a sting in its tail, the very agreeable announcement that it only commences the subject." chapter vi a love-story ( - ) early in the quiet of herne hill was fluttered by a long-promised, long-postponed visit. mr. domecq at last brought his four younger daughters to make the acquaintance of their english friends. the eldest sister had lately been married to a count maison, heir to a peer of france; for mr. domecq, thanks in great measure to his partner's energy and talents, was prosperous and wealthy, and moved in the enchanted circles of parisian society. to a romantic schoolboy in a london suburb the apparition was dazzling. any of the sisters would have charmed him, but the eldest of the four, adèle clotilde, bewitched him at once with her graceful figure and that oval face which was so admired in those times. she was fair, too--another recommendation. he was on the brink of seventeen, at the ripe moment, and he fell passionately in love with her. she was only fifteen, and did not understand this adoration, unspoken and unexpressed except by intensified shyness; for he was a very shy boy in the drawing-room, though brimming over with life and fun among his schoolfellows. his mother's ideals of education did not include french gallantry; he felt at a loss before these paris-bred, paris-dressed young ladies, and encumbered by the very strength of his new-found passion. and yet he possessed advantages, if he had known how to use them. he was tall and active, light and lithe in gesture, not a clumsy hobbledehoy. he had the face that caught the eye, in rome a few years later, of keats' severn, no mean judge, surely, of faces and poet's faces. he was undeniably clever; he knew all about minerals and mountains; he was quite an artist, and a printed poet. but these things weigh little with a girl of fifteen who wants to be amused; and so she only laughed at john. he tried to amuse her, but he tried too seriously. he wrote a story to read her, "leoni, a legend of italy," for of course she understood enough english to be read to, no doubt to be wooed in, seeing her mother was english. the story was of brigands and true lovers, the thing that was popular in the romantic period. the costumery and mannerisms of the little romance are out of date now, and seem ridiculous, though mr. pringle and the public were pleased with it then, when it was printed in "friendship's offering." but the girl of fifteen only laughed the more. when they left, he had no interest in his tour-book; even the mountains, for the time, had lost their power, and all his plans of great works were dropped for a new style of verse--the love-poems of . his father, from whom he kept nothing, approved the verses, and did not disapprove his views on the young lady. indeed, it is quite plain, from the correspondence of the two gentlemen, that mr. domecq intended his friend and partner's son to become his own son-in-law. he had the greatest respect for the ruskins, and every reason for desiring to link their fortunes still more closely with those of his own family. but to mrs. ruskin, with her religious feelings, it was intolerable, unbelievable, that the son whom she had brought up in the nurture and admonition of the strictest protestantism should fix his heart on an alien in race and creed. the wonder is that their relations were not more strained; there are few young men who would have kept unbroken allegiance to a mother whose sympathy failed them at such a crisis. as the year went on his passion seemed to grow in the absence of the beloved object. his only plan of winning her was to win his spurs first; but as what? clearly his forte, it seemed, was in writing. if he could be a successful writer of romances, of songs, of plays, surely she would not refuse him. and so he began another romantic story, "velasquez, the novice," opening with the monks of st. bernard, among whom had been, so the tale ran, a mysterious member, whose papers, when discovered, made him out the hero of adventures in venice. he began a play, which was to be another great work, "marcolini." he had no playwright's eye for situations, but the conversation is animated, and the characters finely drawn, with more discrimination than one would expect from so young an author. this work was interrupted at the end of act iii. by pressing calls to other studies. but it was not that he had forgotten adèle. from time to time he wrote verses to her or about her; and as in she was sent to school with her sisters at newhall, near chelmsford, to "finish" her in english, in that august he saw her again. she had lost some of her first girlish prettiness, but that made no difference. and when the domecqs came to herne hill at christmas, he was as deeply in love as ever. but she still laughed at him. his father was fond of her, liked all the sisters, and thought much of them as girls of fine character, but he liked adèle best. he seems to have been fond of his partner, too, worked very hard in his interests, and behaved very well to his heirs afterwards through many years of responsible and difficult management of their business. and at this time, when he went down to the convent school in essex, as he often did, he must have had opportunities for seeing how hopeless the case was. mr. domecq recognised it, too, but thought, it seems (they manage these things differently in france), that any of his daughters would do as well, and early in entertained an offer from baron duquesne, a rich and handsome young frenchman. they kept this from john, fearing he would break down at the news, so fully did they recognise the importance of the affair. they even threw other girls in his way. it was not difficult, for by now he had made some mark in magazine literature, and was a steady, rising young man, with considerable expectations. but he could not think of any other girl. in february or march, , mr. domecq died. the maisons came to england, and the marriage was proposed. adèle stayed at chelmsford until september, when he wrote the long poem of "farewell," dated the eve of their last meeting and parting. at twenty young men do not die of love; but i find that a fortnight after writing this he was taken seriously ill. during the winter of - the negotiations for the marriage in paris went on. it took place in march. they kept the news from him as long as they could, for he was in the schools next easter term, and mr. brown (his college tutor) had seemed to hope he would get a first, so his mother wrote to her husband. in may he was pronounced consumptive, and had to give up oxford, and all hope of the distinction for which he had laboured, and with that any plans that might have been entertained for his distinction in the church. and his parents' letters of the period put it beyond a doubt that this first great calamity of his life was the direct consequence of that unfortunate matchmaking. for nearly two years he was dragged about from place to place, and from doctor to doctor, in search of health. thanks partly to wise treatment, more to new faces, and most to a plucky determination to employ himself usefully with his pen and his pencil, he gradually freed himself from the spell, and fifty years afterwards could look back upon the story as a pretty comedy of his youthful days. chapter vii "kata phusin" ( - ) devoted as she was to her husband, mrs. ruskin felt bound to watch over her son at oxford. it was his health she was always anxious about; doctoring was her forte. he had suffered from pleurisy; caught cold easily; was feared to be weak in the lungs; and nobody but his mother understood him. so taking mary richardson, she went up with him (january, ), and settled in lodgings at adams' in the high. her plan was to make no intrusion on his college life, but to require him to report himself every day to her. she would not be dull; she could drive about and see the country, and to that end took her own carriage to oxford, the "fly" which had been set up two years before. john had been rather sarcastic about its genteel appearance. "no one," he said, "would sit down to draw the form of it." however, she and mary drove to oxford, and reckoned that it would only mean fifteen months' absence from home altogether, great part of which deserted papa would spend in travelling. john went into residence in peckwater. at first he spent every evening with his mother and went to bed, as mr. dale had told him, at ten. after a few days professor powell asked him to a musical evening; he excused himself, and explained why. the professor asked to be introduced, whereupon says his mother, "i shall return the call, but make no visiting acquaintances." the "early-to-bed" plan was also impracticable. it was not long before somebody came hammering at his "oak" just as he was getting to sleep, and next morning he told his mother that he really ought to have a glass of wine to give. so she sent him a couple of bottles over, and that very night "mr. liddell and mr. gaisford" (junior) turned up. "john was glad he had wine to offer, but they would not take any; they had come to see sketches. john says mr. liddell looked at them with the eye of a judge and the delight of an artist, and swore they were the best sketches he had ever seen. john accused him of quizzing, but he answered that he really thought them excellent." john said that it was the scenes which made the pictures; mr. liddell knew better, and spread the fame of them over the college. next morning "lord emlyn and lord ward called to look at the sketches," and when the undergraduates had dropped in one after another, the dean himself, even the terrible gaisford, sent for the portfolio, and returned it with august approval. liddell, afterwards dean of christ church; newton, afterwards sir charles, of the british museum; acland, afterwards sir henry, the professor of medicine, thus became john ruskin's friends: the first disputing with him on the burning question of raphael's art, but from the outset an admirer of "modern painters," and always an advocate of its author; the second differing from him on the claims of greek archæology, but nevertheless a close acquaintance through many long years; and the third for half a century the best of friends and counsellors. the dons of his college he was less likely to attract. dr. buckland, the famous geologist, and still more famous lecturer and talker, took notice of him and employed him in drawing diagrams for lectures. the rev. walter brown, his college tutor, afterwards rector of wendlebury, won his good-will and remained his friend. his private tutor, the rev. osborne gordon, was always regarded with affectionate respect. but the rest seem to have looked upon him as a somewhat desultory and erratic young genius, who might or might not turn out well. for their immediate purpose, the schools, and church or state preferment, he seemed hardly the fittest man. the gentlemen-commoners of christ church were a puzzle to mrs. ruskin; noblemen of sporting tastes, who rode and betted and drank, and got their impositions written "by men attached to the university for the purpose, at s. d. to s. d., so you have only to reckon how much you will give to avoid chapel." and yet they were very nice fellows. if they began by riding on john's back round the quad, they did not give him the cold shoulder--quite the reverse. he was asked everywhere to wine; he beat them all at chess; and they invaded him at all hours. "it does little good sporting _his_ oak," wrote his mother, describing how lord desart and grimston climbed in through his window while he was hard at work. "they say midshipmen and oxonians have more lives than a cat, and they have need of them if they run such risks." once, but once only, he was guilty, as an innocent freshman, of a breach of the laws of his order. he wrote too good an essay. he tells his father: "oxford, _february_, . "yesterday (saturday) forenoon the sub-dean sent for me, took me up into his study, sat down with me, and read over my essay, pointing out a few verbal alterations and suggesting improvements; i, of course, expressed myself highly grateful for his condescension. going out, i met strangeways. 'so you're going to read out to-day, ruskin. _do_ go it at a good rate, my good fellow. why do you write such devilish good ones?' went a little farther and met march. 'mind you stand on the top of the desk, ruskin; gentlemen-commoners never stand on the steps.' i asked him whether it would look more dignified to stand head or heels uppermost. he advised heels. then met desart. 'we must have a grand supper after this, ruskin; gentlemen-commoners always have a flare-up after reading their themes.' i told him i supposed he wanted to 'pison my rum-and-water.'" and though they teased him unmercifully, he seems to have given as good as he got. at a big wine after the event, they asked him whether his essay cost s. d. or s. what he answered is not reported; but they proceeded to make a bonfire in peckwater, while he judiciously escaped to bed. so for a home-bred boy, thrown into rather difficult surroundings, his first appearance at christ church was distinctly a success. "collections" in march, , went off creditably for him. hussey, kynaston and the dean said he had taken great pains with his work, and had been a pattern of regularity; and he ended his first term very well pleased with his college and with himself. in his second term he had the honour of being elected to the christ church club, a very small and very exclusive society of the best men in the college: "simeon, acland, and mr. denison proposed him; lord carew and broadhurst supported." and he had the opportunity of meeting men of mark, as the following letter recounts. he writes on april , : "my dearest father, "when i returned from hall yesterday--where a servitor read, or pretended to read, and decanus growled at him, 'speak out!'--i found a note on my table from dr. buckland, requesting the pleasure of my company to dinner, at six, to meet two celebrated geologists, lord cole and sir philip egerton. i immediately sent a note of thanks and acceptance, dressed, and was there a minute after the last stroke of tom. alone for five minutes in dr. b.'s drawing-room, who soon afterwards came in with lord cole, introduced me, and said that as we were both geologists he did not hesitate to leave us together while he did what he certainly very much required--brushed up a little. lord cole and i were talking about some fossils newly arrived from india. he remarked in the course of conversation that his friend dr. b.'s room was cleaner and in better order than he remembered ever to have seen it. there was not a chair fit to sit upon, all covered with dust, broken alabaster candlesticks, withered flower-leaves, frogs cut out of serpentine, broken models of fallen temples, torn papers, old manuscripts, stuffed reptiles, deal boxes, brown paper, wool, tow and cotton, and a considerable variety of other articles. in came mrs. buckland, then sir philip egerton and his brother, whom i had seen at dr. b.'s lecture, though he is not an undergraduate. i was talking to him till dinner-time. while we were sitting over our wine after dinner, in came dr. daubeny, one of the most celebrated geologists of the day--a curious little animal, looking through its spectacles with an air very _distinguée_--and mr. darwin, whom i had heard read a paper at the geological society. he and i got together, and talked all the evening." the long vacation of was passed in a tour through the north, during which his advanced knowledge of art was shown in a series of admirable drawings. their subjects are chiefly architectural, though a few mountain drawings are found in his sketch-book for that summer. the interest in ancient and picturesque buildings was no new thing, and it seems to have been the branch of art-study which was chiefly encouraged by his father. during this tour among cumberland cottages and yorkshire abbeys, a plan was formed for a series of papers on architecture, perhaps in answer to an invitation from his friend mr. loudon, who had started an architectural magazine. in the summer he began to write "the poetry of architecture; or, the architecture of the nations of europe considered in its association with natural scenery and national character," and the papers were worked off month by month from oxford, or wherever he might be, only terminating with the termination of the magazine in january, . they parade a good deal of classical learning and travelled experience; readers of the magazine took their author for some dilettante don at oxford. the editor did not wish the illusion to be dispelled, so john ruskin had to choose a _nom de plume_. he called himself "kata phusin" ("according to nature"), for he had begun to read some aristotle. no phrase would have better expressed his point of view, that of commonsense extended by experience, and confirmed by the appeal to matters of fact, rather than to any authority, or tradition, or committee of taste, or abstract principles. while these papers were in process of publication "kata phusin" plunged into his first controversy, as an opponent of "parsey's convergence of perpendiculars," according to which vertical lines should have a vanishing point, even though they are assumed to be parallel to the plane of the picture. during this controversy, and just before the summer tour of to scotland, john ruskin was introduced to miss charlotte withers, a young lady who was as fond of music as he was of drawing. they discussed their favourite studies with eagerness, and, to settle the matter, he wrote a long essay on "the comparative advantages of the studies of music and painting," in which he set painting as a means of recreation and of education far above music. already at nineteen, then, we see him a writer on art, not full-fledged, but attracting some notice. towards the end of a question arose as to the best site for the proposed scott memorial at edinburgh, and a writer in the _architectural magazine_ quoted "kata phusin" as the authority in such matters, saying that it was obvious, after those papers of his, that design and site should be simultaneously considered; on which the editor "begs the favour of 'kata phusin' to let our readers have his opinion on the subject, which we certainly think of considerable importance." so he discussed the question of monuments in general, and of this one in particular, in a long paper, coming to no very decided opinion, but preferring, on the whole, a statue group with a colossal scott on a rough pedestal, to be placed on salisbury crags, "where the range gets low and broken towards the north at about the height of st. anthony's chapel." his paper did not influence the edinburgh committee, but it was not without effect, as the following extract shows. "bayswater, _november_ , . "dear sir,--... your son is certainly the greatest natural genius that ever it has been my fortune to become acquainted with, and i cannot but feel proud to think that at some future period, when both you and i are under the turf, it will be stated in the literary history of your son's life that the first article of his which was published was in _london's magazine of natural history._--yours very sincerely, "j.c. loudon" chapter viii sir roger newdigate's prize ( - ) of all the prizes which oxford could bestow, the newdigate used to be the most popular. its fortunate winner was an admitted poet in an age when poetry was read, and he appeared in his glory at commemoration, speaking what the ladies could understand and admire. the honour was attainable without skill in greek particles or in logarithms; and yet it had a real value to an intending preacher, for the successful reciter might be felt to have put his foot on the pulpit stairs. john ruskin was definitely meant for the church, and he went to oxford in the avowed hope of getting the newdigate, if nothing else. his last talk with mr. dale was chiefly about ways and means to this end; and before he went up he had begun "the gipsies" for march, . the prize was won that year by arthur penrhyn stanley, afterwards dean of westminster. our candidate and his old schoolfellow, henry dart, of exeter college, set to work on the next subject, "the exile of st. helena," and after the long vacation read their work to each other, accepting the hints and corrections of a friendly rivalry. meantime his old nurse anne (it is trivial, but a touch of nature), being at oxford in attendance on the ladies, and keen, as she always was, for master john's success, heard from the keeper of the reading-room of criticisms on his published verses. she brought the news to his delighted mother. "he was pleased," she writes, "but says that he forms his own estimate of his poems, and reviews don't alter it; but 'how my father will be delighted! how he will crow!'" which historiette repeated itself many a time in the family annals. in lent term, , he was hard at work on the new poem. he wrote: "i must give an immense time every day to the newdigate, which i must have, if study will get it. i have much to revise. you find many faults, but there are hundreds which have escaped your notice, and many lines must go out altogether which you and i should wish to stay in. the thing must be remodelled, and i must finish it while it has a freshness on it, otherwise it will not be written well. the old lines are hackneyed in my ears, even as a very soft orleans plum, which your jewess has wiped and re-wiped with the corner of her apron, till its polish is perfect, and its temperature elevated." in this march he got through his "smalls." "nice thing to get over; quite a joke, as everybody says when they've got through with the feathers on. it's a kind of emancipation from freshness--a thing unpleasant in an egg, but dignified in an oxonian--very. lowe very kind; kynaston ditto--nice fellows--urbane. how they _do_ frighten people! there was one man all but crying with mere fear. kynaston had to coax him like a child. poor fellow! he had some reason to be afraid; did his logic shockingly. people always take up logic because they fancy it doesn't require a good memory, and there is nothing half so productive of pluck; they _never_ know it. i was very cool when i got into it; found the degree of excitement agreeable; nibbled the end of my pen and grinned at kynaston over the table as if _i_ had been going to pluck _him_. they always smile when they mean pluck." the newdigate for , for all his care and pains, was won by dart. he was, at any rate, beaten by a friend, and with a poem which his own honourable sympathy and assistance had helped to perfect. another trifling incident lets us get a glimpse of the family life of our young poet. the queen's coronation in june, , was a great event to all the world, and mr. ruskin was anxious for his son to see it. much correspondence ensued between the parents, arranging everything for him, as they always did--which of the available tickets should be accepted, and whether he could stand the fatigue of the long waiting, and so forth. mrs. ruskin did not like the notion of her boy sitting perched on rickety scaffolding at dizzy altitudes in the abbey. mr. ruskin, evidently determined to carry his point, went to westminster, bribed the carpenters, climbed the structure, and reported all safe to stand a century, "though," said he, "the gold and scarlet of the decorations appeared very paltry compared with the wengern alp." but he could not find no. , and wrote to the heralds' office to know if it was a place from which a good view could be got. blue-mantle replied that it was a very good place, and lord brownlow had just taken tickets for his sons close by. then there was the great question of dress. he went to owen's and ordered a white satin waistcoat with gold sprigs, and a high dress-coat with bright buttons, and asked his wife to see about white gloves at oxford--a court white neck-cloth or a black satin would do. picture, then, the young ruskin in those dressy days. a portrait was once sent to brantwood of a dandy in a green coat of wonderful cut, supposed to represent him in his youth, but suggesting lord lytton's "pelham" rather than the homespun-suited seer of coniston. "did you ever wear a coat like that?" i asked. "i'm not so sure that i didn't," said he. after that, they went to scotland and the north of england for the summer, and more fine sketches were made, some of which hang now in his drawing-room, and compare not unfavourably with the prouts beside them. in firmness of line and fulness of insight they are masterly, and mark a rapid progress, all the more astonishing when it is recollected how little time could have been spared for practice. the subjects are chiefly architectural--castles and churches and gothic details--and one is not surprised to find him soon concerned with the oxford society for promoting the study of gothic architecture. "they were all reverends," says a letter of the time, "and wanted somebody to rouse them." science, too, progressed this year. we read of geological excursions to shotover with lord carew and lord kildare--one carrying the hammer and another the umbrella--and actual discoveries of saurian remains; and many a merry meeting at dr. buckland's, in which, at intervals of scientific talk, john romped with the youngsters of the family. after a while the dean took the opportunity of a walk through oxford to the clarendon to warn him not to spend too much time on science. it did not pay in the schools nor in the church, and he had too many irons in the fire. drawing, and science, and the prose essays mentioned in the last chapter, and poetry, all these were his by-play. of the poetry, the newdigate was but a little part. in "friendship's offering" this autumn he published "remembrance," one of many poems to adèle, "christ church," and the "scythian grave." in this last he gave free rein to the morbid imaginations to which his unhappy _affaire de coeur_ and the mental excitement of the period predisposed him. harrison, his literary mentor, approved these poems, and inserted them in "friendship's offering," along with love-songs and other exercises in verse. one had a great success and was freely copied--the sincerest flattery--and the preface to the annual for publicly thanked the "gifted writer" for his "valuable aid." at the beginning of he went into new rooms vacated by mr. meux, and set to work finally on "salsette and elephanta." he ransacked all sources of information, coached himself in eastern scenery and mythology, threw in the aristotelian ingredients of terror and pity, and wound up with an appeal to the orthodoxy of the examiners, of whom keble was the chief, by prophesying the prompt extermination of brahminism under the teaching of the missionaries. this third try won the prize. keble sent for him, to make the usual emendations before the great work could be given to the world with the seal of oxford upon it. john ruskin seems to have been somewhat refractory under keble's hands, though he would let his fellow-students, or his father, or harrison, work their will on his mss. or proofs; being always easier to lead than to drive. somehow he came to terms with the professor, and then the dean, taking an unexpected interest, was at pains to see that his printed copy was flawless, and to coach him for the recitation of it at the great day in the sheldonian (june , ). and now that friends and strangers, publishers in london and professors in oxford, concurred in their applause, it surely seemed that he had found his vocation, and was well on the high-road to fame as a poet. chapter ix the broken chain ( - ) that th of february, , when john ruskin came of age, it seemed as though all the gifts of fortune had been poured into his lap. what his father's wealth and influence could do for him had been supplemented by a personal charm, which found him friends among the best men of the best ranks. what his mother's care had done in fortifying his health and forming his character, native energy had turned to advantage. he had won a reputation already much wider and more appreciable, as an artist and student of science, and as a writer of prose and verse, than undergraduates are entitled to expect; and, for crowning mercy, his head was not turned. he was reading extremely hard--"in" for his degree examination next easter term. his college tutor hoped he would get a first. from that it was an easy step to holy orders, and with his opportunities preferment was certain. on his twenty-first birthday, his father, who had sympathized with his admiration for turner enough to buy two pictures--the "richmond bridge" and the "gosport"--for their herne hill drawing-room, now gave him a picture all to himself for his new rooms in st. aldate's--the "winchelsea," and settled on him a handsome allowance of pocket-money. the first use he made of his wealth was to buy another turner. in the easter vacation he met mr. griffith, the dealer, at the private view of the old water-colour society, and hearing that the "harlech castle" was for sale, he bought it there and then, with the characteristic disregard for money which has always made the vendors of pictures and books and minerals find him extremely pleasant to deal with. but as his love-affair had shown his mother how little he had taken to heart her chiefest care for him, so this first business transaction was a painful awakening to his father, the canny scotch merchant, who had heaped up riches hoping that his son would gather them. this "harlech castle" transaction, however, was not altogether unlucky. it brought him an introduction to the painter, whom he met when he was next in town, at mr. griffith's house. he knew well enough the popular idea of turner as a morose and niggardly, inexplicable man. as he had seen faults in turner's painting, so he was ready to acknowledge the faults in his character. but while the rest of the world, with a very few exceptions, dwelt upon the faults, ruskin had penetration to discern the virtues which they hid. few passages in his autobiography are more striking than the transcript from his journal of the same evening, recording his first impression: "'i found in him a somewhat eccentric, keen-mannered, matter-of-fact, english-minded--gentleman; good-natured evidently, bad-tempered evidently, hating humbug of all sorts, shrewd, perhaps a little selfish, highly intellectual, the powers of the mind not brought out with any delight in their manifestation, or intention of display, but flashing out occasionally in a word or a look.' pretty close that," he adds later, "and full, to be set down at the first glimpse, and set down the same evening." turner was not a man to make an intimate of, all at once; the acquaintanceship continued, and it ripened into as close a confidence as the eccentric painter's habits of life permitted. he seems to have been more at home with the father than with the son; but even when the young man took to writing books about him, he did not, as carlyle is reported to have done in a parallel case, show his exponent to the door. the occasion of john ruskin's coming to town this time was not a pleasant one--nothing less than the complete breakdown of his health. it is true that he was working very hard during this spring; but hard reading does not of itself kill people, only when it is combined with real and prolonged mental distress, acting upon a sensitive temperament. the case was thought serious; reading was stopped, and the patient was ordered abroad for the winter. for that summer there was no hurry to be gone; rest was more needed than change, at first. late in september the same family-party crossed the sea to calais. how different a voyage for them all from the merry departures of bygone maytides! which way should they turn? not to paris, for _there_ was the cause of all these ills; so they went straight southwards, through normandy to the loire, and saw the châteaux and churches from orleans to tours, famous for their renaissance architecture and for the romance of their chivalric history. amboise especially made a strong impression upon the languid and unwilling invalid. it stirred him up to write, in easy verse, the tale of love and death that his own situation too readily suggested. in "the broken chain" he indulged his gloomy fancy, turning, as it was sure to do, into a morbid nightmare of mysterious horror, not without reminiscence of coleridge's "christabel." but through it all he preserved, so to speak, his dramatic incognito; his own disappointment and his own anticipated death were the motives of the tale, but treated in such a manner as not to betray his secret, nor even to wound the feelings of the lady who now was beyond appeal from an honourable lover--taking his punishment like a man. this poem lasted him, for private writing, all through that journey--a fit emblem of the broken life which it records. a healthier source of distraction was his drawing, in which he had received a fresh impetus from the exhibition of david roberts' sketches in the east. more delicate than prout's work, entering into the detail of architectural form more thoroughly, and yet suggesting chiaroscuro with broad washes of quiet tone and touches of light, cleverly introduced--"that marvellous _pop_ of light across the foreground," harding said of the picture of the great pyramid--these drawings were a mean between the limited manner of prout and the inimitable fulness of turner ruskin took up the fine pencil and the broad brush, and, with that blessed habit of industry which has helped so many a one through times of trial, made sketch after sketch on the half-imperial board, finished just so far as his strength and time allowed, as they passed from the loire to the mountains of auvergne; and to the valley of the rhone, and thence slowly round the riviera to pisa and florence and rome. he was not in a mood to sympathize readily with the enthusiasms of other people. they expected him to be delighted with the scenery, the buildings, the picture-galleries of italy, and to forget himself in admiration. he did admire michelangelo; and he was interested in the back-streets and slums of the cities. something piquant was needed to arouse him; the mild ecstasies of common connoisseurship hardly appeal to a young man between life and death. he met the friends to whom he had brought introductions--mr. joseph severn, who had been keats' companion, and was afterwards to be the genial consul at rome, and the two messrs. richmond, then studying art in the regular professional way; one of them to become a celebrated portrait-painter, and the father of men of mark. but his views on art were not theirs; he was already too independent and outspoken in praise of his own heroes, and too sick in mind and body to be patient and to learn. they had not been a month in rome before he took the fever. as soon as he was recovered, they went still farther south, and loitered for a couple of months in the neighbourhood of naples, visiting the various scenes of interest--sorrento, amalfi, salerno. the adventures of this journey are partly told in letters to mr. dale, and in the "letters addressed to a college friend." on the way to naples he had noted and sketched the winter scene at la riccia, which he afterwards used for a glowing passage in "modern painters"; and he had ventured into a village of brigands to draw such a castle as he had once imagined in his "leoni." from naples he wrote an account of a landslip near giagnano, and sent it home to the ashmolean society. he seemed better; they turned homewards, when suddenly he was seized with all the old symptoms worse than ever. after another month at rome, they travelled slowly northwards from town to town; spent ten days of may at venice, and passed through milan and turin, and over the mont cenis to geneva. at last he was among the mountains again--the alps that he loved. it was not only that the air of the alps braced him, but the spirit of mountain-worship stirred him as nothing else could. at last he seemed himself, after more than a year of intense depression; and he records that one day, in church at geneva, he resolved to _do_ something, to _be_ something useful. that he could make such a resolve was a sign of returning health; but if, as i find, he had just been reading carlyle's lately-published lectures on "heroes," though he did not then accept carlyle's conclusions nor admire his style, might he not, in spite of his criticism, have been spurred the more into energy by that enthusiastic gospel of action? they travelled home by basle and laon; but london in august, and the premature attempt to be energetic, brought on a recurrence of the symptoms of consumption, as it was called. he wished to try the mountain-cure again, and set out with his friend richard fall for a tour in wales. but his father recalled him to leamington to try iron and dieting under dr. jephson, who, if he was called a quack, was a sensible one, and successful in subduing for several years to come the more serious phases of the disease. the patient was not cured; he suffered from time to time from his chest, and still more from a weakness of the spine, which during all the period of his early manhood gave him trouble, and finished by bending his tall and lithe figure into something that, were it not for his face, would be deformity. in he was again at leamington under jephson, in consequence of a relapse into the consumptive symptoms, after which we hear no more of it. he outgrew the tendency, as so many do. but nevertheless the alarm had been justifiable, and the malady had left traces which, in one way and another, haunted him ever after; for one of the worst effects of illness is to be marked down as an invalid. at leamington, then, in september, , he was finding a new life under the doctor's dieting, and new aims in life, which were eventually to resolder for a while the broken chain. among the scotch friends of the ruskins there was a family at perth whose daughter came to visit at herne hill--the effie gray whom afterwards he married. she challenged the melancholy john, engrossed in his drawing and geology, to write a fairytale, as the least likely task for him to fulfil. upon which he produced, at a couple of sittings, "the king of the golden river," a pretty medley of grimm's grotesque and dickens' kindliness and the true ruskinian ecstasy of the alps. chapter x the graduate of oxford ( - ) ready for work again, and in reasonable health of mind and body, john ruskin sat down in his little study at herne hill in november, , with his private tutor, osborne gordon. there was eighteen months' leeway to make up, and the dates of ancient history, the details of schematized aristotelianism, soon slip out of mind when one is sketching in italy. but he was more serious now about his work, and aware of his deficiencies. to be useful in the world, is it not necessary first to understand all possible greek constructions? so said the voice of oxford; but our undergraduate was saved, both now and afterwards, from this vain ambition. "i think it would hardly be worth your while," said gordon. he could not now go in for honours, for the lost year had superannuated him. so in april he went up for a pass. in those times, when a pass-man showed unusual powers, they could give him an honorary class; not a high class, because the range of the examination was less than in the honour-school. this candidate wrote a poor latin prose, it seems; but his divinity, philosophy, and mathematics were so good that they gave him the best they could--an honorary double fourth--upon which he took his b.a. degree, and could describe himself as "a graduate of oxford." the continued weakness of his health kept him from taking steps to enter the church; and his real interest in art was not crowded out even by the last studies for his examination. while he was working with gordon, in the autumn of , he was also taking lessons from j.d. harding; and the famous study of ivy, his first naturalistic sketching, to which we must revert, must have been done a week or two before going up for his examination. the lessons from harding were a useful counter-stroke to the excessive and exaggerated turnerism in which he had been indulging through his illness. the drawings of amboise, the coast of genoa, and the glacier des bois, though published later, were made before he had exchanged fancy for fact; and they bear, on the face of them, the obvious marks of an unhealthy state of mind. harding, whose robust common-sense and breezy mannerism endeared him to the british amateur of his generation, was just the man to correct any morbid tendency. he had religious views in sympathy with his pupil, and he soon inoculated ruskin with his contempt for the minor dutch school--those bituminous landscapes, so unlike the sparkling freshness that harding's own water-colour illustrated, and those vulgar tavern scenes, painted, he declared, by sots who disgraced art alike in their works and in their lives. until this epoch, john ruskin had found much that interested him in the dutch and flemish painters of the seventeenth century. he had classed them all together as the school of which rubens, vandyck and rembrandt were the chief masters, and those as names to rank with raphael and michelangelo and velasquez. he was a humorist, not without boyish delight in a good sam-wellerism, and so could be amused with the "drolls," until harding appealed to his religion and morality against them. he was a chiaroscurist, and not naturally offended by their violent light and shade, until george richmond showed him the more excellent way in colour, the glow of venice, first hinting it at rome in , and then proving it in london in the spring of from samuel rogers' treasures, of which the chief (now in the national gallery) was the "christ appearing to the magdalen." much as the author of "modern painters" owed to these friends and teachers, and to the advantages of his varied training, he would never have written his great work without a further inspiration. harding's especial forte was his method of drawing trees. he looked at nature with an eye which, for his period, was singularly fresh and unprejudiced; he had a strong feeling for truth of structure as well as for picturesque effect, and he taught his pupils to observe as well as to draw. but in his own practice he rested too much on _having observed_; formed a style, and copied himself if he did not copy the old masters; hence he held to rules of composition and conscious graces of arrangement; and while he taught naturalism in study, he followed it up with teaching artifice in practice. turner, who was not a drawing-master, lay under no necessity to formulate his principles and stick to them. on the contrary, his style developed like a kaleidoscope. he had been in switzerland and on the rhine in , "painting his impressions," making water-colour notes from memory of effects that had struck him. from one of these, "splügen," he had made a finished picture, and now wished to get commissions for more of the same class. ruskin was greatly interested in this series, because they were not landscapes of the ordinary type, scenes from nature squeezed into the mould of recognised artistic composition, nor, on the other hand, mere photographic transcripts; but dreams, as it were, of the mountains and sunsets, in which turner's wealth of detail was suggested, and his knowledge of form expressed, together with the unity which comes of the faithful record of a single impression. the lesson was soon enforced upon ruskin's mind by example. one day, while taking his student's constitutional, he noticed a tree-stem with ivy upon it, which seemed not ungraceful, and invited a sketch. as he drew he fell into the spirit of its natural arrangement, and soon perceived how much finer it was as a piece of design than any conventional rearrangement would be. harding had tried to show him how to generalize foliage; but in this example he saw that not generalization was needed to get its beauty, but truth. at fontainebleau soon after, in much the same circumstances, a study of an aspen-tree, idly begun, but carried out with interest and patience, confirmed the principle. at geneva, once more in the church where he had formed such resolutions the year before, the desire came over him with renewed force; now not only to be definitely employed, but to be employed in the service of a definite mission, which was, in art, exactly what carlyle had preached in every other sphere of life in that book of "heroes": the gospel of sincerity. the design took shape. at chamouni he studied plants and rocks and clouds, not as an artist to make pictures out of them, nor as a scientist to class them and analyze them; but to learn their aspects and enter into the spirit of their growth and structure. and though on his way home through switzerland and down the rhine he made a few drawings in his old style for admiring friends, they were the last of the kind that he attempted. thenceforward his path was marked out; he had found a new vocation. he was not to be a poet--that was too definitely bound up with the past which he wanted to forget, and with conventionalities which he wished to shake off; not to be an artist, strugging with the rest to please a public which he felt himself called upon to teach; not a man of science, for his botany and geology were to be the means, and not the ends, of his teaching; but the mission was laid upon him to tell the world that art, no less than other spheres of life, had its heroes; that the mainspring of their energy was sincerity, and the burden of their utterance, truth. book ii the art critic ( - ) chapter i "turner and the ancients" ( - ) the neighbour, or the oxonian friend, who climbed the steps of the herne hill house and called upon mrs. ruskin, in the autumn and winter of , would learn that mr. john was hard at work in his own study overhead. those were its windows, on the second-floor, looking out upon the front-garden; the big dormer-window above was his bedroom, from which he had his grand view of lowland, and far horizon, and unconfined sky, comparatively clear of london smoke. in the study itself, screened from the road by russet foliage and thick evergreens, great things were going on. but mr. john could be interrupted, would come running lightly downstairs, with both hands out to greet the visitor; would show the pictures, eagerly demonstrating the beauties of the last new turners, "ehrenbreitstein" and "lucerne," just acquired, and anticipating the sunset glories and mountain gloom of the "goldau" and "dazio grande," which the great artist was "realizing" for him from sketches he had chosen at queen anne street. he was very busy--but never too busy to see his friends--writing a book. and, the visitor gone, he would run up to his room and his writing. in the afternoon his careful mother would turn him out for a tramp round the norwood lanes; he might look in at the poussins and claudes of the dulwich gallery, or, for a longer excursion, go over to mr. windus, and his roomful of turner drawings, or sit to george richmond for the portrait at full length with desk and portfolio, and mont blanc in the background. dinner over, another hour or two's writing, and early to bed, after finishing his chapter with a flourish of eloquence, to be read next morning at breakfast to father and mother and mary. the vivid descriptions of scenes yet fresh in their memory, or of pictures they treasured, the "thoughts" as they used to be called, allusions to sincere beliefs and cherished hopes, never failed to win the praise that pleased the young writer most, in happy tears of unrestrained emotion. these old-fashioned folk had not learnt the trick of _nil admirari._ quite honestly they would say, with the german musician, "when i hear good music, then must i always weep." we can look into the little study and see what this writing was that went on so busily and steadily. it was the long-meditated defence of turner, provoked by _blackwood's magazine_ six years before, encouraged by carlyle's "heroes," and necessitated by the silence, on this topic, of the more enlightened leaders of thought in an age of connoisseurship and cant. and as the winter ran out, he was ending his work, happy in the applause of his little domestic circle, and conscious that he was preaching the crusade of sincerity, the cause of justice for the greatest landscape artist of any age, and justice, at the hands of a heedless public, for the glorious works of the supreme artist of the universe. let our young painters, he concluded, go humbly to nature, "rejecting nothing, selecting nothing, and scorning nothing," in spite of academic theorists, and in time we should have a school of landscape worthy of the inspiration they would find. there was his book; the title of it, "turner and the ancients." before publishing, to get more experienced criticism than that of the breakfast-table, he submitted it to his friend, w.h. harrison. the title, it seemed, was not explicit enough, and after debate they substituted "modern painters: their superiority in the art of landscape painting to all the ancient masters proved by examples of the true, the beautiful, and the intellectual, from the works of modern artists, especially from those of j.m.w. turner, esq., r.a." and as the severe tone of many remarks was felt to be hardly supported by the age and standing of so young an author, he was content to sign himself "a graduate of oxford." the book was spoken of, but no part of the copy shown, to john murray, who said he would prefer something about german art. it found immediate acceptance with messrs. smith and elder. young ruskin had been doing business for seven years past with that firm; he was well known to them as one of the most "rising" youths of the time, and their own literary editor, mr. harrison, was his private mentor, who revised his proofs and inserted the punctuation, which he usually indicated only by dashes. his dealings with the publishers were generally conducted through his father, who made very fair terms for him, as things went then. in may, , "modern painters," vol. i., was published, and it was soon the talk of the art-world. it was meant to be audacious, and naturally created a storm. the free criticisms of public favourites made an impression, not because they were put into strong language, for the tone of the press was stronger then than it is now, as a whole, but because they were backed up by illustration and argument. it was evident that the author knew something of his subject, even if he were all wrong in his conclusions. he could not be neglected, though he might be protested against, decried, controverted. artists especially, who do not usually see their works as others see them, and are not accustomed to think of themselves and their school as mere dots and spangles in a perspective of history, could not be entirely content to be classed as turner's satellites. and while the book contained something that promised to suit every kind of reader everyone found something to shock him. critics were scandalized at the depreciation of claude; the religious were outraged at the comparison of turner, in a passage omitted from later editions, to the angel of the sun in the apocalypse. but the descriptive passages were such as had never appeared before in prose; and the obvious usefulness of the analyses of natural form and effect made many an artist read on, while he shook his head. some readily owned their obligation to the new teacher. holland, for one, wrote to harrison that he meant to paint the better for the snubbing he had got. of such as reviewed the book adversely in _blackwood_ and the _athenæum_, not one undertook to refute it seriously. they merely attacked a detail here and there, which the author discussed in two or three replies, with a patience that showed how confident he was in his position. he had the good word of some of the best judges of literature. "modern painters" lay on rogers' table; and tennyson, who a few years before had beaten young ruskin out of the field of poetry, was so taken with it that he wrote to his publisher to borrow it for him, "as he longed very much to see it," but could not afford to buy it. sir henry taylor wrote to aubrey de vere, the poet, begging him to read: "a book which seems to me to be far more deeply founded in its criticism of art than any other that i have met with ... written with great power and eloquence, and a spirit of the most diligent investigation.... i am told that the author's name is ruskin, and that he was considered at college as an odd sort of man who would never do anything." a second edition appeared within months. when the secret of the "oxford graduate" leaked out, as it did very soon, through the proud father, mr. john was lionized. during the winter of he met celebrities at fashionable dinner-tables; and now that his parents were established in their grander house on denmark hill,[ ] they could duly return the hospitalities of the great world. [footnote : to which they removed in october, .] it was one very satisfactory result of the success that the father was more or less converted to turnerism, and lined his walls with turner drawings, which became the great attraction of the house, far outshining its seven acres of garden and orchard and shrubbery, and the ampler air of cultured ease. for a gift to his son he bought "the slave ship," one of turner's latest and most disputed works; and he was all eagerness to see the next volume in preparation. it was intended to carry on the discussion of "truth," with further illustrations of mountain-form, trees and skies. and so in may, , they all went away again, that the artist-author might prepare drawings for his plates. he was going to begin with the geology and botany of chamouni, and work through the alps, eastward. at chamouni they had the good fortune to meet with joseph coutet, a superannuated guide, whom they engaged to accompany the eager but inexperienced mountaineer. coutet was one of those men of natural ability and kindliness whose friendship is worth more than much intercourse with worldly celebrities, and for many years afterwards ruskin had the advantage of his care--of something more than mere attendance. at any rate, under such guidance, he could climb where he pleased, free from the feeling that people at home were anxious about him. he was not unadventurous in his scramblings, but with no ambition to get to the top of everything. he wanted to observe the aspects of mountain-form; and his careful outlines, slightly coloured, as his manner then was, and never aiming at picturesque treatment, record the structure of the rocks and the state of the snow with more than photographic accuracy. a photograph often confuses the eye with unnecessary detail; these drawings seized the leading lines, the important features, the interesting points. for example, in his matterhorn (a drawing of ), as whymper remarks in "scrambles among the alps," there are particulars noted which the mere sketcher neglects, but the climber finds out, on closer intercourse, to be the essential facts of the mountain's anatomy. all this is not picture-making, but it is a valuable contribution and preliminary to criticism. from chamouni this year they went to simplon, and met j.d. forbes, the geologist, whose "viscous theory" of glaciers ruskin adopted and defended with warmth later on, and to the bell' alp, long before it had been made a place of popular resort by professor tyndall's notice. the "panorama of the simplon from the bell' alp" is to be found in the st. george's (ruskin) museum at sheffield, as a record of his draughtsmanship in this period. thence to zermatt with osborne gordon; zermatt, too, unknown to the fashionable tourist, and innocent of hotel luxuries. it is curious that, at first sight, he did not care for the matterhorn. it was entirely unlike his ideal of mountains. it was not at all like cumberland. but in a very few years he had come to love the alps for their own sake, and we find him regretting at ambleside the colour and light of switzerland, the mountain glory which our humbler scenery cannot match. and yet he came back to it for a home, not ill-content. after another visit to chamouni, he crossed france to paris, where something awaited him that upset all his plans, and turned his energies into an unexpected channel. chapter ii christian art ( - ) at paris, on the way heme in , he had spent some days in studying titian and bellini and perugino. they were not new to him; but now that he was an art-critic, it behoved him to improve his acquaintance with the old masters. "to admire the works of pietro perugino" was one thing; but to understand them was another, a thing which was hardly attempted by "the landscape artists of england" to whom the author of "modern painters" had so far dedicated his services. he had been extolling modernism, and depreciating "the ancients" because they could not draw rocks and clouds and trees; and he was fresh from his scientific sketching in the happy hunting-ground of the modern world. a few days in the louvre made him the devotee of ancient art, and taught him to lay aside his geology for history. in one way the development was easy. the patient attempt to copy mountain-form had made him sensitive to harmony of line; and in the great composers of florence and venice he found a quality of abstract design which tallied with his experience of what was beautiful in nature. aiguilles and glaciers, drawn as he drew them, and the figure-subjects of severe italian draughtsmen, are beautiful by the same laws of composition, however different the associations they suggest. but _he_ had been learning these laws of beauty from turner and from the alps; how did the ancients come by them? this could be found only in a thorough study of their lives and times, to begin with, to which he devoted his winter, with rio and lord lindsay and mrs. jameson for his authorities. he found that his foes, caspar poussin and canaletto, and the dutch landscapists, were not the real old masters; that there had been a great age of art before the era of vandyck and rubens--even before michelangelo and raphael; and that, towards setting up as a critic of the present, he must understand the past out of which it had grown. so he determined to go to florence and venice, and to study the religious painters at first hand. mountain-study and turner were not to be dropped. for example, to explain the obvious and notorious licences which turner took with topography, it was necessary to see in what these licences consisted. of the later swiss drawings, one of the wildest and most impressive was the "st. gothard"; ruskin wanted to find turner's point of view, and to see what alterations he had made. he told turner so, and the artist, who knew that his picture had been realized from a very slight sketch, was naturally rather opposed to this test, as being, from his point of view, merely a waste of time and trouble. he tried to persuade the ruskins that the swiss sonderbund war, then going on, made travelling unsafe, and so forth. but in vain. mr. john was allowed to go, for the first time alone, without his parents, taking only a servant, and meeting the trustworthy coutet at geneva. with seven months at his own disposal, he did a vast amount of work, especially in drawing. the studies of mountain-form and italian design, in the year before, had given him a greater interest in the "liber studiorum," turner's early book of essays in composition. he found there that use of the pure line, about which he has since said so much, together with a thoughtfully devised scheme of light-and-shade in mezzotint, devoted to the treatment of landscape in the same spirit as that in which the italian masters treated figure-subjects in their pen-and-bistre studies. and just as he had imitated the rogers vignettes in his boyhood, now in his youth he tried to emulate the fine abstract flow and searching expressiveness of the etched line, and the studied breadth of shade, by using the quill-pen with washes. at first he kept pretty closely to monochrome. his object was form, and his special talent was for draughtsmanship rather than for colour. but it was this winter's study of the "liber studiorum" that started him on his own characteristic course; and while we have no pen-and-wash work of his before (except a few experiments after prout), we find him now using the pen continually during the "modern painters" period. on reaching the lake of geneva he wrote, or sketched, one of his best-known pieces of verse, "mont blanc revisited," and a few other poems followed, the last of the long series which had once been his chief interest and aim in life. with this lonely journey there came new and deeper feelings; with his increased literary power, fresh resources of diction; and he was never so near being a poet as when he gave up writing verse. too condensed to be easily understood, too solemn in their movement to be trippingly read, the lines on "the arve at cluse," on "mont blanc," and "the glacier," should not be passed over as merely rhetorical. and the reflections on the loungers at conflans ("why stand ye here all the day idle?") are full of the spirit in which he was gradually approaching the great problems of his life, to pass through art into the earnest study of human conduct and its final cause. he was still deeply religious--more deeply so than before, and found the echo of his own thoughts in george herbert, with whom he "communed in spirit" while he travelled through the alps. but the forms of outward religion were losing their hold over him in proportion as his inward religion became more real and intense. it was only a few days after writing these lines that he "broke the sabbath" for the first time in his life, by climbing a hill after church. that was the first shot fired in a war, in one of the strangest and saddest wars between conscience and reason that biography records; strange because the opposing forces were so nearly matched, and sad because the struggle lasted until their field of battle was desolated before either won a victory. later on we have to tell how he dwelt in doubting castle, and how he escaped. but the pilgrim had not yet met giant despair; and his progress was very pleasant in that spring of , the year of fine weather, as he drove round the riviera, and the cities of tuscany opened out their treasures to him. there was lucca, with san frediano and the glories of romanesque architecture; fra bartolommeo's picture of the madonna with the magdalen and st. catherine of siena, his initiation into the significance of early religious painting: and, taking hold of his imagination, in her marble sleep, more powerfully than any flesh and blood, the dead lady of st. martin's church, ilaria di caretto. there was pisa, with the campo santo and the jewel shrine of sta. maria della spina, then undestroyed; the excitement of street sketching among a sympathetic crowd of fraternizing italians; the abbé rosini, professor of fine arts, whom he made friends with, endured as lecturer, and persuaded into scaffold-building in the campo santo for study of the frescoes. and there was florence, with giotto's campanile and santa maria novella, where the young protestant frequented monasteries, made hay with monks, sketched with his new-found friends rudolf durheim of berne and dieudonné the french purist; and spent long days copying angelico and annotating ghirlandajo, fevered with the sun of italy at its strongest, and with the rapture of discovery, "which turns the unaccustomed head like chianti wine." coutet got him away, at last, to the alps; worn out and in despondent reaction after all this excitement. he spent a month at macugnaga, reading shakespeare and trying to draw boulders; drifting gradually back into strength enough to attack the next piece of work, the study of turner sites on the st. gothard, where he made the drawings afterwards engraved in "modern painters." in august, j.d. harding was going to venice, and arranged for a meeting at baveno, on the lago maggiore. gossip had credited him with a share in "modern painters"; now the tables were turned, and griffith, the picture-dealer, wanted to know if it was true that john ruskin had helped harding with his new book, just out. they sketched together, ruskin perhaps emulating his friend's slap-dash style in the "sunset" reproduced in his "poems," and illustrating his own in the "water-mill." and so they drove together to verona and thence to venice. at venice they stayed in danieli's hotel, on the riva dei schiavoni, and began by studying picturesque canal-life. mr. boxall, r.a., and mrs. jameson, the historian of sacred and legendary art, were their companions. another old friend, joseph severn, had in gained one of the prizes at the westminster hall cartoons competition; and a letter from ruskin, referring to the work there, shows how he still pondered on the subject that had been haunting him in the alps: "with your hopes for the elevation of english art by means of fresco i cannot sympathize.... it is not the material nor the space that can give us thoughts, passions, or power. i see on our academy walls nothing but what is ignoble in small pictures, and would be disgusting in large ones.... it is not the love of fresco that we want; it is the love of god and his creatures; it is humility, and charity, and self-denial, and fasting, and prayer; it is a total change of character. we want more faith and less reasoning, less strength and more trust. you want neither walls, nor plaster, nor colours--_ça ne fait rien à l'affaire_; it is giotto, and ghirlandajo, and angelico that you want, and that you will and must want until this disgusting nineteenth century has--i can't say breathed, but steamed its last." so early he had taken up and wrapped round him the mantle of cassandra. but he was suddenly to find the sincerity of ghirlandajo and the religious significance of angelico united with the matured power of art. without knowing what they were to meet, harding and he found themselves one day in the scuola di s. rocco, and face to face with tintoret. it was the fashion earlier, and it has been the fashion since, to undervalue tintoret. he is not pious enough for the purists, nor decorative enough for the pre-raphaelites. the ruin or the restoration of almost all his pictures makes it impossible for the ordinary amateur to judge them; they need reconstruction in the mind's eye, and that is a dangerous process. ruskin himself, as he grew older, found more interest in the playful industry of carpaccio than in the laborious games, the stupendous titan feats of tintoret. but at this moment, solemnized before the problems of life, he found these problems hinted in the mystic symbolism of the school of s. rocco; with eyes now opened to pre-reformation christianity, he found its completed outcome in tintoret's interpretation of the life of christ and the types of the old testament; fresh from the stormy grandeur of the st. gothard, he found the lurid skies and looming giants of the visitation, or the baptism, or the crucifixion, re-echoing the subjects of turner as "deep answering to deep"; and, with harding of the broad brush, he recognised the mastery of landscape execution in the flight into egypt, and the st. mary in the desert. he devoted the rest of his time chiefly to cataloguing and copying tintoret. the catalogue appeared in "stones of venice," which was suggested by this visit, and begun by some sketches of architectural detail, and the acquisition of daguerreotypes--a new invention which delighted him immensely, as it had delighted turner, with trustworthy records of detail which sometimes eluded even his industry and accuracy. at last his friends were gone; and, left alone, he overworked himself, as usual, before leaving venice with crammed portfolios and closely-written notebooks. at padua he was stopped by a fever; all through france he was pursued by what, from his account, appears to have been some form of diphtheria, averted only, as he believed, in direct answer to earnest prayer. at last his eventful pilgrimage was ended, and he was restored to his home and his parents. it was not long before he was at work again in his new study, looking out upon the quiet meadow and grazing cows of denmark hill, and rapidly throwing into form the fresh impressions of the summer. he was strongly influenced by the sermons of canon melvill--the same preacher whom browning in his youth admired--a good orator and sound analytic expositor, though not a great or independent thinker. osborne gordon had recommended him to read hooker, and he caught the tone and style of the "ecclesiastical polity" only too readily, so that much of his work of that winter, the more philosophical part of vol. ii., was damaged by inversions, and elizabethan quaintness as of ruff and train, long epexegetical sentences, and far-sought pomposity of diction. it was only when he had waded through the chaos which he set himself to survey, that he could lay aside his borrowed stilts, and stand on his own feet in the tintoret descriptions--rather stiff, yet, from foregone efforts. this volume, like the first, was completed in the winter, in one long spell of hard work, broken only by a visit to oxford in january as the guest of dr. greswell, head of worcester, at a conference for the promotion of art. smith and elder accepted the book on mr. j.j. ruskin's terms (so his wife wrote), for they had already reported it as called for by the public. the first volume was going into a third edition. when his book came out he was away again in italy, trying to show his father all that he had seen in the campo santo and giotto's tower, and to explain "why it more than startled him." the good man hardly felt the force of it all at once. and there were little passages of arms and some heart-quaking and head-shaking, until mr. dale, the old schoolmaster, wrote that he had heard no less a man than sydney smith mention the new book in public, in the presence of "distinguished literary characters," as a work of "transcendent talent, presenting the most original views, in the most elegant and powerful language, which would work a complete revolution in the world of taste." when he returned home it was to find a respectful welcome. his word on matters of art was now really worth something, and before long it was called for. the national gallery was comparatively in its infancy. it had been established less than twenty-five years, and its manager, mr. eastlake (afterwards sir charles), had his hands full, what with rascally dealers in forged old masters, and incompetent picture-cleaners; and an economical government, and a public that neither knew its own mind nor trusted his judgment. a great outcry was set up against him for buying bad works, and spoiling the best by restoration. ruskin wrote very temperately to _the times_, pointing out that the damage had been slight compared with what was being done everywhere else, and suggesting that, prevention being better than cure, the pictures should be put under glass, for then they would not need the recurring attentions of the restorer. but he blamed the management for spending large sums on added examples of guido and rubens, while they had no angelico, no ghirlandajo, no good perugino, only one bellini, and, in a word, left his new friends, the early christian artists, unrepresented. he suggested that pictures might be picked up for next to nothing in italy; and he begged that the collection might be made historical and educational by being fully representative, and chronologically arranged. chapter iii "the seven lamps" "have you read an oxford graduate's letters on art?" wrote miss mitford, of "our village," on january , . "the author, mr. ruskin, was here last week, and is certainly the most charming person that i have ever known." the friendship thus begun lasted until her death. she encouraged him in his work; she delighted in his success; and, in the grave reverses which were to befall him, he found her his most faithful supporter and most sympathetic consoler. in return, "his kindness cheered her closing days; he sent her every book that would interest and every delicacy that would strengthen her, attentions which will not surprise those who have heard of his large and thoughtful generosity."[ ] [footnote : "the friendships of mary russell mitford," edited by the rev. a.g. l'estrange.] it was natural that a rising man, so closely connected with scotland, should be welcomed by the leaders of the scottish school of literature. sydney smith, a former edinburgh professor, had praised the new volume. john murray, as it seems from letters of the period, made overtures to secure the author as a contributor to his italian guide-books. lockhart employed him to write for the _quarterly review_. lockhart was a person of great interest for young ruskin, who worshipped scott; and lockhart's daughter, even without her personal charm, would have attracted him as the actual grandchild of the great sir walter. it was for her sake, he says, rather than for the honour of writing in the famous _quarterly_, that he undertook to review lord lindsay's "christian art." he was known to be a suitor for miss lockhart's hand. his father, in view of the success he desired, had been in february looking out for a house in the lake district; hoping, no doubt, to see him settled there as a sort of successor to wordsworth and christopher north. in march, john ruskin betook himself to the salutation at ambleside, with his constant attendant and amanuensis george, for quiet after a tiring winter in london society, and for his new labour of reviewing. but he did not find himself so fond of the lakes as of old. he wrote to his mother (sunday, march , ): "i finished--and sealed up--and addressed--my last bit of work, last night by ten o'clock--ready to send by to-day's post--so that my father should receive it with this. i could not at all have done it had i stayed at home: for even with all the quiet here, i have had no more time than was necessary. for exercise, i find the rowing very useful, though it makes me melancholy with thinking of ,--and the lake, when it is quite calm, is wonderfully sad and quiet:--no bright colours--no snowy peaks. black water--as still as death;--lonely, rocky islets--leafless woods,--or worse than leafless--the brown oak foliage hanging dead upon them; gray sky;--far-off, wild, dark, dismal moorlands; no sound except the rustling of the boat among the reeds. "_one o'clock._--i have your kind note and my father's, and am very thankful that you like what i have written, for i did not at all know myself whether it were good or bad." in the early summer he went to oxford, for a meeting of the british association. he said (june , ): "i am not able to write a full account of all i see, to amuse you, for i find it necessary to keep as quiet as i can, and i fear it would only annoy you to be told of all the invitations i refuse, and all the interesting matters in which i take no part. there is nothing for it but throwing one's self into the stream, and going down with one's arms under water, ready to be carried anywhere, or do anything. my friends are all busy, and tired to death. all the members of my section, but especially (edward) forbes, sedgwick, murchison, and lord northampton--and of course buckland, are as kind to me as men can be; but i am tormented by the perpetual sense of my unmitigated ignorance, for i know no more now than i did when a boy, and i have only one perpetual feeling of being in everybody's way. the recollections of the place, too, and the being in my old rooms, make me very miserable. i have not one moment of profitably spent time to look back to while i was here, and much useless labour and disappointed hope; and i can neither bear the excitement of being in the society where the play of mind is constant, and rolls _over_ me like heavy wheels, nor the pain of being alone. i get away in the evenings into the hayfields about cumnor, and rest; but then my failing sight plagues me. i cannot look at anything as i used to do, and the evening sky is covered with swimming strings and eels. my best time is while i am in the section room, for though it is hot, and sometimes wearisome, yet i have nothing to _say_,--little to do,--nothing to look at, and as much as i like to hear." he had to undergo a second disappointment in love; his health broke down again, and he was sent to leamington to his former doctor, jephson, once more a "consumptive" patient. dieted into health, he went to scotland with a new-found friend, william macdonald macdonald of crossmount. but he had no taste for sport, and could make little use of his opportunities for distraction and relaxation. one battue was enough for him, and the rest of the visit was spent in morbid despondency, digging thistles, and brooding over the significance of the curse of eden, so strangely now interwoven with his own life--"thorns a also and thistles." at bower's well, perth, where his grandparents had spent their later years, and where his parents had been married, lived mr. george gray, a lawyer, and an old acquaintance of the ruskin family. his daughter euphemia used to visit at denmark hill. it was for her that, some years earlier, "the king of the golden river" had been written. she had grown up into a perfect scotch beauty, with every gift of health and spirits which would compensate--the old folk thought--for his retiring and morbid nature. they were anxious, now more than ever, to see him settled. they pressed him, in letters still extant, to propose. we have seen how he was situated, and can understand how he persuaded himself that fortune, after all, was about to smile upon him. her family had their own reasons for promoting the match, and all united in hastening on the event. in the notes to exhibitions added to a new edition of "modern painters," then in the press, the author mentions a "hurried visit to scotland in the spring" of . this was the occasion of his marriage at perth, on april . the young couple spent rather more than a fortnight on the way south, among scotch and english lakes, intending to make a more extended tour in the summer to the cathedrals and abbeys. the pilgrimage began with salisbury, where a few days' sketching in the damp and draughts of the cathedral laid the bridegroom low, and brought the tour to an untimely end. in august, the young people were seen safely off to normandy, where they went by easy stages from town to town, studying the remains of gothic building. in october they returned and settled in a house of their own, at , park street, where during the winter he wrote "the seven lamps of architecture," and, as a bit of by-work, a notice of samuel prout for the _art journal._ this was ruskin's first illustrated volume. the plates were engraved by himself in soft-ground etching, such as prout had used, from drawings he had made in and . some are scrappy combinations of various detail, but others, such as the byzantine capital, the window in giotto's campanile, the arches from st. lo in normandy, from st. michele at lucca, and from the ca' foscari at venice, are effective studies of the actual look of old buildings, seen as they are shown us in nature, with her light and the shade added to all the facts of form, and her own last touches in the way of weather-softening, and settling-faults, and tufted, nestling plants. revisiting the hôtel de la cloche at dijon in later years, ruskin showed me the room where he had "bitten" the last plate in his wash-hand basin, as a careless makeshift for the regular etcher's bath. he was not dissatisfied with his work himself; the public of the day wanted something more finished. so the second edition appeared with the subjects elaborately popularized in fashionable engraving. more recently they have undergone reduction for a cheap issue. but any book lover knows the value of the original "seven lamps" with its san miniato cover and autograph plates. as to its reception, or at least the anticipation of it. charlotte bronte bears witness in a letter to the publishers. "i congratulate you on the approaching publication of mr. ruskin's new work. if 'the seven lamps of architecture' resemble their predecessor, 'modern painters,' they will be no lamps at all, but a new constellation,--seven bright stars, for whose rising the reading world ought to be anxiously agape." the book was announced for his father's birthday, may , , and it appeared while they were among the alps. the earlier part of this tour is pretty fully described in "præterita," ii. xi., and "fors," letter xc., and so the visit of richard fall, the meeting with sibylla dowie, and the death of cousin mary need not be dwelt on here. from the letters that passed between father and son we find that mr. john had been given a month's leave from july to explore the higher alps, with coutet his guide and george his valet. the old people stayed at the hôtel des bergues, and thought of little else but their son and his affairs, looking eagerly from day to day for the last news, both of him and of his book. mr. ruskin, senior, writes from geneva on july : "miss tweddale says your book _has made a great sensation._" on august : "the _spectator_, which smith sets great value on, has an elaborate favourable notice on 'seven lamps,' only ascribing an _infirmity_ of temper, quoting railroad passage in proof. anne was told by american family servant that you were in american paper, and got it for us, the _new york tribune_ of july ; first article is your book. they say they are willing to be learners from, rather than critics of, such a book, etc. the _daily news_ (some of the _punch_ people's paper) has a capital notice. it begins: 'this is a masked battery of seven pieces, which blaze away to the total extinction of the small architectural lights we may boast of, etc., etc.'" on august : "i have, at a shameful charge of ten francs, got august magazine and dickens, quite a prohibition for parcels from england. in _british quarterly_, under æsthetics of gothic architecture they take four works, you first.... as a critic they almost rank you with goethe and coleridge, and in style with jeremy taylor." the qualified encouragement of these remarks was further qualified with detailed advice about health; and warnings against the perils of the way, to which mr. john used to answer on this wise: "cormayeur, _sunday afternoon (july_ , ). "my dearest father, "(put the three sheets in order first, , , , then read this, front and _back_, and then , and then , front and back.) you and my mother were doubtless very happy when you saw the day clear up as you left st. martin's. truly it was impossible that any day could be more perfect towards its close. we reached nant bourant at twelve o'clock, or a little before, and coutet having given his sanction to my wish to get on, we started again soon after one--and reached the top of the col de bonhomme about five. you would have been delighted with that view--it is one upon those lovely seas of blue mountain, one behind the other, of which one never tires--this, fortunately, westward--so that all the blue ridges and ranges above conflans and beaufort were dark against the afternoon sky, though misty with its light; while eastward a range of snowy crests, of which the most important was the mont iseran, caught the sunlight full upon them. the sun was as warm, and the air as mild, on the place where the english travellers sank and perished, as in our garden at denmark hill on the summer evenings. there is, however, no small excuse for a man's losing courage on that pass, if the weather were foul. i never saw one so literally pathless--so void of all guide and help from the lie of the ground--so embarrassing from the distance which one has to wind round mere brows of craggy precipice without knowing the direction in which one is moving, while the path is perpetually lost in heaps of shale or among clusters of crags, even when it is free of snow. all, however, when i passed was serene, and even beautiful--owing to the glow which the red rocks had in the sun. we got down to chapiu about seven--itself one of the most desolately-placed villages i ever saw in the alps. scotland is in no place that i have seen, so barren or so lonely. ever since i passed shapfells, when a child, i have had an excessive love for this kind of desolation, and i enjoyed my little square chalet window and my chalet supper exceedingly (mutton with garlic)." he then confesses that he woke in the night with a sore throat, but struggled on next day down the allée blanche to cormayeur. "i never saw such a mighty heap of stones and dust. the glacier itself is quite invisible from the road (and i had no mind for extra work or scrambling), except just at the bottom, where the ice appears in one or two places, being exactly of the colour of the heaps of waste coal at the newcastle pits, and admirably adapted therefore to realize one's brightest anticipations of the character and style of the allée _blanche_. "the heap of its moraine conceals, for the two miles of its extent, the entire range of mont blanc from the eye. at last you weather the mighty promontory, cross the torrent which issues from its base, and find yourself suddenly at the very foot of the vast slope of torn granite, which from a point not feet lower than the summit of mont blanc, sweeps down into the valley of cormayeur. "i am quite unable to speak with justice--or think with clearness--of this marvellous view. one is so unused to see a mass like that of mont blanc without any snow that all my ideas and modes of estimating size were at fault. i only felt overpowered by it, and that--as with the porch of rouen cathedral--look as i would, i could not _see_ it. i had not mind enough to grasp it or meet it. i tried in vain to fix some of its main features on my memory; then set the mules to graze again, and took my sketch-book, and marked the outlines--but where is the use of marking contours of a mass of endless--countless--fantastic rock-- , feet sheer above the valley? besides, one cannot have sharp sore-throat for twelve hours without its bringing on some slight feverishness; and the scorching alpine sun to which we had been exposed without an instant's cessation from the height of the col till now--i.e., from half-past ten to three--had not mended the matter; my pulse was now beginning slightly to quicken and my head slightly to ache--and my impression of the scene is feverish and somewhat painful; i should think like yours of the valley of sixt." so he finished his drawing, tramped down the valley after his mule, in dutiful fear of increasing his cold, and found cormayeur crowded, only an attic _au quatrième_ to be had. after trying to doctor himself with gray pill, kali, and senna, coutet cured his throat with an alum gargle, and they went over the col ferret. the courier pfister had been sent to meet him at martigny, and bring latest news and personal report, on the strength of which several days passed without letters, but not without a remonstrance from headquarters. on august he writes from zermatt: "i have your three letters, with pleasant accounts of critiques, etc., and painful accounts of your anxieties. i certainly never thought of putting in a letter at sion, as i arrived there about three hours after fister left me, it being only two stages from martigny; and besides, i had enough to do that morning in thinking what i should want at zermatt, and was engaged at sion, while we changed horses, in buying wax candles and rice. it was unlucky that i lost post at visp," etc. a few days later he says: "on friday i had such a day as i have only once or twice had the like of among the alps. i got up to a promontory projecting from the foot of the matterhorn, and lay on the rocks and drew it at my ease. i was about three hours at work as quietly as if in my study at denmark hill, though on a peak of barren crag above a glacier, and at least , feet above sea. but the matterhorn, after all, is not so fine a thing as the aiguille dru, nor as any one of the aiguilles of chamouni: for one thing, it is all of secondary rock in horizontal beds, quite rotten and shaly; but there are other causes of difference in impressiveness which i am endeavouring to analyze, but find considerable embarrassment in doing so. there seems no sufficient reason why an isolated obelisk, one-fourth higher than any of them, should not be at least as sublime as they in their dependent grouping; but it assuredly is not. for this reason, as well as because i have not found here the near studies of primitive rock i expected,--for to my great surprise, i find the whole group of mountains, mighty as they are, except the inaccessible monte rosa, of secondary limestones or slates,--i should like, if it were possible, to spend a couple of days more on the montanvert, and at the bases of the chamouni aiguilles, sleeping at the montanvert." and so on, apologetically begging (as other sons beg money) for _time_, to gather the material of "modern painters," volume iv. "i hope you will think whether the objects you are after are worth risks of sore throats or lungs," replied his father, for he had "personified a perpetual influenza" until they got him to switzerland, and they were very anxious; indeed, pfister's news from martigny had scared his mother--not very well herself--into wild plans for recapturing him. however, osborne gordon was going to chamouni with mr. pritchard, and so they gave him a little longer; and he made the best use of his time: "_monday evening (august_ , ). "my dearest father, "i have to-night a packet of back letters from viège ... but i have really hardly time to read them to-night, i had so many notes to secure when i came from the hills. i walk up every day to the base of the aiguilles without the slightest sense of fatigue; work there all day hammering and sketching; and down in the evening. as far as days by myself can be happy they are so, for i love the place with all my heart. i have no over-fatigue or labour, and plenty of time. by-the-by, though in most respects they are incapable of improvement, i recollect that i thought to-day, as i was breaking last night's ice away from the rocks of which i wanted a specimen, with a sharpish wind and small pepper and salt-like sleet beating in my face, that a hot chop and a glass of sherry, if they were to be had round the corner, would make the thing more perfect. there was however nothing to be had round the corner but some iceland moss, which belonged to the chamois, and an extra allowance of north wind." this next is scribbled on a tiny scrap of paper: "glacier or greppond, _august_ . "my dearest father, "i am sitting on a gray stone in the middle of the glacier, waiting till the fog goes away. i believe i _may_ wait. i write this line in my pocket-book to thank my mother for hers which i did not acknowledge last night. i am glad and sorry that she depends so much on my letters for her comfort. i am sending them now every day by the people who go down, for the diligence is stopped. you may run the chance of missing one or two therefore. i am quite well, and very comfortable--sitting on joseph's knapsack laid on the stone. the fog is about as thick as that of london in november,--only white; and i see nothing near me but fields of dampish snow with black stones in it." and then: "montanvert, _august_ . "i cannot say that on the whole the aiguilles have treated me well. i went up saturday, monday and tuesday to their feet, and never obtained audience until to-day, and then they retired at twelve o'clock; but i have got a most valuable memorandum." the parental view was put thus: geneva, _monday, august_ , . "my dearest john, "i do not know if you have got all my letters, fully explaining to you in what way the want of a _single_ letter, on two occasions, did _so_ much mischief--made such havoc in our peace. i think my last thursday's letter entered on it. we are grateful for many letters--that have come. it was merely the accident of the moment when first by illness and then by precipices we were most anxious--being exactly the moment the letters took it into their heads to be not forthcoming. not writing so often would only keep us more in the dark, with little less anxiety. please say if you get a letter every day...." space can hardly be afforded for more than samples of this voluminous correspondence, or interesting quotations might be given about the "ghost-hunt yesterday and a crystal-hunt to-day," and life at the montanvert, until at last (august ): "i have taken my place in diligence for thursday, and hope to be with you in good time. but i quite feel as if i were leaving home to go on a journey. i shall not be melancholy, however, for i have really had a good spell of it.... dearest love to my mother. i don't intend to write again. "ever, my dearest father, "your most affectionate son, "j. ruskin." chapter iv "stones of venice" ( - ) a book about venice had been planned in , during ruskin's first long working visit. he had made so many notes and sketches both of architecture and painting that the material seemed ready to hand; another visit would fill up the gaps in his information; and two or three months' hard writing would work the subject off, and set him free to continue "modern painters." so before leaving home in , he had made up his mind that the next work would be "the stones of venice," which, on the appearance of "the seven lamps," was announced by the publishers as in preparation. he left home again early in october; by the end of november he was settled with his wife at hôtel danieli, venice, for the winter. he expected to find without much trouble all the information he wanted as to the dates, styles and history of venetian buildings; but after consulting and comparing all the native writers, it appeared that the questions he asked of them were just the questions they were unprepared to answer, and that he must go into the whole matter afresh. so he laid himself out that winter for a thorough examination of st. mark's and the ducal palace and the other remains--drawing, and measuring, and comparing their details. his father had gone back to england in september out of health, and the letters from home did not report improvement. his mother, too, was beginning to fear the loss of her sight; and he could not stay away from them any longer. in february, , he broke off his work in the middle of it, and returned to london. the rest of the year he spent in writing the first volume of "stones of venice," and in preparing the illustrations, together with "examples of the architecture of venice," a portfolio of large lithographs and engravings in mezzotint and line, to accompany the work. it was most fortunate for ruskin that his drawings could be interpreted by such men as armytage and cousen, cuff and le keux, boys and lupton, and not without advantage to them that their masterpieces should be preserved in his works, and praised as they deserved in his prefaces. but these plates for "stones of venice" were in advance of the times. the publisher thought them "caviare to the general," so mr. j.j. ruskin told his son; but gave it as his own belief that "some dealers in ruskins and turners in will get great prices for what at present will not sell." early in , his father, at his mother's desire, and with the help of w.h. harrison, collected and printed his poems, with a number of pieces that still remained in ms., the author taking no part in this revival of bygones, which, for the sake of their associations, he was not anxious to recall--though his father still believed that he _might_ have been a poet, and _ought_ to have been one. this is the volume of "poems j.r., ," so highly valued by collectors. another resurrection was "the king of the golden river," which had lain hidden for the nine years of the ars poetica. he allowed it to be published, with woodcuts by the famous "dicky" doyle. the little book ran through three editions that year. the first issue must have been torn to rags in the nurseries of the last generation, since copies are so rare as to have brought ten guineas apiece instead of the six shillings at which they were advertised in . a couple of extracts from letters of will give some idea of ruskin's impressions of london society and the drawing room: "my dearest mother, "horrible party last night--stiff--large--dull--fidgety--strange, --run-against-everybody-know-nobody sort of party. naval people. young lady claims acquaintance with me--i know as much of her as of queen pomare--talk: get away as soon as i can--ask who she is--lady (----);--as wise as i was before. introduced to a black man with chin in collar. black man condescending--i abuse different things to black man: chiefly the house of lords. black man says he lives in it--asks where i live--don't want to tell him--obliged--go away and ask who he is--(----); as wise as i was before. introduced to a young lady--young lady asks if i like drawing--so away and ask who she is--lady(----). keep away, with back to wall and look at watch. get away at last. very sulky this morning--hope my father better--dearest love to you both." "park street, _ o'clock, (may, )_. "my dearest father, "we got through gloriously, though at one place there was the most awkward crush i ever saw in my life--the pit at the surrey, which i never saw, may perhaps show the like--nothing else. the floor was covered with the ruins of ladies' dresses, torn lace and fallen flowers. but effie was luckily out of it, and got through unscathed--and heard people saying 'what a beautiful dress!' just as she got up to the queen. it was fatiguing enough but not so _awkward_ as i expected.... "the queen looked much younger and prettier than i expected--very like her pictures, even like those which are thought to flatter most--but i only saw the profile--i could not see the front face as i knelt to her, at least without an upturning of the eyes which i thought would be unseemly--and there were but some two or three seconds allowed for the whole affair.... "the queen gave her hand very graciously: but looked bored; poor thing, well she might be, with about a quarter of a mile square of people to bow to. "i met two people whom i have not seen for many a day, kildare and scott murray--had a chat with the former and a word with murray, but nothing of interest...." as one of the chief literary figures of the day, ruskin could not avoid society, and, as he tells in "præterita," he was rewarded for the reluctant performance of his duties by meeting with several who became his lifelong friends. chief among these he mentions mr. and mrs. cowper-temple, afterwards lord and lady mount temple. the acquaintance with samuel rogers, inauspiciously begun many years before, now ripened into something like friendship; monckton milnes (lord houghton) and other men of letters were met at rogers' breakfasts. a little later a visit to the master of trinity, whewell, at cambridge, brought him into contact with professer willis, the authority on gothic architecture, and other notabilities of the sister university. there also he met mr. and mrs. marshall of leeds (and coniston); and he pursued his journey to lincoln, with mr. simpson, whom he had met at lady davy's, and to farnley for a visit to mr. f.h. fawkes, the owner of the celebrated collection of turners (april, ). in london he was acquainted with many of the leading artists and persons interested in art. of the "teachers" of the day he was known to men so diverse as carlyle--and maurice, with whom he corresponded in about his "notes on sheepfolds"--and c.h. spurgeon, to whom his mother was devoted. he was as yet neither a hermit, nor a heretic: but mixed freely with all sorts and conditions, with one exception, for puseyites and romanists were yet as heathen men and publicans to him; and he noted with interest, while writing his review of venetian history, that the strength of venice was distinctly anti-papal, and her virtues christian but not roman. reflections on this subject were to have formed part of his great work, but the first volume was taken up with the _à priori_ development of architectural forms; and the treatment in especial of venetian matters had to be indefinitely postponed, until another visit had given him the opportunity of gathering his material. meanwhile, his wide sympathy had turned his mind toward a subject which then had received little attention, though since then loudly discussed--the reunion of (protestant) christians. he put together his thoughts in a pamphlet on the text "there shall be one fold and one shepherd," calling it, in allusion to his architectural studies, "notes on the construction of sheepfolds." he proposed a compromise, trying to prove that the pretensions to priesthood on the high anglican side, and the objections to episcopacy on the presbyterian, were alike untenable; and hoped that, when once these differences--such little things he thought them--were arranged, a united church of england might become the nucleus of a world-wide federation of protestants, a _civitas dei_, a new jerusalem. there were many who agreed with his aspirations: he received shoals of letters from sympathizing readers, most of them praising his aims and criticising his means. others objected rather to his manner than to his matter; the title savoured of levity, and an art-critic writing on theology was supposed to be wandering out of his province. tradition says that the "notes" were freely bought by border farmers under a rather laughable mistake; but surely it was no new thing for a scotch reader to find a religious tract under a catching title. there were a few replies; one by mr. dyce, who defended the anglican view with mild persiflage and the usual commonplaces. and there the matter ended, for the public. for ruskin, it was the beginning of a train of thought which led him far. he gradually learnt that his error was not in asking too much, but in asking too little. he wished for a union of protestants, forgetting the sheep that are not of _that_ fold, and little dreaming of the answer he got, after many days, in "christ's folk in the apennine." meanwhile the first volume of "stones of venice" had appeared, march, . its reception was indirectly described in a pamphlet entitled "something on ruskinism, with a 'vestibule' in rhyme, by an architect" complaining bitterly of the "ecstasies of rapture" into which the newspapers had been thrown by the new work: "your book--since reviewers so swear--may be rational, still, 'tis certainly not either loyal or national;" for it did not join in the chorus of congratulation to prince albert and the british public on the great exhibition of , the apotheosis of trade and machinery. the "architect" finds also--what may surprise the modern reader who has not noticed that many an able work has been thought unreadable on its first appearance--that he cannot understand the language and ideas: "your style is so soaring--and some it makes sore-- that plain folks can't make out your strange mystical lore." he will allow the author to be quite right, when he finds something to agree upon; but the moment a sore point is touched, then ruskin is "insane." in one respect the "architect" hit the nail on the head: "readers who are not reviewers by profession can hardly fail to perceive that ruskinism is violently inimical to _sundry existing interests_." the best men, we said, were the first to recognise ruskin's genius. let us throw into the opposite scale an opinion of more weight than the "architect's," in a transcript of the original letter from carlyle. "chelsea, _march_ , . "dear ruskin, "i did not know yesterday till your servant was gone that there was any note in the parcel; nor at all what a feat you had done! a loan of the gallant young man's memoirs was what i expected; and here, in the most chivalrous style, comes a gift of them. this, i think, must be in the style _prior_ to the renaissance! what can i do but accept your kindness with pleasure and gratitude, though it is far beyond my deserts? perhaps the next man i meet will use me as much below them; and so bring matters straight again! truly i am much obliged, and return you many hearty thanks. "i was already deep in the 'stones'; and clearly purpose to hold on there. a strange, unexpected, and i believe, most true and excellent _sermon_ in stones--as well as the best piece of schoolmastering in architectonics; from which i hope to learn much in a great many ways. the spirit and purport of these critical studies of yours are a singular sign of the times to me, and a very gratifying one. right good speed to you, and victorious arrival on the farther shore! it is a quite new 'renaissance,' i believe, we are getting into just now: either towards new, _wider_ manhood, high again as the eternal stars; or else into final death, and the (marsh?) of gehenna for evermore! a dreadful process, but a needful and inevitable one; nor do i doubt at all which way the issue will be, though which of the extant nations are to get included in it, and which is to be trampled out and abolished in the process, may be very doubtful. god is great: and sure enough, the changes in the 'construction of sheepfolds' as well as in other things, will require to be very considerable. "we are still labouring under the foul kind of influenza here, i not far from emancipated, my poor wife still deep in the business, though i hope past the deepest. am i to understand that you too are seized? in a day or two i hope to ascertain that you are well again. adieu; here is an interruption, here also is the end of the paper. "with many thanks and regards." [signature cut away.] as soon as the first volume of "stones of venice" and the "notes on the construction of sheepfolds" were published, ruskin took a short easter holiday at matlock, and set to work at a new edition of "modern painters." this was the fifth reprint of the first volume, and the third of vol. ii. they were carefully and conscientiously revised, and the postscript indulged in a little triumph at the changed tone of public criticism upon turner. but it was too late to have been much service to the great artist himself. in --after saying good-bye and "why _will_ you go to switzerland? there will be such a _fidge_ about you when you're gone"--turner lost his health, and was never himself again. the last drawings he did for ruskin (january, ), the "brünig" and the "descent from the st. gothard to airolo," showed his condition unmistakably; and the lonely restlessness of the last, disappointing years were, for all his friends, a melancholy ending to a brilliant career. ruskin wrote: "this year ( ) he has no picture on the walls of the academy; and the _times_ of may says: 'we miss those works of inspiration'!" "_we_ miss! who misses? the populace of england rolls by to weary itself in the great bazaar of kensington,[ ] little thinking that a day will come when those veiled vestals and prancing amazons, and goodly merchandise of precious stones and gold, will all be forgotten as though they had not been; but that the light which has faded from the walls of the academy is one which a million koh-i-noors could not rekindle; and that the year will, in the far future, be remembered less for what it has displayed, than for what it has withdrawn." [footnote : the great exhibition in hyde park.] chapter v pre-raphaelitism ( - ) the _times_, in may , missed "those works of inspiration," as ruskin had at last taught people to call turner's pictures. but the acknowledged mouthpiece of public opinion found consolation in castigating a school of young artists who had "unfortunately become notorious by addicting themselves to an antiquated style and an affected simplicity in painting.... we can extend no toleration to a mere servile imitation of the cramped style, false perspective, and crude colour of remote antiquity. we want not to see what fuseli termed drapery 'snapped instead of folded'; faces bloated into apoplexy, or extenuated into skeletons; colour borrowed from the jars in a druggist's shop, and expression forced into caricature.... that morbid infatuation which sacrifices truth, beauty, and genuine feeling to mere eccentricity deserves no quarter at the hands of the public." ruskin knew nothing personally of these young innovators, and had not at first sight wholly approved of the apparently puseyite tendency of rossetti's "ecce ancilla domini," millais' "carpenter's shop," and holman hunt's "early christian missionary," exhibited the year before. all these months he had been closely kept to his "sheepfolds" and "stones of venice"; but now he was correcting the proofs of "modern painters," vol. i., as thus: "chapter the last, section : _the duty and after privileges of all students_.... go to nature in all singleness of heart, and walk with her laboriously and trustingly, having no other thoughts but how best to penetrate her meaning, and remember her instruction; rejecting nothing, selecting nothing, and scorning nothing; believing all things to be right and good, and rejoicing always in the truth." and at coventry patmore's request he went to the academy to look at the pictures in question. yes; the faces were ugly: millais' "mariana" was a piece of idolatrous papistry, and there was a mistake in the perspective. collins' "convent thoughts"--more popery; but very careful--"the tadpole too small for its age"; but what studies of plants! and there was his own "alisma plantago," which he had been drawing for "stones of venice" (vol. i., plate ) and describing: "the lines through its body, which are of peculiar beauty, mark the different expansions of its fibres, and are, i think, exactly the same as those which would be traced by the currents of a river entering a lake of the shape of the leaf, at the end where the stalk is, and passing out at its point." curvature was one of the special subjects of ruskin, the one he found most neglected by ordinary artists. the "alisma" was a test of observation and draughtsmanship. he had never seen it so thoroughly or so well drawn, and heartily wished the study were his. looking again at the other works of the school, he found that the one mistake in the "mariana" was the only error in perspective in the whole series of pictures; which could not be said of any twelve works, containing architecture, by popular artists in the exhibition; and that, as studies both of drapery and of every other minor detail, there had been nothing in art so earnest or so complete as these pictures since the days of albert dürer. he went home, and wrote his verdict in a letter to _the times_ (may , ). next day he asked the price of hunt's "two gentlemen of verona," and millais' "return of the dove." on the th his letter appeared in _the times_, and on the th he wrote again, pointing out beauties, and indications of power in conception, and observation of nature, and handling, where at first he, like the rest of the public, had been repelled by the wilful ugliness of the faces. meanwhile the pre-raphaelites wrote to tell him that they were neither papists nor puseyites. the day after his second letter was published he received an ill-spelt missive, anonymously abusing them. this was the sort of thing to interest his love of poetical justice. he made the acquaintance of several of the brethren. "charley" collins, as his friends affectionately called him, was the son of a respected r.a., and the brother of wilkie collins; himself afterwards the author of a delightful book of travel in france, "a cruise upon wheels." millais turned out to be the most gifted, charming and handsome of young artists. holman hunt was already a ruskin-reader, and a seeker after truth, serious and earnest in his religious nature as in his painting. the pre-raphaelites were not, originally, ruskin's pupils, nor was their movement, directly, of his creation. but it was the outcome of a general tendency which he, more than any man, had helped to set in motion; and it was the fulfilment, though in a way he had not expected, of his wishes. his attraction to pre-raphaelitism was none the less real because it was sudden, and brought about partly by personal influence. and in re-arranging his art-theory to take them in, he had before his mind rather what he hoped they would become than what they were. for a time, his influence over them was great; their first three years were their own; their next three years were practically his; and some of them, the weaker brethren, leaned upon him until they lost the command of their own powers. no artist can afford to use another man's eyes; still less, another man's brain and heart. ruskin, great as an exponent, was in no sense a master of artists; and if he cheered on the men, who, he believed, were the best of the time, it did not follow that he should be saddled with the responsibility of directing them. the famous pamphlet on "pre-raphaelitism" of august, , showed that the same motives of sincerity impelled both the pre-raphaelite brethren and turner and, in a degree, men so different as prout, old hunt, and lewis. all these were opposed to the academical school who worked by rule of thumb; and they differed among one another only in differences of physical power and moral aim. which was all perfectly true, and much truer than the cheap criticism which could not see beyond superficial differences, or the fossil theories of the old school. but pre-raphaelitism was an unstable compound, liable to explode upon the experimenter, and its component parts to return to their old antithesis of crude naturalism on the one hand, and affectation of piety or poetry or antiquarianism, on the other. and _that_ their new champion did not then foresee. all he knew was that, just when he was sadly leaving the scene, turner gone and night coming on, new lights arose. it was really far more noteworthy that millais and rossetti and hunt were _men of genius_, than that the "principles" they tried to illustrate were sound, and that ruskin divined their power, and generously applauded them. immediately after finishing the pamphlet on "pre-raphaelitism," he left for the continent with his wife and friends, the rev. and mrs. daniel moore; spent a fortnight in his beloved savoy, with the pritchards; and then crossed the alps with charles newton. on the st of september he was at venice, for a final spell of labour on the palaces and churches. after spending a week with rawdon brown he settled at casa wetzler, campo sta. maria zobenigo, and during the autumn and winter not only worked extremely hard at his architecture, but went with his wife into austrian and italian society and saw many distinguished visitors. one of them, whom he lectured on the shortcomings of the renaissance, was dean milman. "i am amused at your mode of ciceronizing the dean of st. paul's," wrote his father, who kept up the usual close correspondence, and made himself useful in looking up books of reference and consulting authorities like mr. james fergusson--for these chapters of easy eloquence were not written without a world of pains. the engravers and the business department of the new publications also required his co-operation, for they were now becoming large ventures. during the three and a half years preceding the summer of ruskin seems to have spent £ , of profits from his books, making by his writings at this period only about a third of his annual outlay; so that the estimated cost of these great illustrated volumes, some £ , , was a matter of anxiety to his father, who, together with the publisher, deprecated large plates and technical details, and expressed some impatience to see results from this visit to venice. he looked eagerly for every new chapter or drawing as it was sent home for criticism. some passages, such as the description of the calle san moise ("stones of venice," ii. iv,) were unfavourably received by him. another time he says, "you have a very great difficulty now in writing any more, which is to write up to yourself": or again,--"smith reports slow sale of 'stones of venice' (vol. i.) and 'pre-raphaelitism.' the times are sorely against you. the exhibition has impoverished the country, and literature of a saleable character seems chiefly confined to shilling books in green paper, to be had at railway stations. smith will have an account against us." he always sent adverse press-notices, on the principle that it was good for john: and every little discouragement or annoyance was discussed in full. the most serious news, threatening complete interruption of the work rapidly progressing in spite of all, was of turner's death (december , ). old mr. ruskin heard of it on the st, a "dismal day" to him, spent in sad contemplation of the pictures his son had taught him to love. soon it came out that john ruskin was one of the executors named in the will, with a legacy of _£ _ for a mourning ring:--"nobody can say you were paid to praise," says his father. it was gossipped that he was expected to write turner's biography--"five years' work for you," says the old man, full of plans for gathering material. but when one scandal after another reached his ears, he changed his tone, and suggested dropping personal details, and giving a "life of his art," in the intended third and final volume of "modern painters." something of the sort was done in the edinburgh lectures and at the close of vol. v. of "modern painters": and the official life was left to walter thornbury, with which mr. ruskin perhaps did not wish to interfere. but he collected a mass of then unpublished material about turner, which goes far to prove that the kindly view he took of the strange man's morbid and unhappy life was not without justification. at the time, so many legal complications developed that ruskin was advised to resign his executorship; later on he was able to fulfil its duties as he conceived them, in arranging turner's sketches for the national gallery. others of his old artist-friends were now passing away. early in january mr. j.j. ruskin called on william hunt and found him feeble: "i like the little elshie," he says, nicknaming him after the black dwarf, for hunt was somewhat deformed: "he is softened and humanized. there is a gentleness and a greater _bonhomie_--less reserve. i had sent him 'pre-raphaelitism.' he had marked it very much with pencil. he greatly likes your notice of people not keeping to their last. so many clever artists, he says, have been ruined by not acting on your principles. i got a piece of advice from hunt,--never to commission a picture. he could not have done my pigeon so well had he felt he was doing it for anybody." the pigeon was a drawing he had just bought; in later years at brantwood. in february a dinner-party was given to celebrate in his absence john ruskin's thirty-third birthday. "on monday, th, we had oldfield (newton was in wales), harrison, george richmond, tom, dr. grant, and samuel prout. the latter i never saw in such spirits, and he went away much satisfied. yesterday at church we were told that he came home very happy, ascended to his painting-room, and in a quarter of an hour from his leaving our cheerful house was a corpse, from apoplexy. he never spoke after the fit came on. he had always wished for a sudden death." next year, in november, , he tells of a visit paid, by john's request, to w.h. deverell, the young pre-raphaelite, whom he found "in squalor and sickness--with his bible open--and not long to live--while howard abuses his picture at liverpool." early in charles newton was going to greece on a voyage of discovery, and wanted john ruskin to go with him. but the parents would not hear of his adventuring himself at sea "in those engine-vessels." so newton went alone, and "dug up loads of phoenician antiquities." one cannot help regretting that ruskin lost this opportunity of familiarizing himself with the early greek art which, twenty years later he tried to expound. for the time he was well enough employed on the "stones of venice." he tells the story of this ten months' stay in a letter to his venerable friend rogers the poet, dated june ( ). "i was out of health and out of heart when i first got here. there came much painful news from home, and then such a determined course of bad weather, and every other kind of annoyance, that i never was in a temper fit to write to anyone: the worst of it was that i lost all _feeling_ of venice, and this was the reason both of my not writing to you and of my thinking of you so often. for whenever i found myself getting utterly hard and indifferent i used to read over a little bit of the 'venice' in the 'italy' and it put me always into the right tone of thought again, and for this i cannot be enough grateful to you. for though i believe that in the summer, when venice is indeed lovely, when pomegranate blossoms hang over every garden-wall, and green sunlight shoots through every wave, custom will not destroy, or even weaken, the impression conveyed at first; it is far otherwise in the length and bitterness of the venetian winters. fighting with frosty winds at every turn of the canals takes away all the old feelings of peace and stillness; the protracted cold makes the dash of the water on the walls a sound of simple discomfort, and some wild and dark day in february one starts to find oneself actually balancing in one's mind the relative advantages of land and water carriage, comparing the canal with piccadilly, and even hesitating whether for the rest of one's life one would rather have a gondola within call or a hansom." he then goes on to lament the decay of venice, the idleness and dissipation of the populace, the lottery gambling; and to forebode the "destruction of old buildings and erection of new" changing the place "into a modern town--a bad imitation of paris." better than that he thinks would be utter neglect; st. mark's place would again be, what it was in the early ages, a green field, and the front of the ducal palace and the marble shafts of st. mark's would be rooted in wild violets and wreathed with vines: "she will be beautiful again then, and i could almost wish that the time might come quickly, were it not that so many noble pictures must be destroyed first.... i love venetian pictures more and more, and wonder at them every day with greater wonder; compared with all other paintings they are so easy, so instinctive, so natural; everything that the men of other schools did by rule and called composition, done here by instinct and only called truth. "i don't know when i have envied anybody more than i did the other day the directors and clerks of the zecca. there they sit at inky deal desks, counting out rolls of money, and curiously weighing the irregular and battered coinage of which venice boasts; and just over their heads, occupying the place which in a london countinghouse would be occupied by a commercial almanack, a glorious bonifazio--'solomon and the queen of sheba'; and in a less honourable corner three _old_ directors of the zecca, very mercantile-looking men indeed, counting money also, like the living ones, only a little _more_ living, painted by tintoret; not to speak of the scattered palma vecchios, and a lovely benedetto diana which no one ever looks at. i wonder when the european mind will again awake to the great fact that a noble picture was not painted to be _hung_, but to be _seen_? i only saw these by accident, having been detained in venice by soma obliging person who abstracted some [of his wife's jewels] and brought me thereby into various relations with the respectable body of people who live at the wrong end of the bridge of sighs--the police, whom, in spite of traditions of terror, i would very willingly have changed for some of those their predecessors whom you have honoured by a note in the 'italy.' the present police appear to act on exactly contrary principles; yours found the purse and banished the loser; these _don't_ find the jewels, and won't let me go away. i am afraid no punishment is appointed in venetian law for people who steal _time_." mr. ruskin returned to england in july, , and settled next door to his old home on herne hill. he said he could not live any more in park street, with a dead brick wall opposite his windows. and so, under the roof where he wrote the first volume of "modern painters," he finished "stones of venice." these latter volumes give an account of st. mark's and the ducal palace and other ancient buildings; a complete catalogue of tintoret's pictures--the list he had begun in ; and a history of the successive styles of architecture, byzantine, gothic, and renaissance, interweaving illustrations of the human life and character that made the art what it was. the kernel of the work was the chapter on the nature of gothic; in which he showed, more distinctly than in the "seven lamps," and connected with a wider range of thought, suggested by pre-raphaelitism, the doctrine that art cannot be produced except by artists; that architecture, in so far as it is an art, does not mean mechanical execution, by unintelligent workmen, from the vapid working-drawings of an architect's office; and, just as socrates postponed the day of justice until philosophers should be kings and kings philosophers, so ruskin postponed the reign of art until workmen should be artists, and artists workmen. chapter vi the edinburgh lectures ( - ) by the end of june, , "stones of venice" was finished, as well as a description of giotto's works at padua, written for the arundel society. the social duties of the season were over; ruskin and his wife went north to spend a well-earned holiday. at wallington in northumberland, staying with sir walter and lady trevelyan, he met dr. john brown at edinburgh, author of "pet marjorie" and other well-known works, who became his lifelong friend. ruskin invited millais, by this time an intimate and heartily-admired friend,[ ] to join them at glenfinlas. ruskin devoted himself first to foreground studies, and made careful drawings of rock-detail; and then, being asked to give a course of lectures before the philosophical society of edinburgh, he was soon busy writing once more, and preparing the cartoon-sketches, "diagrams" as he called them, to illustrate his subjects. dr. acland had joined the party; and he asked millais to sketch their host as he stood contemplatively on the rocks with the torrent thundering beside him. the picture with additional work in the following winter, became the well-known portrait in the possession of sir henry acland, much the best likeness of this early period. [footnote : "what a beauty of a man he is!" wrote old mr. ruskin, "and high in intellect.... millais' sketches are 'prodigious'! millais is the painter of the age." "capable, it seems to me, of almost everything, if his life and strength be spared," said the younger ruskin to miss mitford.] another portrait was painted--in words--by one of his audience at edinburgh on november , when he gave the opening lecture of his course, his first appearance on the platform. the account is extracted from the _edinburgh guardian_ of november , : "before you can see the lecturer, however, you must get into the hall, and that is not an easy matter, for, long before the doors are opened, the fortunate holders of season tickets begin to assemble, so that the crowd not only fills the passage, but occupies the pavement in front of the entrance and overflows into the road. at length the doors open, and you are carried through the passage into the hall, where you take up, of course, the best available position for seeing and hearing.... after waiting a weary time ... the door by the side of the platform opens, and a thin gentleman with light hair, a stiff white cravat, dark overcoat with velvet collar, walking, too with a slight stoop, goes up to the desk, and looking round with a self-possessed and somewhat formal air, proceeds to take off his great-coat, revealing thereby, in addition to the orthodox white cravat, the most orthodox of white waistcoats.... 'dark hair, pale face, and massive marble brow--that is my ideal of mr. ruskin,' said a young lady near us. this proved to be quite a fancy portrait, as unlike the reality as could well be imagined, mr. ruskin has light sand-coloured hair; his face is more red than pale; the mouth well-cut, with a good deal of decision in its curve, though somewhat wanting in sustained dignity and strength; an aquiline nose; his forehead by no means broad or massive, but the brows full and well bound together; the eye we could not see, in consequence of the shadows that fell upon his countenance from the lights overhead, but we are sure it must be soft and luminous, and that the poetry and passion we looked for almost in vain in other features must be concentrated there.[ ] after sitting for a moment or two, and glancing round at the sheets on the wall as he takes off his gloves, he rises, and leaning slightly over the desk, with his hands folded across, begins at once,--'you are proud of your good city of edinburgh,' etc. [footnote : "mary russell mitford found him as a young man 'very eloquent and distinguished-looking, tall, fair, and slender, with a gentle playfulness, and a sort of pretty waywardness that was quite charming.' sydney dobell, again, in , discovered an earnestness pervading every feature, giving power to a face that otherwise would be merely lovable for its gentleness. and, finally, one who visited him at denmark hill characterized him as emotional and nervous, with a soft, genial eye, a mouth 'thin and severe,' and a voice that, though rich and sweet, yet had a tendency to sink into a plaintive and hopeless tone,"--_literary world_, may , .] "and now for the style of the lecture.... properly speaking, there were two styles essentially distinct, and not well blended,--a speaking and a writing style; the former colloquial and spoken off-hand; the latter rhetorical and carefully read in quite a different voice,--we had almost said intoned.... he has a difficulty in sounding the letter 'r'; [and there is a] peculiar tone in the rising and falling of his voice at measured intervals, in a way scarcely ever heard except in the public lection of the service appointed to be read in churches. these are the two things with which, perhaps you are most surprised,--his dress and manner of speaking--both of which (the white waistcoat notwithstanding) are eminently clerical. you naturally expect, in one so independent, a manner free from conventional restraint, and an utterance, whatever may be the power of voice, at least expressive of a strong individuality; and you find instead a christ church man of ten years' standing, who has not yet taken orders; his dress and manner derived from his college tutor, and his elocution from the chapel-reader." the lectures were a summing up, in popular form, of the chief topics of ruskin's thought during the last two years. the first (november ) stated, with more decision and warmth than part of his audience approved, his plea for the gothic revival, for the use of gothic as a domestic style. the next lecture, given three days later, went on to contrast the wealth of ornament in mediæval buildings with the poor survivals of conventionalized patterns which did duty for decoration in nineteenth-century "greek" architecture; and he raised a laugh by comparing a typical stonemason's lion with a real tiger's head, drawn in the edinburgh zoological gardens by mr. millais. the last two lectures, on november and , were on painting; briefly reviewing the history of landscape and the life and aims of turner; and finally, christian art and sincerity in imagination, which was now put forth as the guiding principle of pre-raphaelitism. public opinion was violently divided over these lectures; and they were the cause of much trouble at home. the fact of his lecturing at all aroused strong opposition from his friends and remonstrances from his parents. before the event his mother wrote: "i cannot reconcile myself to the thought of your bringing yourself personally before the world till you are somewhat older and stronger." afterwards, his father, while apologizing for the word "degrading," is disgusted at his exposing himself to such an interruption as occurred, and to newspaper comments and personal references. the notion of an "itinerant lecturer" scandalizes him. he hears from harrison and holding that john is to lecture even at their very doors--in camberwell. "i see small bills up," he writes, "with the lecturers' names; among them mr. ---- who gets your old clothes!" and he bids him write to the committee that his parents object to his fulfilling the engagement. he postponed his lecture--for ten years; but accepted the presidency of the camberwell institute, which enabled him to appear at their meetings without offence to any. while staying at edinburgh, mr. ruskin met the various celebrities of modern athens, some of them at the table of his former fellow-traveller in venice, mrs. jameson. he then returned home to prepare the lectures for printing. these lectures as published in april, were fiercely assailed by the old school; but a more serious blow fell on him before that month was out. his wife returned to her parents and instituted a suit against him, to which he made no answer. the marriage was annulled in july. a year later she married millais. in may ( ) the pre-raphaelites again needed his defence. mr. holman hunt exhibited the "light of the world" and the "awakening conscience." ruskin made them the theme of two more letters to _the times_; mentioning, by the way, the "spurious imitations of pre-raphaelite work" which were already becoming common. starting for his summer tour on the continent, in the simmenthal he wrote a pamphlet on the opening of the crystal palace. there had been much rejoicing over the "new style of architecture" in glass and iron, and its purpose as a palace of art. ruskin who had declined, in the last chapter of the "seven lamps," to join in the cry for a new style, was not at all ready to accept this as any real artistic advance; and took the opportunity to plead again for the great buildings of the past, which were being destroyed or neglected, while the british public was glorifying its gigantic greenhouse. the pamphlet practically suggested the establishment of the society for the preservation of ancient buildings, which has since come into operation. this summer of he projected a study of swiss history: to tell the tale of six chief towns--geneva, fribourg, basle, thun, baden and schaffhausen, to which in he added rheinfelden and bellinzona. he intended to illustrate the work with pictures of the places described. he began with his drawing of thun, a large bird's-eye view of the town with its river and bridges, roofs and towers, all exquisitely defined with the pen, and broadly coloured in fluctuating tints that seem to melt always into the same aerial blue; the blue, high up the picture, beyond the plain, deepening into distant mountains. but his father wanted to see "modern painters" completed, and so he began his third volume at vevey, with the discussion of the grand style, in which he at last broke loose from reynolds, as was inevitable, after his study of pre-raphaelitism, and all the varied experiences of the last ten years. the lesson of the tulse hill ivy had been brought home to him in many ways: he had found it to be more and more true that nature is, after all, the criterion of art, and that the greatest painters were always those whose aim, so far as they were conscious of an aim, was to take fact for their starting-point. idealism, beauty, imagination, and the rest, though necessary to art, could not, he felt, be made the object of study; they were the gift of heredity, of circumstances, of national aspirations and virtues; not to be produced by the best of rules, or achieved by the best of intentions. what his own view of his own work was can be gathered from a letter to an edinburgh student, written on august , : "i am sure i never said anything to dissuade you from trying to excel or to do great things. i only wanted you to be sure that your efforts were made with a substantial basis, so that just in the moment of push your footing might not give way beneath you; and also i wanted you to feel that long and steady effort made in a contented way does more than violent effort made from some strong motive and under some enthusiastic impulse. and i repeat--for of this i am perfectly sure--that the best things are only to be done in this way. it is very difficult thoroughly to understand the difference between indolence and reserve of strength, between apathy and severity, between palsy and patience; but there is all the difference in the world; and nearly as many men are ruined by inconsiderate exertions as by idleness itself. to do as much as you can heartily and happily do each day in a well-determined direction, with a view to far-off results, with present enjoyment of one's work, is the only proper, the only essentially profitable way." chapter vii the working men's college ( - ) philanthropic instincts, and a growing sense of the necessity for social reform, had led ruskin for some years past towards a group of liberal thinkers with whom he had little otherwise in common. at venice, in , he had written several articles on education, taxation, and so forth, with which he intended to plunge into active politics. his father, like a cautious man of business who knew his son's powers and thought he knew their limitations, was strongly opposed to this attempt, and used every argument against it. he appealed to his son's sensitiveness, and assured him that he would be "flayed" unless he wrapped himself in the hide of a rhinoceros. he assured him that, without being on the spot to follow the discussions of politicians, it was useless to offer them any opinions whatsoever. and he ended by declaring that it would be the ruin of his business and of his peace of mind if the name of ruskin were mixed up with radical electioneering: not that he was unwilling to suffer martyrdom for a cause in which he believed, but he did not believe in the movements afoot--neither the tailors' cooperative society, in which their friend f.j. furnivall was interested, nor in any outcome of chartism or chartist principles. and so for a time the matter dropped. in , the rev. f.d. maurice founded the working men's college. mr. furnivall sent the circulars to john ruskin; who thereupon wrote to maurice, and offered his services. at the opening lecture on october , , at st. martin's hall, long acre, furnivall distributed to all comers a reprint of the chapter "on the nature of gothic," which we have already noticed as a statement of the conclusions drawn from the study of art respecting the conditions under which the life of the workman should be regulated. ruskin thus appeared as contributing, so to say, the manifesto of the movement. he took charge from the commencement of the drawing-classes--first at red lion square, and afterwards at great ormond street; also super-intending classes taught by messrs. jeffery and e. cooke at the working women's (afterwards the working men and women's) college, queen square. in this labour he had two allies; one a friend of maurice's, lowes dickinson, the well-known artist, whose portrait of maurice was mentioned with honour in the "notes on the academy"; his portrait of kingsley hangs in the hall of the novelist-professor's college at cambridge. the other helper was new friend. to people who know him only as the elegant theorist of art, sentimental and egotistic, as they will have it, there must be something strange, almost irreconcilable, in his devotion, week after week and year after year, to these night-classes. still more must it astonish them to find the mystic author of the "blessed damozel," the passionate painter of the "venus verticordia," working by ruskin's side in this rough navvy-labour of philanthropy. it was early in that a drawing of d.g. rossetti was sent to ruskin by a friend of the painter's. the critic already knew millais and hunt personally, but not rossetti. he wrote kindly, signing himself "yours respectfully," which amused the young painter. he made acquaintance, and in the appendix to his edinburgh lectures placed rossetti's name with those of millais and hunt, especially praising their imaginative power, as rivalling that of the greatest of the old masters. he did more than this. he agreed to buy, up to a certain sum every year, any drawings that rossetti brought him, at their market price; and his standard of money-value for works of art has never been niggardly. this sort of help, the encouragement to work, is exactly what makes progress possible to a young and independent artist; it is better for him than fortuitous exhibition triumphs--much better than the hack-work which many have to undertake, to eke out their livelihood. and the mere fact of being bought by the eminent art-critic was enough to encourage other patrons. "he seems in a mood to make my fortune," said rossetti in the spring of ; and early in ruskin wrote: "it seems to me that, of all the painters i know, you on the whole have the greatest genius; and you appear to me also to be--as far as i can make out--a very good sort of person, i see that you are unhappy, and that you can't bring out your genius as you should. it seems to me then the proper and _necessary_ thing, if i can, to make you more happy; and that i shall be more really useful in enabling you to paint properly, and keep your room in order, than in any other way." he did his best to keep that room in order in every sense. anxious to promote the painter's marriage with miss siddal--"princess ida," as ruskin called her--he offered a similar arrangement to that which he had made with rossetti; and began in to give her £ a year in exchange for drawings up to that value. rossetti's poems also found a warm admirer and advocate. in , "the burden of nineveh" was published anonymously in the _oxford and cambridge magazine_; ruskin wrote to rossetti that it was "glorious" and that he wanted to know who was the author,--perhaps not without a suspicion that he was addressing the man who could tell. in he guaranteed, or advanced, the cost of "the early italian poets," up to £ , with smith and elder; and endeavoured, but unsuccessfully, to induce thackeray to find a place for other poems in _the cornhill magazine._ mr. w.m. rossetti, in his book on his brother "as designer and writer" and in his "family letters," draws a pleasant picture of the intimacy between the artist and the critic. "at one time," he says, "i am sure they even loved one another." but in rossetti, never very tolerant of criticism and patronage, took in bad part his friend's remonstrances about the details of "venus verticordia." eighteen months later, ruskin tried to renew the old acquaintance. rossetti did not return his call; and further efforts on ruskin's part, up to , met with little response. but the lecture on rossetti in "the art of england" shows that on one side at least "their parting," as mr. w.m. rossetti says, "was not in anger;" and the portrait of , now in the oxford university galleries, will remain as a memorial of the ten years' friendship of the two famous men. at red lion square, during lent term, , the three teachers worked together every thursday evening. with the beginning of the third term, march , the increase of the class made it more convenient to divide their forces. rossetti thenceforward taught the figure on another night of the week; while the elementary and landscape class continued to meet on thursdays under ruskin and lowes dickinson. in the elementary and landscape class was further divided, mr. dickinson taking tuesday evenings, and ruskin continuing the thursday class, with the help of william ward as under-master. later on, g. allen, j. bunney, and w. jeffrey were teachers. burne-jones, met in at rossetti's studio, was also pressed into the service for a time. there were four terms in the working men's college year, the only vacation, except for the fortnight at christmas, being from the beginning of august to the end of october. ruskin did not always attend throughout the summer term, though sometimes his class came down to him into the country to sketch. he kept up the work without other intermission until may, , after which the completion of "modern painters" and many lecture-engagements took him away for a time. in the spring of he was back at his old post for a term; but after that he discontinued regular attendance, and went to the working men's college only at intervals, to give addresses or informal lectures to students and friends. on such occasions the "drawing-room" or first floor of the house in which the college was held would be always crowded, with an audience who heard the lecturer at his best; speaking freely among friends out of a full treasure-house "things new and old"--accounts of recent travel, lately-discovered glories of art, and the growing burden of the prophecy that in those years was beginning to take more definite shape in his mind. as a teacher, ruskin spared no pains to make the work interesting. he provided--mr. e. cooke informs me that he was the first to provide--casts from natural leaves and fruit in place of the ordinary conventional ornament; and he sent a tree to be fixed in a corner of the class-room for light and shade studies. mr. w. ward in the preface to the volume of letters already quoted says that he used to bring his minerals and shells, and rare engravings and drawings, to show them. "his delightful way of talking about these things afforded us most valuable lessons. to give an example: he one evening took for his subject a cap, and with pen and ink showed us how rembrandt would have etched, and albert dürer engraved it. this at once explained to us the different ideas and methods of the two masters. on another evening he would take a subject from turner's 'liber studiorum,' and with a large sheet of paper and some charcoal, gradually block in the subject, explaining at the same time the value and effect of the lines and masses." and for sketching from nature he would take his class out into the country, and wind up with tea and talk. "it was a treat to hear and see him with his men," writes dr. furnivall. his object in the work, as he said before the royal commission on national institutions, was _not to make artists_, but to make the workmen better men, to develop their powers and feelings,--to educate them, in short. he always has urged young people intending to study art as a profession to enter the academy schools, as turner and the pre-raphaelites did, or to take up whatever other serious course of practical discipline was open to them. but he held very strongly that everybody could learn drawing, that their eyes could be brightened and their hands steadied, and that they could be taught to appreciate the great works of nature and of art, without wanting to make pictures or to exhibit and sell them. it was with this intention that he wrote the "elements of drawing" in , supplemented by the "elements of perspective" in ; the illustrations for the book were characteristic sketches by the author, beautifully cut by his pupil, w.h. hooper, who was one of a band of engravers and copyists formed by these classes at the working men's college. in spite of the intention not to make artists by his teaching, ruskin could not prevent some of his pupils from taking up art as a profession; and those who did so became, in their way, first-rate men. george allen as a mezzotint engraver, arthur burgess as a draughtsman and wood-cutter, john bunney as a painter of architectural detail, w. jeffery as an artistic photographer, e. cooke as a teacher, william ward as a facsimile copyist, have all done work whose value deserves acknowledgment, all the more because it was not aimed at popular effect, but at the severe standard of the greater schools. but these men were only the side issue of the working men's college enterprise. its real result was in the proof that the labouring classes could be interested in art; and that the capacity shown by the gothic workman had not entirely died out of the nation, in spite of the interregnum, for a full century, of manufacture. and the experience led ruskin forward to wider views on the nature of the arts, and on the duties of philanthropic effort and social economy. chapter viii "modern painters" continued ( - ) it was in the year that ruskin first published "notes on the royal academy and other exhibitions." he had been so often called upon to write his opinion of pre-raphaelite pictures, either privately or to the newspapers, or to mark his friends' catalogues, that he found at last less trouble in printing his notes once for all. the new plan was immediately popular; three editions of the pamphlet were called for between june and july . next year he repeated the "notes" and six editions were sold. in spite of a dissentient voice here and there, he was really by that time recognised as the leading authority upon taste in painting. he was trusted by a great section of the public, who had not failed to notice how completely he and his friends were winning the day. the proof of it was in the fact that they were being imitated on all sides; ruskinism in writing and pre-raphaelitism in painting were becoming fashionable. but at the same time the movement gave rise to the naturalist-landscape school, a group of painters who threw overboard the traditions of turner and prout, constable and harding, and the rest, just as the pre-raphaelite brethren threw over the academical masters. for such men their study was their picture; they devised tents and huts in wild glens and upon waste moors, and spent weeks in elaborating their details directly from nature, instead of painting at home from sketches on the spot. this was the fulfilment of his advice to young artists; and so far as young artists worked in this way, for purposes of study, he encouraged them. but he did not fail to point out that this was not all that could be required of them. even such a work as brett's "val d'aosta," marvellous as it was in observation and finish, was only the beginning of a new era, not its consummation. it was not the painting of detail that could make a great artist; but the knowledge of it, and the masterly use of such knowledge. a great landscapist would know the facts and effects of nature, just as tintoret knew the form of the human figure; and he would treat them with the same freedom, as the means of expressing great ideas, of affording by the imagination noble grounds for noble emotion, which, as ruskin had been writing at vevey in , was poetry. meanwhile the public and the critic ought to become familiar with the aspects of nature, in order to recognise the difference between the true poetry of painting, and the mere empty sentimentalism which was only the rant and bombast of landscape art. with such feelings as these he wrote the third and fourth volumes of "modern painters," (published respectively january and april , ). the work was afterwards interrupted only by a recurrence of his old cough, in the exceptionally cold summer of . he went down to tunbridge wells, where his cousin, william richardson of perth, was practising as a doctor; it was not long before the cough gave way to treatment, and he was as busy as ever. about october of that year he wrote to mrs. carlyle as follows, in a letter printed by professor c.e. norton, conveniently summing up his year: "not that i have not been busy--and very busy, too. i have written, since may, good six hundred pages, had them rewritten, cut up, corrected, and got fairly ready for press--and am going to press with the first of them on gunpowder plot day, with a great hope of disturbing the public peace in various directions. also, i have prepared above thirty drawings for engravers this year, retouched the engravings (generally the worst part of the business), and etched some on steel myself. in the course of the six hundred pages i have had to make various remarks on german metaphysics, on poetry, political economy, cookery, music, geology, dress, agriculture, horticulture, and navigation,[ ] all of which subjects i have had to 'read up' accordingly, and this takes time. moreover, i have had my class of workmen out sketching every week in the fields during the summer; and have been studying spanish proverbs with my father's partner, who came over from spain to see the great exhibition. i have also designed and drawn a window for the museum at oxford; and have every now and then had to look over a parcel of five or six new designs for fronts and backs to the said museum. [footnote : most of these subjects will be easily recognised in "modern painters," vols. iii. and iv. the "navigation" refers to the "harbours of england."] "during my above-mentioned studies of horticulture, i became dissatisfied with the linnæan, jussieuan, and everybody-elseian arrangement of plants, and have accordingly arranged a system of my own; and unbound my botanical book, and rebound it in brighter green, with all the pages through-other, and backside foremost--so as to cut off all the old paging numerals; and am now printing my new arrangement in a legible manner, on interleaved foolscap. i consider this arrangement one of my great achievements of the year. my studies of political economy have induced me to think also that nobody knows anything about that; and i am at present engaged in an investigation, on independent principles, of the natures of money, rent, and taxes, in an abstract form, which sometimes keeps me awake all night. my studies of german metaphysics have also induced me to think that the germans don't know anything about _them_; and to engage in a serious enquiry into the meaning of bunsen's great sentence in the beginning of the second volume of the 'hippolytus,' about the finite realization of infinity; which has given me some trouble. "the course of my studies of navigation necessitated my going to deal to look at the deal boats; and those of geology to rearrange all my minerals (and wash a good many, which, i am sorry to say, i found wanted it). i have also several pupils, far and near, in the art of illumination; an american young lady to direct in the study of landscape painting, and a yorkshire young lady to direct in the purchase of turners,--and various little bye things besides. but i am coming to see you." the tone of humorous exaggeration of his discoveries and occupations was very characteristic. but he was then growing into the habit of leaving the matter in hand, as he often did afterwards, to follow side issues, and to take up new studies with a hasty and divided attention; the result of which was seen in his sub-title for the third volume of "modern painters"--"of many things"; which amused his readers not a little. but that he still had time for his friends is seen in the account of a visit to denmark hill, written this year by james smetham. "i walked there through the wintry weather, and got in about dusk. one or two gossiping details will interest you before i give you what i care for; and so i will tell you that he has a large house with a lodge, and a valet and footman and coachman, and grand rooms glittering with pictures, chiefly turner's, and that his father and mother live with him, or he with them.... his father is a fine old gentleman, who has a lot of bushy gray hair, and eyebrows sticking up all rough and knowing, with a comfortable way of coming up to you with his hands in his pockets, and making _you_ comfortable, and saying, in answer to your remark, that 'john's' prose works are pretty good. his mother is a ruddy, dignified, richly dressed old gentlewoman of seventy-five, who knows chamonix better than camberwell; evidently a _good_ old lady, with the 'christian treasury'tossing about on the table. she puts 'john' down, and holds her own opinions, and flatly contradicts him; and he receives all her opinions with a soft reverence and gentleness that is pleasant to witness.... "i wish i could reproduce a good impression of 'john' for you, to give you the notion of his 'perfect gentleness and lowlihood.' he certainly bursts out with a remark, and in a contradictious way, but only because he believes it, with no air of dogmatism or conceit. he is different at home from that which he is in a lecture before a mixed audience, and there is a spiritual sweetness in the half-timid expression of his eyes; and in bowing to you, as in taking wine, with (if i heard aright) 'i drink to thee,' he had a look that has followed me, a look bordering on tearful. "he spent some time in this way. unhanging a turner from the wall of a distant room, he brought it to the table and put it in my hands; then we talked; then he went up into his study to fetch down some illustrative print or drawing; in one case, a literal view which he had travelled fifty miles to make, in order to compare with the picture. and so he kept on gliding all over the house, hanging and unhanging, and stopping a few minutes to talk." and yet there were many with whom he had to deal who did not look at things in his light; who took his criticism as personal attack, and resented it with bitterness. there is a story told (but not by himself) about one of the "notes on the academy," which he was then publishing--how he wrote to an artist therein mentioned that he regretted he could not speak more favourably of his picture, but he hoped it would make no difference in their friendship. the artist replied (so they say) in these terms: "dear ruskin,--next time i meet you, i shall knock you down; but i hope it will make no difference in our friendship." "damn the fellow! why doesn't he stand up for his friends?" said another disappointed acquaintance. perhaps ruskin, secure in his "house with a lodge, and a valet and footman and coachman," hardly realized that a cold word from his pen sometimes meant the failure of an important academy picture, and serious loss of income--that there was bitter truth underlying _punch's_ complaint of the academician: "i paints and paints. hears no complaints, and sells before i'm dry; till savage ruskin sticks his tusk in, and nobody will buy." against these incidents should be set such an anecdote as the following, told by mr. j.j. ruskin in a letter of june , : "vokins wished me to name to you that carrick, when he read your criticism on 'weary life,' came to him with the cheque vokins had given, and said your remarks were all right, and that he could not take the price paid by vokins the buyer; he would alter the picture. vokins took back the money, only agreeing to see the picture when it was done." john ruskin in reply said he did not see why carrick should have returned the cheque. a letter from mrs. browning describes a visit to denmark hill, and ends,--"i like mr. ruskin very much, and so does robert; very gentle, yet earnest--refined and truthful. i like him very much. we count him one among the valuable acquaintances made this year in england." this has been dated ; but ruskin, writing to miss mitford from glenfinlas, th august, , says, "i had the pleasure this spring, of being made acquainted with your dear elizabeth browning, as well as with her husband. i was of course prepared to like _her_, but i did not expect to like _him_ as much as i did. i think he is really a very fine fellow, and _she_ is the only sensible woman i have yet met with on the subject of italian politics. evidently a noble creature in all things." in june, , he had met robert browning, on the invitation of coventry patmore, and said: "he is the only person whom i have ever heard talk ration-ally about the italians, though on the liberal side." in these volumes of "modern painters" he had to discuss the mediæval and renaissance spirit in its relation to art, and to illustrate from browning's poetry, "unerring in every sentence he writes of the middle ages, always vital and right and profound; so that in the matter of art there is hardly a principle connected with the mediæval temper that he has not struck upon in those seemingly careless and too rugged lines of his." this was written twenty-five years before the browning society was heard of, and at a time when the style of browning was an offence to most people. to ruskin, also, it had been some, thing of a puzzle; and he wrote to the poet, asking him to explain himself; which the poet accordingly did. that ruskin was open to conviction and conversion could be shown from the difference in his tone of thought about poetry before and after this period; that he was the best of friends with the man who took him to task for narrowness, may be seen from the following letter, written on the next christmas eve: "my dear mr. ruskin, "your note having just arrived, robert deputes me to write for him while he dresses to go out on an engagement. it is the evening. all the hours are wasted, since the morning, through our not being found at the rue de grenelle, but here--and our instinct of self-preservation or self-satisfaction insists on our not losing a moment more by our own fault. "thank you, thank you for sending us your book, and also for writing my husband's name in it. it will be the same thing as if you had written mine--except for the pleasure, as you say, which is greater so. how good and kind you are! "and not well. that is worst. surely you would be better if you had the summer in winter we have here. but i was to write only a word--let it say how affectionately we regard you. "elizabeth barrett browning " , rue du colys�e, "_thursday evening, th" (december_, ). chapter ix "the political economy of art" ( - ) the humble work of the drawing-classes at great ormond street was teaching ruskin even more than he taught his pupils. it was showing him how far his plans were practicable; how they should be modified; how they might be improved; and especially what more, beside drawing-classes, was needed to realize his ideal. he was anxiously willing to co-operate with every movement, to join hands with any kind of man, to go anywhere, do anything that might promote the cause he had at heart. already at the end of he had given three lectures, his second course, at the architectural museum, specially addressed to workmen in the decorative trades. his subjects were design and colour, and his illustrations were chiefly drawn from mediæval illumination, which he had long been studying. these were informal, quasi-private affairs, which nevertheless attracted notice owing to the celebrity of the speaker. it would have been better if his addresses had been carefully prepared and authentically published; for a chance word here and there raised replies about matters of detail in which his critics thought they had gained a technical advantage, adding weight to his father's desire not to see him "expose himself" in this way. there were no more lectures until the beginning of . on january rd, , he spoke before the architectural association upon "the influence of imagination in architecture," repeating and amplifying what he had said at edinburgh about the subordinate value of proportion, and the importance of sculptured ornament based on natural forms. this of course would involve the creation of a class of stone-carvers who could be trusted with the execution of such work. once grant the value of it, and public demand would encourage the supply, and the workmen would raise themselves in the effort. a louder note was sounded in an address at the st. martin's school of art, castle street, long acre (april rd, ), where, speaking after george cruikshank, his old friend--practically his first master--and an enthusiastic philanthropist and temperance advocate, ruskin gave his audience a wider view of art than they had known before: "the kind of painting they most wanted in london was painting cheeks red with health." this was anticipating the standpoint of the oxford lectures, and showed how the inquiry was beginning to take a much broader aspect. another work in a similar spirit, the north london school of design, had been prosperously started by a circle of men under pre-raphaelite influence, and led by thomas seddon. he had given up historical and poetic painting for naturalistic landscape, and had returned from the east with the most valuable studies completed, only to break down and die prematurely. his friends, among them holman hunt, were collecting money to buy from the widow his picture of jerusalem from the mount of olives, to present it to the national gallery as a memorial of him; and at a meeting for the purpose, ruskin spoke warmly of his labours in the cause of the working classes. in the summer of the art treasures exhibition was held at manchester, and ruskin was invited to lecture. the theme he chose was "the political economy of art." he had been studying political economy for some time back, but, as we saw from his letter to carlyle, he had found no answer in the ordinary text-books for the questions he tried to put. he wanted to know what bentham and ricardo and mill, the great authorities, would advise him as to the best way of employing artists, of educating workmen, of elevating public taste, of regulating patronage; but these subjects were not in their programme. and so he put together his own thoughts into two lectures upon art considered as wealth: first, how to get it; next, how to use it.[ ] [footnote : july and , . he went to manchester from oxford, where he had been staying with the liddells, writing enthusiastically of the beauty of their children and the charm of their domestic life.] there were very few points in these lectures that were not vigorously contested at the moment, and conceded in the sequel--in some form or other. the paternal function of government, the right of the state to interfere in matters beyond its traditional range, its duty with regard to education--all this was quite contrary to the prevailing habits of thought of the time, especially at manchester, the headquarters of the _laissez faire_ school; but to ruskin, who, curiously enough, had just then been referring sarcastically to german philosophy, knowing it only at second-hand, and unaware of hegel's political work--to him this platonic conception of the state was the only possible one, as it is to most people nowadays. in the same way, his practical advice has been accepted, perhaps unwittingly, by our times. we do now understand the difference between artistic decoration and machine-made wares; we do now try to preserve ancient monuments, and to use art as a means of education. and we are in a fair way, it seems, of lowering the price of modern pictures, as he bids us, to "not more than £ for an oil picture and £ for a water-colour." after a visit to the trevelyans at wallington he went with his parents to scotland; for his mother, now beginning to grow old, wanted to revisit the scenes of her youth. they went to the highlands and as far north as the bay of cromarty, and then returned by way of the abbeys of the lowlands, to look up turner sites, as he had done in on the st. gothard. from the enjoyment of this holiday he was recalled to london by a letter from mr. wornum saying that he could arrange the turner drawings at the national gallery. his first letter on the national gallery, in , has been noticed. he had written again to _the times_ (december th, ), pressing the same point--namely, that if the pictures were put under glass no cleaning nor restoring would be needed; and that the gallery ought not to be considered as a grand hall, decorated with pictures, but as a convenient museum, with a chronological sequence of the best works of all schools,--every picture hung on the line and accompanied by studies for it, if procurable, and engravings from it. now--in --question was raised of removing the national gallery from trafalgar square. the south kensington museum was being formed, and the whole business of arranging the national art treasures was gone into by a royal commission, consisting of lord broughton (in the chair), dean milman, prof. faraday, prof. cockerell, and george richmond. ruskin was examined before them on april th, and re-stated the opinions he had written to _the times_, adding that he would like to see two national galleries--one of popular interest, containing such works as would catch the public eye and enlist the sympathy of the untaught; and another containing only the cream of the collections, in pictures, sculpture and the decorative crafts, arranged for purposes of study. this was suggested as an ideal; of course, it would involve more outlay, and less display, than any parliamentary vote would sanction, or party leader risk. another question of importance was the disposal of the pictures and sketches which turner had left to the nation. ruskin was one of the executors under the will; but, on finding that, though turner's intention was plain, there were technical informalities which would make the administration anything but easy, he declined to act. it was not until that the litigation was concluded, and turner's pictures and sketches were handed to the trustees of the national gallery. ruskin, whose want of legal knowledge had made his services useless before, now felt that he could carry out the spirit of turner's will by offering to arrange the sketches; which were in such a state of confusion that only some person with knowledge of the artist's habits of work and subjects could, so to speak, _edit_ them; and the editor would need no ordinary skill, patience and judgment, into the bargain. meanwhile, for that winter ( - ) a preliminary exhibition was held of turner's oil-paintings, with a few water-colours, at marlborough house, then the headquarters of the department of science and art, soon afterwards removed to south kensington. ruskin wrote a catalogue, with analysis of turner's periods of development and characteristics; which made the collection intelligible and interesting to curious sight-seers. they showed their appreciation by taking up five editions in rapid succession. just before lecturing at manchester, he wrote again on the subject to _the times_; and in september his friend r.n. wornum, director of the national gallery in succession to eastlake and uwins, wrote--as we saw--that he might arrange the sketches as he pleased. he returned from scotland, and set to work on october th. it was strange employment for a man of his powers; almost as removed from the epicurean olympus of "cultured ease" popularly assigned to him, as night-school teaching and lecturing to workmen. but, beside that it was the carrying out of turner's wishes, he always had a certain love for experimenting in manual toil; and this was work in which his extreme neatness and deftness of hand was needed, no less than his knowledge and judgment. during the winter for full six months, he and his two assistants worked, all day and every day, among the masses of precious rubbish that had been removed from queen anne street to the national gallery. mr. j.j. ruskin wrote, on february and , : "i have just been through turner's house with griffith. his labour is more astonishing than his genius. there are £ , of oil pictures done and undone--boxes half as big as your study table, filled with drawings and sketches. there are copies of liber studiorum to fill all your drawers and more, and house walls of proof plates in reams--they may go at /-each.... "nothing since pompeii so impressed me as the interior of turner's house; the accumulated dust of years partially cleared off; daylight for the first time admitted by opening a window on the finest productions of art buried for years. the drawing room has, it is reckoned, £ , worth of proofs, and sketches, and drawings, and prints. it is amusing to hear dealers saying there can be no liber studiorums--when i saw neatly packed and well labelled as many bundles of liber studiorum as would fill your entire bookcase, and england and wales proofs in packed and labelled bundles like reams of paper, as i told you, piled nearly to ceiling ... "the house must be dry as a bone--the parcels were apparently quite uninjured. the very large pictures were spotted, but not much. they stood leaning against another in the large low rooms. some _finished_ go to nation, many unfinished _not_: no frames. two are given unconditional of gallery building--_very fine_: if (and this is a condition) _placed beside claude._ the style much like the laying on in windmill lock in dealer's hands, which, now it is cleaned, comes out a real beauty. i believe turner loved it. the will desires all to be framed and repaired and put into the best showing state; as if he could not release his money to do this till he was dead. the top of his gallery is one ruin of glass and patches of paper, now only just made weather-proof ... "i saw in turner's rooms, _geo. morlands_ and _wilsons_ and _claudes_ and _portraits_ in various stiles _all by turner._ he copied every man, was every man first, and took up his own style, casting all others away. it seems to me you may keep your money and revel for ever and for nothing among turner's works." among the quantities so recklessly thrown aside for dust, damp, soot, mice and worms to destroy--some , ruskin reckoned at first, , later on--there were many fine drawings, which had been used by the engravers, and vast numbers of interesting and valuable studies in colour and in pencil. four hundred of these were extricated from the chaos, and with infinite pains cleaned, flattened, mounted, dated and described, and placed in sliding frames in cabinets devised by ruskin, or else in swivel frames, to let both sides of the paper be seen. the first results of the work were shown in an exhibition at marlborough house during the winter, for which he wrote another catalogue. of the whole collection he began a more complete account, which was too elaborate to be finished in that form; but in he published a "catalogue of the drawings and sketches of j m.w. turner, r.a., at present exhibited in the national gallery," so that his plan was practically fulfilled. during ruskin continued to lecture at various places on subjects connected with his manchester addresses--the relation of art to manufacture, and especially the dependence of all great architectural design upon sculpture or painting of organic form. the first of the series was given at the opening of the architectural museum at south kensington, january th, , entitled "the deteriorative power of conventional art over nations;" in which he showed that naturalism, as opposed to meaningless pattern-making, was always a sign of life. for example, the strength of the greek, florentine and venetian art arose out of the search for truth, not, as it is often supposed, out of striving after an ideal of beauty; and as soon as nature was superseded by recipe, the greatest schools hastened to their fall. from which he concluded that modern design should always be founded on natural form, rather than upon the traditional patterns of the east or of the mediævals. on february th he spoke on "the work of iron, in nature, art and policy," at tunbridge wells; a subject similar to that of his address to the st. martin's school of the year before, but amplified into a plea for the use of wrought-iron ornament, as in the new oxford museum, then building, and on april th he again addressed st. martin's school. the oxford museum was an experiment in the true gothic revival. the architects, sir thomas deane and benjamin woodward, had allowed their workmen to design parts of the detail, such as capitals and spandrils, quite in the spirit of ruskin's teaching, and the work was accordingly of deep interest to him. so far back as april, , he had given an address to the men employed at the museum, whom he met, on dr. acland's invitation, at the workmen's reading rooms. he said that his object was not to give some labouring men the chance of becoming masters of other labouring men, and to help the few at the expense of the many, but to lead them to those sources of pleasure, and power over their own minds and hands, that more educated people possess. he did not sympathize with the socialism that had been creeping into vogue since . he thought existing social arrangements good, and he agreed with his friends, the carlyles, who had found that it was only the incapable who could not get work. but it was the fault of the wealthy and educated that working people were not better trained; it was not the working-men's fault, at bottom. the modern architect used his workman as a mere tool; while the gothic spirit set him free as an original designer, to gain--not more wages and higher social rank, but pleasure and instruction, the true happiness that lies in good work well done. to explain the design of the oxford museum and to enlist support, he wrote two letters to dr. acland (may th, , and january th, ), which formed part of a small book, reporting its aims and progress, illustrated with an engraving of one of the workmen's capitals. ruskin himself contributed both time and money to the work, and his assistance was not unrecognised. in "honorary studentships" (i.e., fellowships) were created at christ church by the commissioners' ordinances. at the first election held, december th, , there were chosen for the compliment ruskin, gladstone, sir g. cornewall lewis, dr. (sir) h.w. acland, and sir f.h. gore ouseley. at the second, december th, , were elected henry hallam, the earl of stanhope, the earl of elgin, the marquis of dalhousie and viscount canning. parallel with this movement for educating the "working-class," there was the scheme for the improvement of middle-class education, which was then going on at oxford--the beginning of university extension--supported by the rev. f. temple (later archbishop of canterbury), and mr. (afterwards sir) thomas dyke acland. ruskin was heartily for them; and in a letter on the subject, he tried to show how the teaching of art might be made to work in with the scheme. he did not think that in this plan, any more than at the working men's college, there need be an attempt to teach drawing with a view to forming artists; but there were three objects they might hold in view: the first, to give every student the advantage of the happiness and knowledge which the study of art conveys; the next, to enforce some knowledge of art amongst those who were likely to become patrons or critics; and the last, _to leave no giotto lost among hill shepherds._ chapter x "modern painters" concluded ( - ) oxford and old friends did not monopolise ruskin's attention: he was soon seen at cambridge--on the same platform with richard redgrave, r.a., the representative of academicism and officialism--at the opening of the school of art for workmen on october th, . his inaugural address struck a deeper note, a wider chord, than previous essays; it was the forecast of the last volume of "modern painters," and it sketched the train of thought into which he had been led during his tour abroad, that summer. the battles between faith and criticism, between the historical and the scientific attitudes, which had been going on in his mind, were taking a new form. at the outset, we saw, naturalism overpowered respect for tradition--in the first volume of "modern painters;" then the historical tendency won the day, in the second volume. since that time, the critical side had been gathering strength, by his alliance with liberal movements and by his gradual detachment from associations that held him to the older order of thought. as in his lonely journey of he first took independent ground upon questions of religion and social life, so in , once more travelling alone, he was led by his meditations,--freed from the restraining presence of his parents--to conclusions which he had been all these years evading, yet finding at last inevitable. he went abroad for a third attempt to write and illustrate his history of swiss towns. he spent part of may on the upper rhine between basle and schaffhausen, june and half of july on the st. gothard route and at bellinzona. in reflecting over the sources of swiss character, as connected with the question of the nature of art and its origin in morality, he was struck with the fact that all the virtues of the swiss did not make them artistic. compared with most nations they were as children in painting, music and poetry. and, indeed, they ranked with the early phases of many great nations--the period of pristine simplicity "uncorrupted by the arts." from bellinzona he went to turin on his way to the vaudois valleys, where he meant to compare the waldensian protestants with the swiss. accidentally he saw paul veronese's "queen of sheba" and other venetian pictures; and so fell to comparing a period of fully ripened art with one of artlessness; discovering that the mature art, while it appeared at the same time with decay in morals, did not spring from that decay, but was rooted in the virtues of the earlier age. he grasped a clue to the puzzle, in the generalisation that art is the product of human happiness; it is contrary to asceticism; it is the expression of pleasure. but when the turning point of national progress is once reached, and art is regarded as the laborious incitement to pleasure,--no longer the spontaneous blossom and fruit of it,--the decay sets in for art as for morality. art, in short, is created _by_ pleasure, not _for_ pleasure. the standard of thought, the attitude of mind, of the waldensians, he now perceived to be quite impossible for himself. he could not look upon every one outside their fold as heathens and publicans; he could not believe that the pictures of paul veronese were works of iniquity, nor that the motives of great deeds in earlier ages were lying superstitions. he took courage to own to himself and others that it was no longer any use trying to identify his point of view with that of protestantism. he saw both protestants and roman catholics, in the perspective of history, converging into a primitive, far distant, ideal unity of christianity, in which he still believed; but he could take neither side, after this. the first statement of the new point of view was, as we said, the inaugural lecture of the cambridge school of art. the next important utterance was at manchester, february nd, , where he spoke on the "unity of art," by which he meant--not the fraternity of handicrafts with painting, as the term is used nowadays--but that, in whatever branch of art, the spirit of truth or sincerity is the same. in this lecture there is a very important passage showing how he had at last got upon firm ground in the question of art and morality: "_i do_ not _say in the least that in order to be a good painter you must be a good man_; but i do say that in order to be a good natural painter there must be strong elements of good in the mind, however warped by other parts of the character." so emphatic a statement deserves more attention than it has received from readers and writers who assume to judge ruskin's views after a slight acquaintance with his earlier works. he was well aware himself that his mind had been gradually enlarging, and his thoughts changing; and he soon saw as great a difference between himself at forty and at twenty-five, as he had formerly seen between the boy poet and the art critic. he became as anxious to forget his earlier books, as he had been to forget his verse-writing; and when he came to collect his "works," these lectures, under the title of "the two paths," were (with "the political economy of art") the earliest admitted into the library. after this manchester lecture he took a driving tour in yorkshire--posting in the old-fashioned way--halting at bradford for the lecture on "modern manufacture and design" (march st), and ending with a visit to the school at winnington, of which more in a later chapter. in the last academy notes, for the time being, were published. the pre-raphaelite cause had been fully successful, and the new school of naturalist landscape was rapidly asserting itself. old friends were failing, such as stanfield, lewis, and roberts: but new men were growing up, among whom ruskin welcomed g.d. leslie, f. goodall, j.c. hook,--who had come out of his "pre-raphaelite measles" into the healthy naturalism of "luff boy!"--clarence whaite, henry holiday, and john brett, who showed the "val d'aosta." millais' "vale of rest" was the picture which attracted most notice: something of the old rancour against the school was revived in the _morning herald_, which called his works "impertinences," "contemptible," "indelible disgrace," and so on. it was the beginning of a transition from the delicacy of the pre-raphaelite millais to his later style; and as such the preacher of "all great art is delicate" could not entirely defend it. but the serious strength of the imagination and the power of the execution he praised with unexpected warmth. he then started on the last tour abroad with his parents. he had been asked, rather pointedly, by the national gallery commission, whether he had seen the great german museums, and had been obliged to reply that he had not. perhaps it occurred to him or to his father that he ought to see the pictures at berlin and dresden and munich, even though he heartily disliked the germans with their art and their language and everything that belonged to them,--except holbein and dürer. by the end of july the travellers were in north switzerland; and they spent september in savoy, returning home by october th. old mr. ruskin was now in his seventy-fifth year and his desire was to see the great work finished before he died. there had been some attempt to write this last volume of "modern painters" in the previous winter, but it had been put off until after the visit to germany had completed a study of the great venetian painters--especially titian and veronese. now at last, in the autumn of , he finally set to work on the writing. the assertion of turner's genius had been necessary in , but turner was long since dead; his fame was thoroughly vindicated; his bequest to the nation dealt with, so far as possible. early christian art was recognised--almost beyond its claims. the pre-raphaelites and naturalistic landscapists no longer needed the hand which "modern painters" had held out to them by the way. of the great triad of venice, tintoret had been expounded, veronese and titian were now taken up and treated with tardy, but ample recognition. and now, after twenty years of labour, ruskin had established himself as the recognised leader of criticism and the exponent of painting and architecture. he had created a department of literature all his own. he had enriched the art of england with examples of a new and beautiful draughtsmanship, and the language with passages of poetic description and eloquent declamation, quite, in their way, unrivalled. he had built up a theory of art, so far uncontested; and thrown new light on the middle ages and renaissance, illustrating, in a way then novel, their chronicles by their remains. he had beaten down opposition, risen above detraction, and won the prize of honour--only to realise, as he received it, that the fight had been but a pastime tournament, after all; and to hear, through the applause, the enemy's trumpet sounding to battle. for now, without the camp, there were realities to face; as to art--"the best in this kind are but shadows." book iii hermit and heretic ( - ) chapter i "unto this last" ( - ) at forty years of age ruskin finished "modern painters." from that time art was sometimes his text, rarely his theme. he used it as the opportunity, the vehicle, so to say, for teachings of wider range and deeper import; teachings about life as a whole, conclusions in ethics and economics and religion, to which he sought to lead others, as he was led, by the way of art. during the time when he was preaching his later doctrines, he wished to suppress the interfering evidences of the earlier. he let his works on art run out of print, not for the benefit of second-hand booksellers, but in the hope that he could fix his audience upon the burden of his prophecy for the time being. but the youthful works were still read; high prices were paid for them, or they were smuggled in from america. and when the epoch of "fors" had passed, he agreed to the reprinting of all that early material. he called it obsolete and trivial; others find it interestingly biographical--perhaps even classical. this year, then, , the year of the italian kingdom, of garibaldi, and of the beginning of the american war, marks his turning point, from the early work, summed up in the old "selections," to the later work. until he was forty, mr. ruskin was a writer on art; after that his art was secondary to ethics. until he was forty he was a believer in english protestantism; afterwards he could not reconcile current beliefs with the facts of life as he saw them, and had to reconstruct his creed from the foundations. until he was forty he was a philanthropist, working heartily with others in a definite cause, and hoping for the amendment of wrongs, without a social upheaval. even in the beginning of , in his evidence before the house of commons select committee on public institutions, he was ready with plans for amusing and instructing the labouring classes, and noting in them a "thirsty desire" for improvement. but while his readiness to make any personal sacrifice, in the way of social and philanthropic experiment, and his interest in the question were increasing, he became less and less sanguine about the value of such efforts as the working men's college, and less and less ready to co-operate with others in their schemes. he began to see that no tinkering at social breakages was really worth while; that far more extensive repairs were needed to make the old ship seaworthy. so he set himself, by himself, to sketch the plans for the repairs. naturally sociable, and accustomed to the friendly give-and-take of a wide acquaintance, he withdrew from the busy world into a busier solitude. during the next few years he lived much alone among the alps, or at home, thinking out the problem; sometimes feeling, far more acutely than was good for clear thought, the burden of the mission that was laid upon him. in march, , he wrote from his retreat at mornex to norton: "the loneliness is very great, and the peace in which i am at present is only as if i had buried myself in a tuft of grass on a battlefield wet with blood--for the cry of the earth about me is in my ears continually, if i do not lay my head to the very ground." and a few months later: "i am still very unwell, and tormented between the longing for rest and lovely life, and the sense of this terrific call of human crime for resistance and of human misery for help, though it seems to me as the voice of a river of blood which can but sweep me down in the midst of its black clots, helpless." sentences like these, passages here and there in the last volume of "modern painters," and still more, certain passages omitted from that volume, show that about something of a cloud had been settling over him,--a sense of the evil of the world, a horror of great darkness. in his earlier years, his intense emotion and vivid imagination had enabled him to read into pictures of tintoret or turner, into scenes of nature and sayings of great books, a meaning or a moral which he so vividly communicated to the reader as to make it thenceforward part and parcel of the subject, however it came there to begin with. it is useless to wonder whether turner, for instance, consciously meant what ruskin found in his works. a great painter does not paint without thought, and such thought is apt to show itself whether he will or no. but it needs imaginative sympathy to detect and describe the thought. and when that sympathy was given to suffering, to widespread misery, to crying wrongs; joined also with an intense passion for justice, which had already shown itself in the defence of slighted genius and neglected art; and to the celtic temperament of some highstrung seer and trance-prophesying bard; it was no wonder that ruskin became like one of the hermits of old, who retreated from the world to return upon it with stormy messages of awakening and flashes of truth more impressive, more illuminating than the logic of schoolmen and the state-craft of the wise. and then he began to take up an attitude of antagonism to the world, he who had been the kindly helper and minister of delightful art. he began to call upon those who had ears to hear to come out and be separate from the ease and hypocrisy of vanity fair. its respectabilities, its orthodoxies, he could no longer abide. orthodox religion, orthodox morals and politics, orthodox art and science, alike he rejected; and was rejected by each of them as a brawler, a babbler, a fanatic, a heretic. and even when kindly oxford gave him a quasi-academical position, it did not bring him, as it brings many a heretic, back to the fold. in this period of storm and stress he stood alone. the old friends of his youth were one by one passing away, if not from intercourse, still from full sympathy with him in his new mood. his parents were no longer the guides and companions they had been; they did not understand the business he was about. and so he was left to new associates, for he could not live without some one to love,--that was the nature of the man, however lonely in his work and wanderings. the new friends of this period were, at first, americans; as the chief new friends of his latest period (the alexanders) were american, too. charles eliot norton, after being introduced to him in london in , met him again by accident on the lake of geneva--the story is prettily told in "præterita." ruskin adds: "norton saw all my weaknesses, measured all my narrownesses, and, from the first, took serenely, and as it seemed of necessity, a kind of paternal authority over me, and a right of guidance.... i was entirely conscious of his rectorial power, and affectionately submissive to it, so that he might have done anything with me, but for the unhappy difference in our innate, and unchangeable, political faiths." so, after all, he stood alone. another friend about this time was mrs. h. beecher stowe, to whom he wrote on june th, , from geneva: "it takes a great deal, when i am at geneva, to make me wish myself anywhere else, and, of all places else, in london; nevertheless, i very heartily wish at this moment that i were looking out on the norwood hills, and were expecting you and the children to breakfast to-morrow. "i had very serious thoughts, when i received your note, of running home; but i expected that very day an american friend, mr. stillman, who, i thought, would miss me more here than you in london, so i stayed. "what a dreadful thing it is that people should have to go to america again, after coming to europe! it seems to me an inversion of the order of nature. i think america is a sort of 'united' states of probation, out of which all wise people, being once delivered, and having obtained entrance into this better world, should never be expected to return (sentence irremediably ungrammatical), particularly when they have been making themselves cruelly pleasant to friends here. my friend norton, whom i met first on this very blue lake water, had no business to go back to boston again, any more than you.... "so you have been seeing the pope and all his easter performances! i congratulate you, for i suppose it is something like 'positively the last appearance on any stage.' what was the use of thinking about _him_? you should have had your own thoughts about what was to come after him. i don't mean that roman catholicism will die out so quickly. it will last pretty nearly as long as protestantism, which keeps it up; but i wonder what is to come next. that is the main question just now for everybody." w.j. stillman had been a correspondent about ,--"involved in mystical speculations, partly growing out of the second volume of 'modern painters,'" as he said of himself in an article on "john ruskin" in the _century_ magazine (january, ). with him ruskin spent july and august of at chamouni. he did but little drawing, and in the few sketches that remain of that summer there is evidence that his mind was far away from its old love of mountains and of streamlets. his lonely walks in the pinewoods of the arveron were given to meditation on a great problem which had been set, as it seemed, for him to solve, ever since he had written that chapter on "the nature of gothic." now at last, in the solitude of the alps, he could grapple with the questions he had raised; and the outcome of the struggle was "unto this last." the year before, from thun and bonneville and lausanne (august and september, ) he had written letters to e.s. dallas, suggested by the strikes in the london building trade. in these he appears to have sketched the outline of a new conception of social science, which he was now elaborating with more attempt at system and brevity than he had been accustomed to use. these new papers, painfully thought out and carefully set down in his room at the hôtel de l'union, he used--as long before he read his daily chapter to the breakfast party at herne hill--to read to stillman: and he sent them to the _cornhill magazine_, started the year before by smith and elder. ruskin had already contributed to it a paper on "sir joshua and holbein," a stray chapter from vol. v., "modern painters." his reputation as a writer and philanthropist, together with the friendliness of editor and publisher, secured the insertion of the first three,--from august to october. the editor then wrote to say that they were so unanimously condemned and disliked, that, with all apologies, he could only admit one more. the series was brought hastily to a conclusion in november: and the author, beaten back as he had never been beaten before, dropped the subject, and "sulked," so he called it, all the winter. it is pleasant to notice that neither thackeray, the editor nor smith, the publisher quarrelled with the author who had laid them open to the censure of their public,--nor he with them. on december st, he wrote to thackeray, in answer apparently, to a letter about lecturing for a charitable purpose: and continued: "the mode in which you direct your charity puts me in mind of a matter that has lain long on my mind, though i never have had the time or face to talk to you of it. in somebody's drawing-room, ages ago, you were speaking accidentally of m. de marvy.[ ] i expressed my great obligation to him; on which you said that i could prove my gratitude, if i chose, to his widow,--which choice i then not accepting, have ever since remembered the circumstance as one peculiarly likely to add, so far as it went, to the general impression on your mind of the hollowness of people's sayings and hardness of their hearts. the fact is, i give what i give almost in an opposite way to yours. i think there are many people who will relieve hopeless distress for one who will help at a hopeful pinch; and when i have the choice i nearly always give where i think the money will be fruitful rather than merely helpful. i would lecture for a school when i would _not_ for a distressed author; and would have helped de marvy to perfect his invention, but not--unless i had no other object--his widow after he was gone. in a word, i like to prop the falling more than to feed the fallen." [footnote : louis marvy, an engraver, and political refugee after the french revolution of . he produced the plates, and thackeray the text, of "landscape painters of england, in a series of steel engravings, with short notices."] the winter passed without any great undertaking. g.f. watts proposed to add ruskin's portrait to his gallery of celebrities; but he was in no mood to sit. rossetti did, however, sketch him this year. in march he presented eighty-three turner drawings to oxford, and twenty-five to cambridge. the address of thanks with the great seal of oxford university is dated march rd, ; the catalogue of the cambridge collection is dated may th. on april nd he addressed the st. george's mission working men's institute, and shortly afterwards, though at this time in a much enfeebled state of health, gave a lecture before "a most brilliant audience," as the _london review_ reported, at the royal institution (april th, ). carlyle wrote to his brother john: "friday last i was persuaded--in fact had inwardly compelled myself as it were--to a lecture of ruskin's at the institution, albemarle street, lecture on tree leaves as physiological, pictorial, moral, symbolical objects. a crammed house, but tolerable even to me in the gallery. the lecture was thought to 'break down,' and indeed it quite did '_as a lecture_'; but only did from _embarras de richesses_--a rare case. ruskin did blow asunder as by gunpowder explosions his leaf notions, which were manifold, curious, genial; and in fact, i do not recollect to have heard in that place any neatest thing i liked so well as this chaotic one." papers on "illuminated manuscripts" (read before the society of antiquaries on june th) and on "the preservation of ancient buildings" (read to the ecclesiological society a fortnight later) show that old interests were not wholly forgotten, even in the stress of new pursuits, by this man of many-sided activity. during may, , he paid a visit to the school girls at winnington, in june and july he took a holiday at boulogne with the fisher folk, in august he went to ireland as guest of the latouches of harristown, county kildare, and in september he returned to the alps, spending the rest of the year at bonneville and lucerne. chapter ii "munera pulveris" ( ) after an autumn among the alps, hearing that the turner drawings in the national gallery had been mildewed, he ran home to see about them in january ; and was kept until the end of may. he found that his political economy work was not such a total failure as it had seemed. froude, then editor of _fraser's magazine_, thought there was something in it, and would give him another chance. so, by way of a fresh start, he had his four _cornhill_ articles published in book form; and almost simultaneously, in june the first of the new series appeared. the author had then returned to lucerne with mr. and mrs. burne-jones, with whom he crossed the st. gothard to milan, where he tried to forget the harrowing of hell in a close study of luini, and in copying the "st. catherine" now at oxford. ruskin has never said so much about luini as, perhaps, he intended. a short notice in the "cestus of aglaia," and occasional references scattered up and down his later works, hardly give the prominence in his writings that the painter held in his thoughts. it was about this time that he was made an hon. member of the florentine academy. he re-crossed the alps, and settled to his work on political economy at mornex, where he spent the winter except for a short run home, which gave him the opportunity of addressing the working men's college on november . his retreat is described in one of his letters home: "mornex, _august_ ( ). "my dearest mother, "this ought to arrive on the evening before your birthday: it is not possible to reach you in the morning, not even by telegraph as i once did from mont cenis, for--(may heaven be devoutly thanked therefore)--there are yet on mont salève neither rails nor wires.... "the place i have got to is at the end of all carriage-roads, and i am not yet strong enough to get farther, on foot, than a five or six miles' circle, within which is assuredly no house to my mind. i cast, at first, somewhat longing eyes on a true savoyard château--notable for its lovely garden and orchard--and its unspoiled, unrestored, arched gateway between two round turrets, and gothic-windowed keep. but on examination of the interior--finding the walls, though six feet thick, rent to the foundation--and as cold as rocks, and the floors all sodden through with walnut oil and rotten-apple juice--heaps of the farm stores having been left to decay in the ci-devant drawing room, i gave up all medieval ideas, for which the long-legged black pigs who lived like gentlemen at ease in the passage, and the bats and spiders who divided between them the corners of the turret-stair, have reason--if they knew it--to be thankful. "the worst of it is that i never had the gift, nor have i now the energy, to _make_ anything of a place; so that i shall have to put up with almost anything i can find that is healthily habitable in a good situation. meantime, the air here being delicious and the rooms good enough for use and comfort, i am not troubling myself much, but trying to put myself into better health and humour; in which i have already a little succeeded." after describing the flowers of the salève he continues: "my father would be quite wild at the 'view' from the garden terrace--but he would be disgusted at the shut in feeling of the house, which is in fact as much shut in as our old herne hill one; only to get the 'view' i have but to go as far down the garden as to our old 'mulberry tree.' by the way there's a magnificent mulberry tree, as big as a common walnut, covered with black and red fruit on the other side of the road. coutet and allen are very anxious to do all they can now that crawley is away; and i don't think i shall manage very badly," etc. a little later he took in addition a cottage in which the empress of russia had once stayed: it commanded a finer view than the larger house, which has since been turned into a hotel (hôtel et pension des glycines). this place was for some time the hermitage in which he wrote his political economy. of his lonely rambles he wrote later on: "if i have a definite point to reach, and common work to do at it--i take people--anybody--with me; but all my best _mental_ work is necessarily done alone; whenever i wanted to think, in savoy, i used to leave coutet at home. constantly i have been alone on the glacier des bois--and far among the loneliest aiguille recesses. i found the path up the brezon above bonneville in a lonely walk one sunday; i saw the grandest view of the alps of savoy i ever gained, on the nd of january, , alone among the snow wreaths on the summit of the salève. you need not fear for me on 'langdale pikes' after that." in september the second article appeared in _fraser._ "only a genius like mr. ruskin could have produced such hopeless rubbish," says a newspaper of the period. far worse than any newspaper criticism was the condemnation of denmark hill. his father, whose eyes had glistened over early poems and prose eloquence, strongly disapproved of this heretical economy. it was a bitter thing that his son should become prodigal of a hardly earned reputation, and be pointed at for a fool. and it was intensely painful for a son "who had never given his father a pang that could be avoided," as old mr. ruskin had once written, to find his father, with one foot in the grave, turning against him. in december the third paper appeared. history repeated itself, and with the fourth paper the heretic was gagged. a year after, his father died; and these _fraser_ articles were laid aside until the end of , when they were taken up again, and published on new year's day , as "munera pulveris." from the outset, however, he was not without supporters. carlyle wrote on june , : "i have read, a month ago, your _first_ in _fraser_, and ever since have had a wish to say to it and you, _euge macte nova virtute._ i approved in every particular; calm, definite, clear; rising into the sphere of _plato_ (our almost best), wh'h in exchange for the sphere of _macculloch, mill and co._ is a mighty improvement! since that, i have seen the little _green_ book, too; reprint of your _cornhill_ operations,--about / of wh'h was read to me (_known_ only from what the contradict'n of sinners had told me of it);--in every part of wh'h i find a high and noble sort of truth, not one doctrine that i can intrinsically dissent from, or count other than salutary in the extreme, and pressingly needed in engl'd above all." erskine of linlathen wrote to carlyle, august th, : "i am thankful for any unveiling of the so-called science of political economy, according to which, avowed selfishness is the rule of the world. it is indeed most important preaching--to preach that there is not one god for religion and another god for human fellowship--and another god for buying and selling--that pestilent polytheism has been largely and confidently preached in our time, and blessed are those who can detect its mendacities, and help to disenchant the brethren of their power...." j.a. froude, then editor of _fraser_, and to his dying day mr. ruskin's intimate and affectionate friend, wrote to him on october ( ?): "the world talks of the article in its usual way. i was at carlyle's last night.... he said that in writing to your father as to subject he had told him that when solomon's temple was building it was credibly reported that at least , sparrows sitting on the trees round declared that it was entirely wrong--quite contrary to received opinion--hopelessly condemned by public opinion, etc. nevertheless it got finished and the sparrows flew away and began to chirp in the same note about something else." chapter iii the limestone alps ( ) our hermit among the alps of savoy differed in one respect from his predecessors. they, for the most part, saw nothing in the rocks and stones around them except the prison walls of their seclusion; he could not be within constant sight of the mountains without thinking over the wonders of their scenery and structure. and it was well for him that it could be so. the terrible depression of mind which his social and philanthropic work had brought on, found a relief in the renewal of his old mountain-worship. after sending off the last of his _fraser_ papers, in which, when the verdict had twice gone against him, he tried to show cause why sentence should not be passed, the strain was at its severest. he felt, as few others not directly interested felt, the sufferings of the outcast in english slums and savoyard hovels; and heard the cry of the oppressed in poland and in italy: and he had been silenced. what could he do but, as he said in the letters to norton, "lay his head to the very ground," and try to forget it all among the stones and the snows? he wandered about geologizing, and spent a while at talloires on the lake of annecy, where the old abbey had been turned into an inn, and one slept in a monk's cell and meditated in the cloister of the monastery, st. bernard of menthon's memory haunting the place, and st. germain's cave close by in the rocks above. at the end of may he came back to england, and was invited to lecture again at the royal institution. the subject he chose was "the stratified alps of savoy." at that time many distinguished foreign geologists were working at the alps; but little of conclusive importance had been published, except in papers embedded in transactions of various societies. professor alphonse favre's great work did not appear until , and the "mechanismus der gebirgsbildung" of professor heim not till ; so that for an english public the subject was a fresh one. to ruskin it was familiar: he had been elected a fellow of the geological society in , at the age of twenty-one; he had worked through savoy with his saussure in hand nearly thirty years before, and, many a time since that, had spent the intervals of literary business in rambling and climbing with the hammer and note-book. in the field he had compared studer's meagre sections, and consulted the available authorities on physical geology, though he had never entered upon the more popular sister-science of palaeontology. he left the determination of strata to specialists: his interest was fixed on the structure of mountains--the relation of geology to scenery; a question upon which he had some right to be heard, as knowing more about scenery than most geologists, and more about geology than most artists. as examples of savoy mountains this lecture described in detail the salève, on which he had been living for two winters, and the brezon, the top of which he had tried to buy from the commune of bonneville--one of his many plans for settling among the alps. the commune thought he had found a gold-mine up there, and raised the price out of all reason. other attempts to make a home in the châteaux or chalets of savoy were foiled, or abandoned, like his earlier idea to live in venice. but his scrambles on the salève led him to hesitate in accepting the explanation given by alphonse favre of the curious north-west face of steeply inclined vertical slabs, which he suspected to be created by cleavage, on the analogy of other jurassic precipices. the brezon--_brisant_, breaking wave--he took as type of the billowy form of limestone alps in general, and his analysis of it was serviceable and substantially correct. this lecture was followed in by desultory correspondence with mr. jukes and others in _the reader_, in which he merely restated his conclusions, too slightly to convince. had he devoted himself to a thorough examination of the subject--but this is in the region of what might have been. he was more seriously engaged in other pursuits, of more immediate importance. three days after his lecture he was being examined before the royal academy commission, and after a short summer visit to various friends in the north of england, he set out again for the alps, partly to study the geology of chamouni and north switzerland, partly to continue his drawings of swiss towns at baden and lauffenburg, with his pupil john bunney. but even there the burden of his real mission could not be shaken off, and though again seeking health and a quiet mind, he could not quite keep silence, but wrote letters to english newspapers on the depreciation of gold (repeating his theory of currency), and on the wrongs of poland and italy; and he put together more papers, not then published, in continuation of his "munera pulveris." since about , carlyle had been gradually becoming more and more friendly with john ruskin; and now that this social and economical work had been taken up, he began to have a real esteem for him, though always with a patronizing tone, which the younger man's open and confessed discipleship accepted and encouraged. this letter especially shows both men in an unaccustomed light: ruskin, hating tobacco, sends his "master" cigars; carlyle, hating cant, replies rather in the tone of the temperance advocate, taking a little wine for his stomach's sake: "chelsea, _feby_, "dear ruskin, "you have sent me a munificent box of cigars; for wh'h what can i say in ans'r? it makes me both sad and glad. _ay de mi._ "we are such stuff, gone with a puff--then think, and smoke tobacco!' "the wife also has had her flowers; and a letter wh'h has charmed the female mind. you forgot only the first chapter of 'aglaia';--don't forget; and be a good boy for the future. "the geology book wasn't _jukes_; i found it again in the magazine,--reviewed there: 'phillips,'[ ] is there such a name? it has ag'n escaped me. i have a notion to come out actually some day soon; and take a serious lecture from you on what you really know, and can give me some intelligible outline of, ab't the rocks,--_bones_ of our poor old mother; wh'h have always been venerable and strange to me. next to nothing of rational could i ever learn of the subject.... [footnote : "jukes,"--mr. j.b. jukes, f.r.s., with whom ruskin had been discussing in _the reader_. "phillips," the oxford professor of geology, and a friend of ruskin's.] "yours ever, "t. carlyle." chapter iv "sesame and lilies" ( ) wider aims and weaker health had not put an end to ruskin's connection with the working men's college, though he did not now teach a drawing-class regularly. he had, as he said, "the satisfaction of knowing that they had very good masters in messrs. lowes dickinson, jeffery and cave thomas," and his work was elsewhere. he was to have lectured there on december th, ; but he did not reach home until about christmas; better than he had been; and ready to give the promised address on january th, . beside which he used to visit the place occasionally of an evening to take note of progress, and some of his pupils were now more directly under his care. it was from one of these visits to the college, on february th, that he returned, past midnight, and found his father waiting up for him, to read some letters he had written. next morning the old man, close upon seventy-nine years of age, was struck with his last illness; and died on march rd. he was buried at shirley church, near addington, in surrey, not far from croydon; and the legend on his tomb records: "he was an entirely honest merchant, and his memory is, to all who keep it, dear and helpful. his son, whom he loved to the uttermost, and taught to speak truth, says this of him." mr. john james ruskin, like many other of our successful merchants, had been an open-handed patron of art, and a cheerful giver, not only to needy friends and relatives, but also to various charities. for example, as a kind of personal tribute to osborne gordon, his son's tutor, he gave £ , toward the augmentation of poor christ-church livings. his son's open-handed way with dependants and servants was learned from the old merchant, who, unlike many hard-working money-makers, was always ready to give, though he could not bear to lose. in spite of which he left a considerable fortune behind him,--considerable when it is understood to be the earnings of his single-handed industry and steady sagacity in legitimate business, without indulgence in speculation. he left £ , with various other property, to his son. to his wife he left his house and £ , , and a void which it seemed at first nothing could fill. for of late years the son had drifted out of their horizon, with ideas on religion and the ordering of life so very different from theirs; and had been much away from home--he sometimes said, selfishly, but not without the greatest of all excuses, necessity. and so the two old people had been brought closer than ever together; and she had lived entirely for her husband. but, as browning said,--"put a stick in anywhere, and she will run up it"--so the brave old lady did not faint under the blow, and fade away, but transferred her affections and interests to her son. before his father's death the difference of feeling between them, arising out of the heretical economy, had been healed. old mr. ruskin's will treated his son with all confidence in spite of his unorthodox views and unbusiness-like ways. and for nearly eight years longer his mother lived on, to see him pass through his probation-period into such recognition as an oxford professorship implied, and to find in her last years his later books "becoming more and more what they always ought to have been" to her. at the same time, her failing sight and strength needed a constant household companion. her son, though he did not leave home yet awhile for any long journeys, could not be always with her. only six weeks after the funeral he was called away for a time to fulfil a lecture-engagement at bradford. before going he brought his pretty young scotch cousin. miss joanna ruskin agnew, to denmark hill for a week's visit. she recommended herself at once to the old lady, and to carlyle, who happened to call, by her frank good-nature and unquenchable spirits; and her visit lasted seven years, until she was married to arthur severn, son of the ruskins' old friend, joseph severn, british consul at rome. even then she was not allowed far out of their sight, but settled in the old house at herne hill: "nor virtually," said ruskin in the last chapter of "præterita," "have she and i ever parted since." all through that year he remained at home, except for short necessary visits, and frequent evenings with carlyle. and when, in december, he gave those lectures in manchester which afterwards, as "sesame and lilies," became his most popular work, we can trace his better health of mind and body in the brighter tone of his thought. we can hear the echo of carlyle's talk in the heroic, aristocratic, stoic ideals, and in the insistence on the value of books and free public libraries,[ ]--carlyle being the founder of the london library. and we may suspect that his thoughts on women's influence and education had been not a little directed by those months in the company of "the dear old lady and ditto young" to whom carlyle used to send his love. [footnote : the first lecture, "of kings' treasuries," was given, december th, , at rusholme town hall, manchester, in aid of a library fund for the rusholme institute. the second, "queens' gardens," was given december th, at the town hall, king street, now the free reference library, manchester, in aid of schools for ancoats.] in a new series of papers on art was begun, the only published work upon art of all these ten years. the papers ran in _the art journal_ from january to july, , and from january to april. , under the title of "the cestus of aglaia," by which was meant the girdle, or restraining law, of beauty, as personified in the wife of hephaestus, "the lord of labour." their intention was to suggest, and to evoke by correspondence, "some laws for present practice of art in our schools, which may be admitted, if not with absolute, at least with a sufficient consent, by leading artists." as a first step the author asked for the elementary rules of drawing. for his own contribution he showed the value of the "pure line," such as he had used in his own early drawings. later on, he had adopted a looser and more picturesque style of handling the point; and in the "elements of drawing" he had taught his readers to take rembrandt's etchings as exemplary. but now he felt that this "evasive" manner, as he called it, had its dangers. and so these papers attempted to supersede the amateurish object lesson of the earlier work by stricter rules for a severer style; prematurely, as it proved, for the chapters came to an end before the promised code was formulated. the same work was taken up again in "the laws of fésole"; but the use of the pure line, which ruskin's precepts failed to enforce, was, in the end, taught to the public by the charming practice of mr. walter crane and miss greenaway. a lecture at the camberwell working men's institute on "work and play" was given on january th, ; which, as it was printed in "the crown of wild olive," we will notice further on. various letters and papers on political and social economy and other subjects hardly call for separate notice: with the exception of one very important address to the royal institution of british architects, given may th, "on the study of architecture in our schools." chapter v "ethics of the dust" ( ) writing to his father from manchester about the lecture of february , --"the unity of art"--ruskin mentions, among various people of interest whom he was meeting, such as sir elkanah armitage and mrs. gaskell, how "miss bell and four young ladies came from chester to hear me, and i promised to pay them a visit on my way home, to their apparent great contentment." the visit was paid on his way back from yorkshire. he wrote: "winnington, northwich, cheshire. " _march_, . "this is such a nice place that i am going to stay till monday: an enormous old-fashioned house--full of galleries and up and down stairs--but with magnificently large rooms where wanted: the drawing-room is a huge octagon--i suppose at least forty feet high--like the tower of a castle (hung half way up all round with large and beautiful turner and raphael engravings) and with a baronial fireplace:--and in the evening, brightly lighted, with the groups of girls scattered round it, it is a quite beautiful scene in its way. their morning chapel, too, is very interesting:--though only a large room, it is nicely fitted with reading desk and seats like a college chapel, and two pretty and rich stained-glass windows--and well-toned organ. they have morning prayers with only one of the lessons--and without the psalms: but singing the te deum or the other hymn--and other choral parts: and as out of the thirty-five or forty girls perhaps twenty-five or thirty have really available voices, well trained and divided, it was infinitely more beautiful than any ordinary church service--like the trinita di monte convent service more than anything else, and must be very good for them, quite different in its effect on their minds from our wretched penance of college chapel. "the house stands in a superb park, full of old trees and sloping down to the river; with a steep bank of trees on the other side; just the kind of thing mrs. sherwood likes to describe;--and the girls look all healthy and happy as can be, down to the little six-years-old ones, who i find know me by the fairy tale as the others do by my large books:--so i am quite at home. "they have my portrait in the library with three others--maurice, the bp. of oxford, and archdeacon hare,--so that i can't but stay with them over the sunday." the principles of winnington were advanced; the theology--bishop colenso's daughter was among the pupils; the bishop of oxford had introduced ruskin to the managers, who were pleased to invite the celebrated art-critic to visit whenever he travelled that way, whether to lecture at provincial towns, or to see his friends in the north, as he often used. and so between march and may , after which the school was removed, he was a frequent visitor; and not only he, but other lions whom the ladies entrapped:--mention has been made in print (in "the queen of the air") of charles halle, whom ruskin met there in , and greatly admired. "i like mr. and mrs. halle so very much," he wrote home, "and am entirely glad to know so great a musician and evidently so good and wise a man. he was very happy yesterday evening, and actually sat down and played quadrilles for us to dance to--which is, in its way, something like titian sketching patterns for ball-dresses. but afterwards he played home, sweet home, with three variations--_quite_ the most wonderful thing i have ever heard in music. though i was close to the piano, the motion of the fingers was entirely invisible--a mere _mist_ of rapidity; the _hands_ moving slowly and softly, and the variation, in the ear, like a murmur of a light fountain, far away. it was beautiful too to see the girls' faces round, the eyes all wet with feeling, and the little coral mouths fixed into little half open gaps with utter intensity of astonishment." ruskin could not be idle on his visits; and as he was never so happy as when he was teaching somebody, he improved the opportunity by experiments in education permitted there for his sake. among other things, he devised singing dances for a select dozen of the girls, with verses of his own writing; one, a maze to the theme of "twist ye, twine ye," based upon the song in "guy mannering," but going far beyond the original motive in its variations weighted with allegoric thought. deep as the feeling of this little poem is, there is a nobler chord struck in the song of peace, the battle-cry of the good time coming; in the faith--who else has found it?--that looks forward to no selfish victory of narrow aims, but to the full reconciliation of hostile interests and the blind internecine struggle of this perverse world, in the clearer light of the millennial morning. ruskin's method of teaching, as illustrated in "ethics of the dust," has been variously pooh-poohed by his critics. it has seemed to some absurd to mix up theology, and crystallography, and political economy, and mythology, and moral philosophy, with the chatter of school-girls and the romps of the playground. but it should be understood, before reading this book, which is practically the report of these wilmington talks, that it is printed as an illustration of a method. it showed that play-lessons need not want either depth or accuracy; and that the requirement was simply capacity on the part of the teacher. the following letter from carlyle was written in acknowledgment of an early copy of the book, of which the preface is dated christmas, . "chelsea, "_ decr, ._ "the 'ethics of the dust,' wh'h i devoured with't pause, and intend to look at ag'n, is a most shining performance! not for a long while have i read anything tenth-part so radiant with talent, ingenuity, lambent fire (sheet--and _other_ lightnings) of all commendable kinds! never was such a lecture on _crystallography_ before, had there been nothing else in it,--and there are all manner of things. in power of _expression_ i pronounce it to be supreme; never did anybody who had _such_ things to explain explain them better. and the bit of egypt'n mythology, the cunning _dreams_ ab't pthah, neith, etc., apart from their elucidative quality, wh'h is exquisite, have in them a _poetry_ that might fill any tennyson with despair. you are very dramatic too; nothing wanting in the stage-direct'ns, in the pretty little indicat'ns: a very pretty stage and _dramatis personæ_ altogeth'r. such is my first feeling ab't y'r book, dear r.--come soon, and i will tell you all the _faults_ of it, if i gradually discover a great many. in fact, _come_ at any rate! "y'rs ever, "t. carlyle." the real little housewives, to whom the book was dedicated, were not quite delighted--at least, they said they were not--at the portraits drawn of them, in their pinafores, so to speak, with some little hints at failings and faults which they recognised through the mask of _dramatis personæ._ miss "kathleen" disclaimed the singing of "vilikins and his dinah," and so on. it is difficult to please everybody. the public did not care about the book; the publisher hoped mr. ruskin would write no more dialogues: and so it remained, little noticed, for twelve years. in it was republished and found to be interesting, and in the st thousand (authorised english edition) had been issued. at that time, however, sesame and lilies had run to , copies. winnington hall, the scene of these pastimes, is now, i understand, used by messrs. brunner, mond & co. as a commonroom or clubhouse for the staff in their great scientific industry. chapter vi "the crown of wild olive" ( - ) mention has been made of an address to working men at the camberwell institute, january th, . this lecture was published in , together with two others,[ ] under the title of "the crown of wild olive"--that is to say, the reward of human work, a reward "which should have been of gold, had not jupiter been so poor," as aristophanes said. [footnote : republished in , with a fourth lecture added, and a preface and notes on the political growth of prussia, from carlyle's "frederick."] true work, he said, meant the production (taking the word production in a broad sense) of the means of life; every one ought to take some share in it, according to his powers: some working with the head, some with the hands; but all acknowledging idleness and slavery to be alike immoral. and, as to the remuneration, he said, as he had said before in "unto this last," justice demands that equal energy expended should bring equal reward. he did not consider it justice to cry out for the equalization of incomes, for some are sure to be more diligent and saving than others; some work involves a great preliminary expenditure of energy in qualifying the worker, as contrasted with unskilled labour. but he did not allow that the possession of capital entitled a man to unearned increment; and he thought that, in a community where a truly civilized morality was highly developed, the general sense of society would recognise an average standard of work and an average standard of pay for each class. in the next two lectures he spoke of the two great forms of play, the great games of money-making and war. he had been invited to lecture at bradford, in the hope that he would give some useful advice towards the design of a new exchange which was to be built; in curious forgetfulness, it would appear, of his work during the past ten years and more. indeed, the picture he drew them of an ideal "temple to the goddess of getting-on" was as daring a sermon as ever prophet preached. but when he came to tell them that the employers of labour might be true captains and kings, the leaders and the helpers of their fellow-men, and that the function of commerce was not to prey upon society but to provide for it, there were many of his hearers whose hearts told them that he was right, and whose lives have shown, in some measure, that he did not speak in vain. still stranger, to hearers who had not noted the conclusion of his third volume of "modern painters," was his view of war, in the address to the royal military academy at woolwich, in december . the common view of war as destroyer of arts and enemy of morality, the easy acceptance of the doctrine that peace is an unqualified blessing, the obvious evils of battle and rapine and the waste of resources and life throughout so many ages, have blinded less clear-sighted and less widely-experienced thinkers to another side of the teaching of history, which ruskin dwelt upon with unexpected emphasis. but modern war, horrible, not from its scale, but from the spirit in which the upper classes set the lower to fight like gladiators in the arena, he denounced; and called upon the women of england, with whom, he said, the real power of life and death lay, to mend it into some semblance of antique chivalry, or to end it in the name of religion and humanity. in the _new review_ for march , there appeared a series of "letters of john ruskin to his secretary," which, as the anonymous contributor remarked, illustrate "ruskin the worker, as he acts away from the eyes of the world; ruskin the epistolographer, when the eventuality of the printing-press is not for the moment before him ruskin the good samaritan, ever gentle and open-handed when true need and a good cause make appeal to his tender heart; ruskin the employer, considerate, generous--an ideal master." charles augustus howell became known to ruskin (in or ) through the circle of the pre-raphaelites; and, as the editor of the letters puts it, "by his talents and assiduity" became the too-trusted friend and _protégé_ of ruskin, rossetti and others of their acquaintance. it was he who proposed and carried out the exhumation, reluctantly consented to, of rossetti's manuscript poems from his wife's grave, in october, ; for which curious service to literature let him have the thanks of posterity. but he was hardly the man to carry out ruskin's secret charities, and long before he had lost rossetti's confidence[ ] he had ceased to act as ruskin's secretary. [footnote : in the manner described by mr. w.m. rossetti at p. , vol. i., of "d.g. rossetti, his family letters," to which the reader is referred.] from these letters, however, several interesting traits and incidents may be gleaned, such as anecdotes about the canary which was anonymously bought at the crystal palace bird show (february ) for the owner's benefit: about the shopboy whom ruskin was going to train as an artist; and about the kindly proposal to employ the aged and impoverished cruikshank upon a new book of fairy tales, and the struggle between admiration for the man and admission of his loss of power, ending in the free gift of the hundred pounds promised. in april, , after writing the preface to "the crown of wild olive," and preparing the book for publication, ruskin was carried off to the continent for a holiday with sir walter and lady trevelyan, her niece miss constance hilliard (mrs. churchill), and miss agnew (mrs. severn), for a thorough rest and change after three years of unintermitting work in england. they intended to spend a couple of months in italy. on the day of starting, ruskin called at cheyne walk with the usual bouquet for mrs. carlyle, to learn that she had just met with her death, in trying to save her little dog, the gift of lady trevelyan. he rejoined his friends, and they crossed the channel gaily, in spite of what they thought was rather a cloud over him. at paris they read the news. "yes," he said, "i knew. but there was no reason why i should spoil your pleasure by telling you." on his arrival at dijon he wrote to carlyle, who in answer after giving way to his grief--"my life all laid in ruins, and the one light of it as if gone out,"--continued:--"come and see me when you get home; come oftener and see me, and speak _more_ frankly to me (for i am very true to y'r highest interests and you) while i still remain here. you can do nothing for me in italy; except come home improved." but before this letter reached ruskin, he too had been in the presence of death, and had lost one of his most valued friends. their journey to italy had been undertaken chiefly for the sake of lady trevelyan's health, as the following extracts indicate: "paris, _ nd may, _. "lady trevelyan is much better to-day, but it is not safe to move her yet--till to-morrow. so i'm going to take the children to look at chartres cathedral--we can get three hours there, and be back to seven o'clock dinner. we drove round by st. cloud and sèvres yesterday; the blossomed trees being glorious by the seine,--the children in high spirits. it reminds me always too much of turner--every bend of these rivers is haunted by him." "dijon, _sunday, th may, _. "lady trevelyan is _much_ better, and we hope all to get on to neufchatel to-morrow. the weather is quite fine again though not warm; and yesterday i took the children for a drive up the little valley which we used to drive through on leaving dijon for paris. there are wooded hills on each side, and we got into a sweet valley, as full of nightingales as our garden is of thrushes, and with slopes of broken rocky ground above, covered with the lovely blue milk-wort, and purple columbines, and geranium, and wild strawberry-flowers. the children were intensely delighted, and i took great care that constance should not run about so as to heat herself, and we got up a considerable bit of hill quite nicely, and with greatly increased appetite for tea, and general mischief. they have such appetites that i generally call them 'my two little pigs.' there is a delightful french waiting-maid at dinner here--who says they are both 'charmantes,' but highly approves of my title for them nevertheless." "neufchatel, _ th may_, . "lady trevelyan is still too weak to move. we had (the children and i) a delightful day yesterday at the pierre à bot, gathering vetches and lilies of the valley in the woods, and picnic afterwards on the lovely mossy grass, in view of all the alps--jungfrau, eiger, blumlis alp, altels, and the rest, with intermediate lake and farmsteads and apple-blossom--very heavenly." here, within a few days, lady trevelyan died. throughout her illness she had been following the progress of the new notes on wild-flowers (afterwards to be "proserpina") with keen interest, and sir walter lent the help of botanical science to ruskin's more poetical and artistic observations. for the sake of this work, and for the "children," and with a wise purpose of bearing up under the heavy blow that had fallen, the two friends continued their journey for a while among the mountains. from thun they went to interlachen and the giessbach. ruskin occupied himself closely in tracing studer's sections across the great lake-furrow of central switzerland--"something craggy for his mind to break upon," as byron said when he was in trouble. at the giessbach there was not only geology and divine scenery, enjoyable in lovely weather, but an interesting figure in the foreground, the widowed daughter of the hotel landlord, beautiful and consumptive, but brave as a swiss girl should be. they all seem to have fallen in love with her, so to speak the young english girls as much as the impressionable art-critic: and the new human interest in her alpine tragedy relieved, as such interests do, the painfulness of the circumstances through which they had been passing. her sister marie was like an allegra to this penserosa; bright and brilliant in native genius. she played piano-duets with the young ladies; taught alpine botany to the savants; guided them to the secret dells and unknown points of view; and with a sympathy unexpected in a stranger, beguiled them out of their grief, and won their admiration and gratitude. marie of the giessbach was often referred to in letters of the time, and for many years after, with warmly affectionate remembrances. a few bits from his letters to his mother, which i have been permitted to copy, will indicate the impressions of this summer's tour. "h�tel du giesbach, _ th june, _, "my dearest mother, "can you at all fancy walking out in the morning in a garden full of lilacs just in rich bloom, and pink hawthorn in masses; and along a little terrace with lovely pinks coming into cluster of colour all over the low wall beside it; and a sloping bank of green sward from it--and below that, the giesbach! fancy having a real alpine waterfall in one's garden,--seven hundred feet high. you see, we are just in time for the spring, here, and the strawberries are ripening on the rocks. joan and constance have been just scrambling about and gathering them for me. then there's the blue-green lake below, and interlaken and the lake of thun in the distance. i think i never saw anything so beautiful. joan will write to you about the people, whom she has made great friends with, already." "_ th june, _. "i cannot tell you how much i am struck with the beauty of this fall: it is different from everything i have ever seen in torrents. there are so many places where one gets near it without being wet, for one thing; for the falls are, mostly, not vertical so as to fly into mere spray, but over broken rock, which crushes the water into a kind of sugar-candy-like foam, white as snow, yet glittering; and composed, not of bubbles, but of broken-up water. then i had forgotten that it plunged straight into the lake; i got down to the lake shore on the other side of it yesterday, and to see it plunge clear into the blue water, with the lovely mossy rocks for its flank, and for the lake edge, was an unbelievable kind of thing; it is all as one would fancy cascades in fairyland. i do not often endure with patience any cockneyisms or showings off at these lovely places. but they do one thing here so interesting that i can forgive it. one of the chief cascades (about midway up the hill) falls over a projecting rock, so that one can walk under the torrent as it comes over. it leaps so clear that one is hardly splashed, except at one place. well, when it gets dark, they burn, for five minutes, one of the strongest steady fireworks of a crimson colour, behind the fall. the red light shines right through, turning the whole waterfall into a torrent of fire." "_ th june, ._ "we leave, according to our programme, for interlachen to-day,--with great regret, for the peace and sweetness of this place are wonderful and the people are good; and though there is much drinking and quarrelling among the younger men, there appears to be neither distressful poverty, nor deliberate crime: so that there is more of the sense i need, and long for, of fellowship with human creatures, than in any place i have been at for years. i believe they don't so much as lock the house-doors at night; and the faces of the older peasantry are really very beautiful. i have done a good deal of botany, and find that wild-flower botany is more or less inexhaustible, but the cultivated flowers are infinite in their caprice. the forget-me-nots and milkworts are singularly beautiful here, but there is quite as much variety in english fields as in these, as long as one does not climb much--and i'm very lazy, compared to what i used to be," "_lauterbrunnen, th june, ._ "we had a lovely evening here yesterday, and the children enjoyed and understood it better than anything they have yet seen among the alps. constance was in great glory in a little walk i took her in the twilight through the upper meadows: the staubbach seen only as a grey veil suspended from its rock, and the great alps pale above on the dark sky. she condescended nevertheless to gather a great bunch of the white catchfly,--to make 'pops' with,--her friend marie at the giesbach having shown her how a startling detonation may be obtained, by skilful management, out of its globular calyx. "this morning is not so promising,--one of the provoking ones which will neither let you stay at home with resignation, nor go anywhere with pleasure. i'm going to take the children for a little quiet exploration of the wengern path, to see how they like it, and if the weather betters--we may go on. at all events i hope to find an alpine rose or two." in june, , the professorship of poetry at oxford was vacant; and ruskin's friends were anxious to see him take the post. he, however, felt no especial fitness or inclination for it, and did not stand. three years later he was elected to a professorship that at this time had not been founded. after spending june in the oberland, he went homewards through berne, vevey and geneva, to find his private secretary with a bundle of begging letters, and his friend carlyle busy with the defence of governor eyre. in an insurrection of negroes at morant bay, jamaica, had threatened to take the most serious shape, when it was stamped out by the high-handed measures of mr. eyre. after the first congratulations were over another side to the question called for a hearing. the baptist missionaries declared that among the negroes who were shot and hanged _in terrorem_ were peaceable subjects, respectable members of their own native congregations, for whose character they could vouch; they added that the gravity of the situation had been exaggerated by private enmity and jealousy of their work and creed. a strong committee was formed under liberal auspices, supported by such men as john stuart mill and thomas hughes, the author of "tom brown's schooldays"--men whose motive was above suspicion--to bring mr. eyre to account. carlyle, who admired the strong hand, and had no interest in baptist missionaries, accepted mr. eyre as the saviour of society in his west indian sphere; and there were many, both in jamaica and at home, who believed that, but for his prompt action, the white population would have been massacred with all the horrors of a savage rebellion. ruskin had been for many years the ally of the broad church and liberal party. but he was now coming more and more under the personal influence of carlyle; and when it came to the point of choosing sides, declared himself, in a letter to the _daily telegraph_ (december th, ), a conservative and a supporter of order; and joined the eyre defence committee with a subscription of £ . the prominent part he took, for example, in the meeting of september, , was no doubt forced upon him by his desire to save carlyle, whose recent loss and shaken nerves made such business especially trying to him. letters of this period remain, in which carlyle begs ruskin to "be diligent, i bid you!"--and so on, adding, "i must absolutely _shut up_ in that direction, to save my sanity." and so it fell to the younger man to work through piles of pamphlets and newspaper correspondence, to interview politicians and men of business, and--what was so very foreign to his habits--to take a leading share in a party agitation. but in all this he was true to his jacobite instincts. he had been brought up a tory; and though he had drifted into an alliance with the broad church and philosophical liberals, he was never one of them. now that his father was gone, perhaps he felt a sort of duty to own himself his father's son; and the failure of liberal philanthropy to realise his ideals, and of liberal philosophy to rise to his economic standards, combined with carlyle to induce him to label himself conservative. but his conservatism could not be accepted by the party so called. fortunately, he did not need or ask their recognition. he took no interest in party politics, and never in his life voted at a parliamentary election. he only meant to state in the shortest terms that he stood for loyalty and order. chapter vii "time and tide" ( ) the series of letters published as "time and tide by weare and tyne" were addressed[ ] to thomas dixon, a working cork-cutter of sunderland, whose portrait by professor legros is familiar to visitors at the south kensington museum. he was one of those thoughtful, self-educated working men in whom, as a class, ruskin had been taking a deep interest for the past twelve years, an interest which had purchased him a practical insight into their various capacities and aims, and the right to speak without fear or favour. at this time there was an agitation for parliamentary reform, and the better representation of the working classes; and it was on this topic that the letters were begun, though the writer went on to criticise the various social ideals then popular, and to propose his own. he had already done something of the sort in "unto this last"; but "time and tide" is much more complete, and the result of seven years' further thought and experience. his "fors clavigera" is a continuation of these letters, but written at a time when other work and ill health broke in upon his strength. "time and tide" is not only the statement of his social scheme as he saw it in his central period, but, written as these letters were--at a stroke, so to speak--condensed in exposition and simple in language, they deserve the most careful reading by the student of ruskin. [footnote : during february, march and april, , and published in the _manchester examiner_ and _leeds mercury_.] before this work was ended, carlyle had come back from mentone to chelsea, and was begging his friend, in the warmest terms, to come and see him. shortly afterward, a passage which ruskin would not retract gave offence to carlyle. but the difference was healed, and later years reveal the sage of chelsea as kindly and affectionate as ever. this friendship between the two greatest writers of their age, between two men of vigorous individuality, outspoken opinions, and widely different tastes and sympathies, is a fine episode in the history of both. in may, ruskin was invited to cambridge to receive the honorary degree of ll.d., and to deliver the rede lecture. the _cambridge chronicle_ of may th, , says: "the body of the senate house was quite filled with m.a.'s and ladies, principally the latter, whilst there was a large attendance of undergraduates in the galleries, who gave the lecturer a most enthusiastic reception." a brief report of the lecture was printed in the newspaper; but it was not otherwise published, and the manuscript seems to have been mislaid for thirty years. i take the liberty of copying the opening sentences as a specimen of that academical oratory which mr. ruskin then adopted, and used habitually in his earlier lectures at oxford. the title of the discourse was "the relation of national ethics to national arts." "in entering on the duty to-day entrusted to me, i should hold it little respectful to my audience if i disturbed them by expression of the diffidence which they know that i must feel in first speaking in this senate house; diffidence which might well have prevented me from accepting such duty, but ought not to interfere with my endeavour simply to fulfil it. nevertheless, lest the direction which i have been led to give to my discourse, and the narrow limits within which i am compelled to confine the treatment of its subject may seem in anywise inconsistent with the purpose of the founder of this lecture--or with the expectations of those by whose authority i am appointed to deliver it, let me at once say that i obeyed their command, not thinking myself able to teach any dogma in the philosophy of the arts, which could be of any new interest to the members of this university: but only that i might obtain the sanction of their audience, for the enforcement upon other minds of the truth, which--after thirty years spent in the study of art, not dishonestly, however feebly--is manifest to me as the clearest of all that i have learned, and urged upon me as the most vital of all i have to declare." he then distinguished between true and false art, the true depending upon sincerity, whether in literature, music or the formative arts: he reinforced his old doctrine of the dignity of true imagination as the attribute of healthy and earnest minds; and energetically attacked the commercial art-world of the day, and the notion that drawing-schools were to be supported for the sake of the gain they would bring to our manufacturers. in this lecture we see the germ of the ideas, as well as the beginning of the style, of the oxford inaugural course, and the "eagle's nest"; something quite different in type from the style and teaching of the addresses to working men, or to mixed popular audiences at edinburgh or manchester, or even at the royal institution. at this latter place, on june th, sir henry holland in the chair, he lectured on "the present state of modern art, with reference to advisable arrangement of the national gallery," repeating much of what he had said in "time and tide" about the taste for the horrible and absence of true feeling for pure and dignified art in the theatrical shows of the day, and in the admiration for gustave doré, then a new fashion. mr. ruskin could never endure that the man who had illustrated balzac's "contes drôlatiques" should be chosen by the religious public of england as the exponent of their sacred ideals. in july after a short visit to huntly burn near abbotsford, he went to keswick for a few weeks, from whence he wrote the rhymed letters to his cousin at home, quoted (with the date wrongly given as ) in "præterita" to illustrate his "heraldic character" of "little pigs" and to shock exoteric admirers. like, for example, rossetti and carlyle, ruskin was fond of playful nicknames and grotesque terms of endearment. he never stood upon his dignity with intimates; and was ready to allow the liberties he took, much to the surprise of strangers. he reached keswick by july , and spent his time chiefly in walks upon the hills, staying at the derwentwater hotel. he wrote: "keswick, _ th july, ' , afternoon, / past _. "my dearest mother, "as this is the last post before sunday i send one more line to say i've had a delightful forenoon's walk--since / past ten--by st. john's vale, and had pleasant thoughts, and found one of the most variedly beautiful torrent beds i ever saw in my life; and i feel that i gain strength, slowly but certainly, every day. the great good of the place is that i can be content without going on great excursions which fatigue and do me harm (or else worry me with problems;)--i am _content_ here with the roadside hedges and streams; and this contentment is the great thing for health,--and there is hardly anything to annoy me of absurd or calamitous human doing; but still this ancient cottage life--very rude and miserable enough in its torpor--but clean, and calm, not a vile cholera and plague of bestirred pollution, like back streets in london. there is also much more real and deep beauty than i expected to find, in some of the minor pieces of scenery, and in the cloud effects." "_july _. "i have the secret of extracting sadness from all things, instead of joy, which is no enviable talisman. forgive me if i ever write in a way that may pain you. it is best that you should know, when i write cheerfully, it is no pretended cheerfulness; so when i am sad--i think it right to confess it." "_ th july._ "downes[ ] arrived yesterday quite comfortably and in fine weather. it is not bad this morning, and i hope to take him for a walk up saddleback, which, after all, is the finest, to my mind, of all the cumberland hills--though that is not saying much; for they are much lower in effect, in proportion to their real height, than i had expected. the beauty of the country is in its quiet roadside bits, and rusticity of cottage life and shepherd labour. its mountains are sorrowfully melted away from my old dreams of them." [footnote : the gardener at denmark hill.] next day he "went straight up the steep front of saddleback by the central ridge to the summit. it is the finest thing i've yet seen, there being several bits of real crag-work, and a fine view at the top over the great plains of penrith on one side, and the cumberland hills, as a chain, on the other. fine fresh wind blowing, and plenty of crows. do you remember poor papa's favourite story about the quaker whom the crows ate on saddleback? there were some of the biggest and hoarsest-voiced ones about the cliff that i've ever had sympathetic croaks from;--and one on the top, or near it, so big that downes and crawley, having austrian tendencies in politics, took it for a 'black eagle.' downes went up capitally, though i couldn't get him down again, because he _would_ stop to gather ferns. however, we did it all and came down to threlkeld--of the bridal of triermain, "'the king his way pursued by lonely threlkeld's waste and wood,' "in good time for me to dress and, for a wonder, go out to dinner with acland's friends the butlers." as an episode in this visit to keswick, ten days were given to the neighbourhood of ambleside, "to show downes windermere." "waterhead, windermere, "_ th august, , evening_. "i was at coniston to-day. our old waterhead inn, where i was so happy playing in the boats, _exists_ no more.--its place is grown over with smooth park grass--the very site of it forgotten! and, a quarter of a mile down the lake, a vast hotel built in the railroad station style--making up, i suppose, its fifty or eighty beds, with coffee-room--smoking-room--and every pestilent and devilish yankeeism that money can buy, or speculation plan. "the depression, whatever its cause, does not affect my strength. i walked up a long hill on the road to coniston to-day (gathering wild raspberries)--then from this new inn, two miles to the foot of coniston old man; up it; down again--(necessarily!)--and back to dinner, without so much as warming myself--not that there was much danger of doing that at the top; for a keen west wind was blowing drifts of cloud by at a great pace, and one was glad of the shelter of the pile of stones, the largest and _oldest_ i ever saw on a mountain top. i suppose the whole mountain is named from it. it is of the shape of a beehive, strongly built, about feet high (so that i made downes follow me up it before i would allow he had been at the top of the old man) and covered with lichen and short moss. lancaster sands and the irish sea were very beautiful, and so also the two lakes of coniston and windermere, lying in the vastest space of sweet cultivated country i have ever looked over,--a great part of the view from the rigi being merely over black pine forest, even on the plains. well, after dinner, the evening was very beautiful, and i walked up the long hill on the road back from coniston--and kept ahead of the carriage for two miles: i was sadly vexed when i had to get in: and now--i don't feel as if i had been walking at all--and shall probably lie awake for an hour or two--and feeling as if i had not had exercise enough to send me to sleep." "langdale, _ th august, evening._ "it is perfectly calm to-night, not painfully hot--and the full moon shining over the mountains, opposite my window, which are the scene of wordsworth's 'excursion.' it was terribly hot in the earlier day, and i did not leave the house till five o'clock. then i went out, and in the heart of langdale pikes found the loveliest rock-scenery, chased with silver waterfalls, that i ever set foot or heart upon. the swiss torrent-beds are always more or less savage, and ruinous, with a terrible sense of overpowering strength and danger, lulled. but here, the sweet heather and ferns and star mosses nestled in close to the dashing of the narrow streams;--while every cranny of crag held its own little placid lake of amber, trembling with falling drops--but quietly trembling--not troubled into ridgy wave or foam--the rocks themselves, _ideal_ rock, as hard as iron--no--not quite that, but _so_ hard that after breaking some of it, breaking solid white quartz seemed like smashing brittle loaf sugar, in comparison--and cloven into the most noble masses; not grotesque, but majestic and full of harmony with the larger mountain mass of which they formed a part. fancy what a place! for a hot afternoon after five, with no wind--and absolute solitude; no creature--except a lamb or two--to mix any ruder sound or voice with the plash of the innumerable streamlets." it was during this tour that he looked at a site on the hill above bowness-on-windermere, where mr. t. richmond, the owner, proposed building him a house. he liked the view, but found it too near the railway station. after spending september with his mother at norwood under the care of dr. powell, he was able to return home, prepare "time and tide" for publication, and write the preface on dec. th. on the th the book was out, and immediately bought up. a month later the second edition was issued. chapter viii agates, and abbeville ( ) of less interest to the general reader, though too important a part of ruskin's life and work to be passed over without mention, are his studies in mineralogy. we have heard of his early interest in spars and ores; of his juvenile dictionary in forgotten hieroglyphics; and of his studies in the field and at the british museum. he had made a splendid collection, and knew the various museums of europe as familiarly as he knew the picture-galleries. in the "ethics of the dust" he had chosen crystallography as the subject in which to exemplify his method of education; and in , after finishing the letters to thomas dixon, he took refuge, as before, among the stones, from the stress of more agitating problems. in the lecture on the savoy alps in he had referred to a hint of saussure's that the contorted beds of the limestones might possibly be due to some sort of internal action, resembling on a large scale that separation into concentric or curved bands which is seen in calcareous deposits. the contortions of gneiss were similarly analogous, it was suggested, to those of the various forms of silica. ruskin did not adopt the theory, but put it by for examination in contrast with the usual explanation of these phenomena, as the simple mechanical thrust of the contracting surface of the earth. in and he had been among the nagelflüh of northern switzerland, studying the puddingstones and breccias. he saw that the difference between these formations, in their structural aspect, and the hand-specimens in his collection of pisolitic and brecciated minerals was chiefly a matter of size; and that the resemblances in form were very close. and so he concluded that if the structure of the minerals could be fully understood a clue might be found to the very puzzling question of the origin of mountain structure. hence his attempt to analyze the structure of agates and similar banded and brecciated minerals, in the series of papers in the _geological magazine_;[ ] an attempt which though it was never properly completed, and fails to come to any general conclusion, is extremely interesting as an account of beautiful and curious natural forms till then little noticed by mineralogists. [footnote : august and november, , january, april and may, , december, , and january, , illustrated with very fine mezzotint plates and woodcuts.] a characteristic anecdote of this period is preserved in "arrows of the chace." "the _daily telegraph_ of january st, , contained a leading article upon the following facts. it appeared that a girl, named matilda griggs, had been nearly murdered by her seducer, who, after stabbing her in no less than thirteen places, had then left her for dead. she had, however, still strength enough to crawl into a field close by, and there swooned. the assistance she met with in this plight was of a rare kind. two calves came up to her, and disposing themselves on either side of her bleeding body, thus kept her warm and partly sheltered from cold and rain. temporarily preserved, the girl eventually recovered, and entered into recognizances, under a sum of forty pounds, to prosecute her murderous lover. but 'she loved much,' and failing to prosecute, forfeited her recognizances, and was imprisoned by the chancellor of the exchequer for her debt. 'pity the poor debtor,' wrote the _daily telegraph_, and in the next day's issue appeared the following letter, probably not intended for the publication accorded to it. 'sir,--except in 'gil blas,' i never read of anything astræan on the earth so perfect as the story in your fourth article to-day. i send you a cheque for the chancellor. if forty, in legal terms, means four hundred, you must explain the farther requirements to your impulsive public. "'i am, sir, your faithful servant, 'j. ruskin.'" the writer of letters like this naturally had a large correspondence, beside that which a circle of private friends and numberless admirers and readers elicited. about this time it grew to such a pitch that he was obliged to print a form excusing him from letter-writing on the ground of stress of work. and indeed, this year, though he did not publish his annual volume, as usual, he was fully occupied with frequent letters to newspapers, several lectures and addresses, a preface to the reprint of his old friend cruikshank's "grimm," and the beginning of a new botanical work, "proserpina," in addition to the mineralogy, and a renewed interest in classical studies. of the public addresses the most important was that on "the mystery of life and its arts," delivered in the theatre of the royal college of science, dublin (may th), and printed in "sesame and lilies." after this visit to ireland he spent a few days at winnington; and late in august crossed the channel, for rest and change at abbeville. for the past five years he had found too little time for drawing; it was twenty years since his last sketching of french gothic, except for a study (now at oxford), of the porch at amiens, in . he took up the old work where he had left it, after writing the "seven lamps," with fresh interest and more advanced powers of draughtsmanship as shown in the pencil study of the place amiral courbet, now in the drawing school at oxford. the following are extracts from the usual budget of home letters; readers of "fors" will need no further introduction to their old acquaintance, the tallow-chandler. "abbeville, _friday, th sept._, "you seem to have a most uncomfortable time of it, with the disturbance of the house. however, i can only leave you to manage these things as you think best--or feel pleasantest to yourself. i am saddened by another kind of disorder, france is in everything so fallen back, so desolate and comfortless, compared to what it was twenty years ago--the people so much rougher, clumsier, more uncivil--everything they do, vulgar and base. remnants of the old nature come out when they begin to know you. i am drawing at a nice tallow-chandler's door, and to-day, for the first time had to go inside for rain. he was very courteous and nice, and warned me against running against the candle-ends--or bottoms, as they were piled on the shelves, saying--'you must take care, you see, not to steal any of my candles'--or 'steal _from_ my candles,' meaning not to rub them off on my coat. he has a beautiful family of cats--papa and mamma and two superb kittens--half angora." "_ nd sept._ "i am going to my cats and tallow-chandler.... i was very much struck by the superiority of manner both in him and in his two daughters who serve at the counter, to persons of the same class in england. when the girls have weighed out their candles, or written down the orders that are sent in, they instantly sit down to their needlework behind the counter, and are always busy, yet always quiet; and their father, though of course there may be vulgar idioms in his language which i do not recognize, has entirely the manners of a gentleman." _ th sept_. "i have the advantage here i had not counted on. i see by the papers that the weather in england is very stormy and bad. now, though it is showery here, and breezy, it has always allowed me at some time of the day to draw. the air is tender and soft, invariably--even when blowing with force; and to-day, i have seen quite the loveliest sunset i ever yet saw,--one at boulogne in ' was richer; but for delicacy and loveliness nothing of past sight ever came near this." earlier on the same day he had written: "i am well satisfied with the work i am doing, and even with my own power of doing it, if only i can keep myself from avariciously trying to do too much, and working hurriedly. but i can do _very_ little quite _well_, each day: with that however it is my bounden duty to be content. "and now i have a little piece of news for you. our old herne hill house being now tenantless, and requiring some repairs before i can get a tenant, i have resolved to keep it for myself, for my rougher mineral work and mass of collection; keeping only my finest specimens at denmark hill. my first reason for this, is affection for the old house:--my second, want of room;--my third, the incompatibility of hammering, washing, and experimenting on stones with cleanliness in my stores of drawings. and my fourth is the power i shall have, when i want to do anything very quietly, of going up the hill and thinking it out in the old garden, where your greenhouse still stands, and the aviary--without fear of interruption from callers. "it may perhaps amuse you, in hours which otherwise would be listless, to think over what may be done with the old house. i have ordered it at once to be put in proper repair by mr. snell; but for the furnishing, i can give no directions at present: it is to be very simple, at all events, and calculated chiefly for museum work and for stores of stones and books: and you really must not set your heart on having it furnished like buckingham palace. "i have bought to-day, for five pounds, the front of the porch of the church of st. james. it was going to be entirely destroyed. it is worn away, and has little of its old beauty; but as a remnant of the gothic of abbeville--as i happen to be here--and as the church was dedicated to my father's patron saint (as distinct from mine) i'm glad to have got it. it is a low arch--with tracery and niches, which ivy, and the erba della madonna, will grow over beautifully, wherever i rebuild it." at abbeville he had with him as usual his valet crawley; and as before he sent for downes the gardener, to give him a holiday, and to enjoy his raptures over every new sight. c.e. norton came on a short visit, and ruskin followed him to paris, where he met the poet longfellow (october ). at last on monday, th october, he wrote: "only a line to-day, for i am getting things together, and am a little tired, but very well, and glad to come home, though much mortified at having failed in half my plans, and done nothing compared to what i expected. but it is better than if i were displeased with all i _had_ done. it isn't turner--and it isn't correggio--it isn't even prout--but it isn't bad." returning home, he gave an account of his autumn's work in the lecture at the royal institution, january th, , on the "flamboyant architecture of the valley of the somme." this lecture was not then published in full: but part of the original text is printed in the third chapter of the work we have next to notice, "the queen of the air." chapter ix "the queen of the air" ( ) in spite of a "classical education" and the influence of aristotle upon the immature art-theories of his earlier works, ruskin was known, in his younger days, as a goth, and the enemy of the greeks. when he began life, his sense of justice made him take the side of modern painters against classical tradition. later on, when considering the great questions of education and the aims of life, he entirely set aside the common routine of greek and latin grammar as the all-in-all of culture. but this was not because he shared carlyle's contempt for classical studies. in "modern painters," vol. iii., he had followed out the indications of nature-worship, and tried to analyse in general terms the attitude of the greek spirit towards landscape scenery, as betrayed in homer and aristophanes and the poets usually read. since that time his interest in greek literature had been gradually increasing. he had made efforts to improve his knowledge of the language; and he had spent many days in sketching and studying the terra-cottas and vases and coins at the british museum. he had also taken up some study of egyptology, through champollion, bunsen and birch, in the hope of tracing the origin of greek decorative art. comparative mythology, at that time, was a department of philology, introduced to the english public chiefly by max müller. under his influence ruskin entered step by step upon an inquiry which afterwards became of singular importance in his life and thought. in he had told his hearers at bradford that greek religion was not, as commonly supposed, the worship of beauty, but of wisdom and power. they did not, in their great age, worship "venus," but apollo and athena. and he regarded their mythology as a sincere tradition, effective in forming a high moral type, and a great school of art. in the "ethics of the dust" he had explained the myth of athena as parallel to that of neith in egypt; and in his fable of neith and st. barbara he had hinted at a comparison, on equal terms, of ancient and mediæval mythology. he ended by saying that, though he would not have his young hearers believe "that the greeks were better than we, and that their gods were real angels," yet their art and morals were in some respects greater, and their beliefs were worth respectful and sympathetic study. the "queen of the air" is his contribution to this study. on march th, , his lecture at university college, london, on "greek myths of cloud and storm," began with an attempt to explain in popular terms how a myth differs from mere fiction on the one hand and from allegory on the other, being "not conceived didactically, but didactic in its essence, as all good art is." he showed that greek poetry dealt with the series of nature-myths with which were interwoven ethical suggestions; that these were connected with egyptian beliefs, but that the full force of them was only developed in the central period of greek history, and their interpretation was to be read in a sympathetic analysis of the spirit of men like pindar and �schylus. "the great question," he said, "in reading a story is, always, not what wild hunter dreamed, or what childish race first dreaded it; but what wise man first perfectly told, and what strong people first perfectly lived by it. and the real meaning of any myth is that which it has at the noblest age of the nation among whom it was current." in the next chapter he worked out, as a sequel to his lecture, two groups of animal-myths; those connected with birds, and especially the dove, as type of spirit, and those connected with the serpent in its various significances. these two studies were continued, more or less, in "love's meinie" and in the lecture printed in "deucalion," as the third group, that of plant-myths, was carried on in "proserpina." the volume contained also extracts from the lecture on the architecture of the valley of the somme, and two numbers of the "cestus of aglaia," and closed with a paper on the hercules of camarina, read to the south lambeth art school on march th. this study of a greek coin had already formed the subject of an address at the working men's college, and anticipated the second course of oxford lectures. for the rest, "the queen of the air" is marked by its statement, more clearly than before in ruskin's writing, of the dependence of moral upon physical life, and of physical upon moral science. he speaks with respect of the work of darwin and tyndall; but as formerly in the rede lecture, and afterwards in the "eagle's nest," he claims that natural science should not be pursued as an end in itself, paramount to all other conclusions and considerations; but as a department of study subordinate to ethics, with a view to utility and instruction. before this book was quite ready for publication, and after a sale of some of his less treasured pictures at christie's he left home for a journey to italy, to revisit the subjects of "stones of venice," as in he had revisited those of the "seven lamps." at vevey, on the way, he wrote his preface (may st). by quiet stages he passed the simplon, writing from domo d'ossola, th may, : "i never yet had so beautiful a day for the simplon as this has been; though the skin of my face is burning now all over--to keep me well in mind of its sunshine. i left brieg at exactly--light clouds breaking away into perfect calm of blue. heavy snow on the col--about a league--with the wreaths in many places higher than the carriage. then, white crocus all over the fields, with soldanelle and primula farinosa. i walked about three miles up, and seven down, with great contentment; the waterfalls being all in rainbows, and one beyond anything i ever yet saw; for it fell in a pillar of spray against shadow behind, and became rainbow altogether. i was just near enough to get the belt broad, and the down part of the arch: and the whole fall became orange and violet against deep shade. to-morrow i hope to get news of you all, at baveno." "baveno, _thursday, th may_, . "it is wet this morning, and very dismal, for we are in a ghastly new inn, the old one being shut up; and there is always a re-action after a strong excitement like the beauty of the simplon yesterday, which leaves one very dull. but it is of no use growling or mewing. i hope to be at milan to-morrow--at verona for sunday. i have been reading dean swift's life, and 'gulliver's travels' again. putting the delight in dirt, which is a mere disease, aside, swift is very like me, in most things:--in opinions exactly the same." at milan, next day, he went to see the st. catherine of luini which he had copied, and found it wantonly damaged by the carelessness of masons who put their ladders up against it, just as if it were a bit of common whitewashed wall. on the th he reached verona after seventeen years' absence, and on the th he was in venice. there, looking at the works of the old painters with a fresh eye, and with feelings and thoughts far different from those with which he had viewed them as a young man, in , he saw beauties he had passed over before, in the works of a painter till then little regarded by connoisseurs, and entirely neglected by the public. historians of art like crowe and cavalcaselle[ ] had indeed examined carpaccio's works and investigated his life, along with the lives and works of many another obscure master: artists like hook and burne-jones had admired his pictures; ruskin had mentioned his backgrounds twice or thrice in "stones of venice." but no writer had noticed his extraordinary interest as an exponent of the mythology of the middle ages, as the illustrator of poetical folk-lore derived from those antique myths of greece, and newly presented by the genius of christianity. [footnote : their "history of painting in north italy," containing a detailed account of carpaccio, was published in .] this was a discovery for which ruskin was now ripe, he saw at once that he had found a treasure-house of things new and old. he fell in love with st. ursula as, twenty-four years earlier, he had fallen in love with the statue of ilaria at lucca; and she became, as time after time he revisited venice for her sake, a personality, a spiritual presence, a living ideal, exactly as the queen of the air might have been to the sincere athenian in the pagan age of faith. the story of her life and death became an example, the conception of her character, as read in carpaccio's picture, became a standard for his own life and action in many a time of distress and discouragement. the thought of "what would st. ursula say?" led him--not always, but far more often than his correspondents knew--to burn the letter of sharp retort upon stupidity and impertinence, and to force the wearied brain and overstrung nerves into patience and a kindly answer. and later on, the playful credence which he accorded to the myth deepened into a renewed sense of the possibility of spiritual realities, when he learnt to look, with those mediæval believers; once more as a little child upon the unfathomable mysteries of life. but this anticipates the story; at the time, he found in carpaccio the man who had touched the full chord of his feelings and his thoughts, just as, in his boyhood, turner had led him, marvelling, through the fire and cloud to the mountain-altar; and as, in his youth, tintoret had interpreted the storm and stress of a mind awakening to the terrible realities of the world. it was no caprice of a changeful taste, nor love of startling paradox, that brought him to "discover carpaccio;" it was the logical sequence of his studies, and widening interests, and a view of art embracing far broader issues than the connoisseurship of "modern painters," or the didacticism of "seven lamps," or the historical research of "stones of venice." soon after the "queen of the air" was published carlyle wrote: "last week i got y'r 'queen of the air,' and read it. _euge, ettge._ no such book have i met with for long years past. the one soul now in the world who seems to feel as i do on the highest matters, and speaks _mir aus dem herzen_, exactly what i wanted to hear!-as to the natural history of those old myths i remained here and there a little uncert'n; but as to the meanings you put into them, never anywhere. all these things i not only 'agree' with, but w'd use thor's hammer, if i had it, to enforce and put in action on this rotten world. well done, well done!--and pluck up a heart, and continue ag'n and ag'n. and don't say 'most g't tho'ts are dressed _in shrouds_': many, many are the phoebus apollo celestial arrows you still have to shoot into the foul pythons, and poisonous abominable megatheriums and plesiosaurians that go staggering ab't, large as cathedrals, in our sunk epoch ag'n...." chapter x verona and oxford ( - ) the main object of this journey was, however, not to study mythology, but to continue the revision of old estimates of architecture, and after seventeen years to look with a fresh eye at the subjects of "stones of venice." the churches and monuments of verona had been less thoroughly studied than those of venice, and now they were threatened with imminent restoration. on may th he wrote:--"it is very strange that i have just been in time--after years' delay--to get the remainder of what i wanted from the red tomb of which my old drawing hangs in the passage"--(the castelbarco monument). "to-morrow they put up scaffolding to retouch, and i doubt not, spoil it for evermore." he succeeded in getting a delay of ten days, to enable him to paint the tomb in its original state; but before he went home it "had its new white cap on and looked like a venetian gentleman in a pantaloon's mask." he brought away one of the actual stones of the old roof. on june he wrote: "i am getting on well with all my own work; and much pleased with some that mr. bunney is doing for me; so that really i expect to carry off a great deal of verona.... the only mischief of the place is its being too rich. stones, flowers, mountains--all equally asking one to look at them; a history to every foot of ground, and a picture on every foot of wall; frescoes fading away in the neglected streets--like the colours of the dolphin." as assistants in this enterprise of recording the monuments of venice and verona, and of recording them more fully and in a more interesting way than by photography, he took with him arthur burgess and john bunney, his former pupils. mr. burgess was the subject of a memoir by ruskin in the _century guild hobby horse_ (april, ), appreciating his talents and lamenting his loss. mr. bunney, who had travelled with ruskin in switzerland in , and had lately lived near florence, thenceforward settled in venice, where he died in , after completing his great work, the st. mark's now in the ruskin museum at sheffield. a memoir of him by mr. wedderburn appeared in the catalogue of the venice exhibition, at the fine art society's gallery in november, . at venice ruskin had met his old friend rawdon brown[ ], and count giberto borromeo, whom he visited at milan on his way home, with deep interest in the luinis and in the authentic bust of st. carlo; so closely resembling ruskin himself. another noteworthy encounter is recorded in a letter of may th.[ ] [footnote : whose book on the english in italy (from venetian documents) was shortly to be published, with funds supplied by ruskin.] [footnote : this date ought to be "june th," as mr. e.t. cook notices (library edn. xix., p. liv.).] "as i was drawing in the square this morning, in a lovely, quiet, italian, light, there came up the poet longfellow with his little daughter--a girl of , or , with _springy_-curled flaxen hair,--curls, or waves, that wouldn't come out in damp, i mean. they stayed talking beside me some time. i don't think it was a very vain thought that came over me, that if a photograph could have been taken of the beautiful square of verona, in that soft light, with longfellow and his daughter talking to me at my work--some people both in england and america would have liked copies of it." readers of "fors" will recognise an incident noted on the th of june. "yesterday, it being quite cool, i went for a walk; and as i came down from a rather quiet hillside, a mile or two out of town, i past a house where the women were at work spinning the silk off the cocoons. there was a sort of whirring sound as in an english mill; but at intervals they sang a long sweet chant, all together, lasting about two minutes--then pausing a minute and then beginning again. it was good and tender music, and the multitude of voices prevented any sense of failure, so that it was very lovely and sweet, and like the things that i mean to try to bring to pass." for he was already meditating on the thoughts that issued in the proposals of st. george's guild, and the daily letters of this summer are full of allusions to a scheme for a great social movement, as well as to his plans for the control of alpine torrents and the better irrigation of their valleys. on the nd of june he wrote:--"i see more and more clearly every day my power of showing how the alpine torrents may be--not subdued--but 'educated.' a torrent is just like a human creature. left to gain full strength in wantonness and rage, no power can any more redeem it: but watch the channels of every early impulse, and fence _them_, and your torrent becomes the gentlest and most blessing of servants." his mother was anxious for him to come home, being persuaded that he was overworking himself in the continued heat which his letters reported. but he was loath to leave italy, in which, he said, his work for the future lay. he made two more visits to venice, to draw some of the sculptured details, now quickly perishing, and to make studies of tintoret and carpaccio. among other friends who met him there was mr. holman hunt, with whom he went round his favourite scuola di san rocco ( st july). two days later he wrote: "you will never believe it; but i have actually been trying to draw--a baby. _the_ baby which the priest is holding in the little copy of tintoret by edward jones which my father liked so much, over the basin stand in his bedroom.[ ] all the knowledge i have gained in these years only makes me more full of awe and wonder at tintoret. but it _is_ so sad--so sad;--no one to care for him but me, and all going so fast to ruin. he has done that infant christ in about five minutes--and i worked for two hours in vain, and could not tell _why_ in vain--the mystery of his touch is so great." [footnote : mr. and mrs burne-jones had been in venice in june, ; the artist, then young and comparatively unknown, with a commission to copy for ruskin.] final farewell was said to verona on the th august, for the homeward journey by the st. gothard, and giessbach, where he found the young friend of now near her end--and thun, where he met professor c.e. norton. on the way he wrote: "lugano, _saturday, th august_, . "my dearest mother, "yesterday--exactly three months from the day on which i entered verona to begin work, i made a concluding sketch of the old broletto of como, which i drew first for the lamps[ ]--i know not how many years ago,--and left italy, for this time--having been entirely well and strong every day of my quarter of a year's sojourn there. [footnote : "stones of venice," vol. i., plate .] "this morning, before breakfast, i was sitting for the first time before luini's crucifixion: for all religious-art qualities the greatest picture south of the alps--or rather, in europe. "and just after breakfast i got a telegram from my cousin george announcing that i am professor of art--the first--at the university of oxford. "which will give me as much power as i can well use--and would have given pleasure to my poor father--and therefore to me--once.... it will make no difference in my general plans, about travel, etc. i shall think quietly of it as i drive up towards st. gothard to-day. "ever, my dearest mother, ever your loving son, "j. ruskin." six years earlier, while being examined before the royal academy commission, he had been asked: "has it ever struck you that it would be advantageous to art if there were at the universities professors of art who might give lectures and give instruction to young men who might desire to avail themselves of it, as you have lectures on geology and botany?" to which he had replied: "yes, assuredly. the want of interest on the part of the upper classes in art has been very much at the bottom of the abuses which have crept into all systems of education connected with it. if the upper classes could only be interested in it by being led into it when young, a great improvement might be looked for, therefore i feel the expediency of such an addition to the education of our universities." his interest in the first phase of university extension, and his gifts of turners to oxford and cambridge, had shown that he was ready to go out of his way to help in the cause he had promoted. his former works on art, and reputation as a critic, pointed to him as the best qualified man in the country for such a post. he had been asked by his oxford friends, who were many and influential, to stand for the professorship of poetry, three years earlier. there was no doubt that the election would be a popular one, and creditable to the university. on the other hand, ruskin as professor would have a certain sanction for his teaching, he believed; the title and the salary of £ a year were hardly an object to him; but the position, as accredited lecturer and authorised instructor of youth, opened up new vistas of usefulness, new worlds of work to conquer; and he accepted the invitation. on august th he was elected slade professor. he returned home by the end of august to prepare himself for his new duties. during the last period he had been giving, on an average, half a dozen lectures a year, which amply filled his annual volume. twelve lectures were required of the professor. many another man would have read his twelve lectures and gone his way; but he was not going to work in that perfunctory manner. he undertook to revise his whole teaching; to write for his hearers a completely new series of treatises on art, beginning with first principles and broad generalisations, and proceeding to the different departments of sculpture, engraving, landscape-painting and so on; then taking up the history of art:--an encyclopædic scheme. he took this oxford work not as a substitute for other occupation, exonerating him from further claims upon his energy and time; nor as a bye-play that could be slurred. he tried to do it thoroughly, and to do it in addition to the various work already in hand, under which, as it was, he used to break down, yearly, after each climax of effort. this autumn and winter, with his first and most important course in preparation, he was still writing letters to the _daily telegraph_; being begged by carlyle to come--"the sight of your face will be a comfort," says the poor old man--and undertaking lectures at the royal artillery institution, woolwich, and at the royal institution, london. the woolwich lecture, given on december th, was that added to later editions of the "crown of wild olive," under the title of "the future of england." the other, february th, , on "verona and its rivers," involved not only a lecture on art and history and contemporary political economy, but an exhibition of the drawings which he and his assistants had made during the preceding summer. four days later he opened a new period in his career with his inaugural lecture in the sheldonian theatre at oxford. book iv professor and prophet ( - ) chapter i first oxford lectures ( - ) on tuesday, th february, , the slade professor's lecture-room was crowded to over-flowing with members of the university, old and young, and their friends, who flocked to hear, and to see, the author of "modern painters." the place was densely packed long before the time; the ante-rooms were filled with personal friends, hoping for some corner to be found them at the eleventh hour; the doors were blocked open, and besieged outside by a disappointed multitude. professorial lectures are not usually matters of great excitement: it does not often happen that the accommodation is found inadequate. after some hasty arrangements sir henry acland pushed his way to the table, announced that it was impossible for the lecture to be held in that place, and begged the audience to adjourn to the sheldonian theatre. at last, welcomed by all oxford, the slade professor appeared, to deliver his inaugural address.[ ] [footnote : the inaugural course was given feb. , , ; march , , and , .] it was not strictly academic, the way he used to come in, with a little following of familiars and assistants,--exchange recognition with friends in the audience, arrange the objects he had brought to show,--fling off his long sleeved master's gown, and plunge into his discourse. his manner of delivery had not altered much since the time of the edinburgh lectures. he used to begin by reading, in his curious intonation, the carefully-written passages of rhetoric, which usually occupied only about the half of his hour. by-and-by he would break off, and with quite another air extemporise the liveliest interpolations, describing his diagrams or specimens, restating his arguments, re-enforcing his appeal. his voice, till then artificially cadenced, suddenly became vivacious; his gestures, at first constrained, became dramatic. he used to act his subject, apparently without premeditated art, in the liveliest pantomime. he had no power of voice-mimicry, and none of the ordinary gifts of the actor. a tall and slim figure, not yet shortened from its five feet ten or eleven by the habitual stoop, which ten years later brought him down to less than middle height; a stiff, blue frock-coat; prominent, half-starched wristbands, and tall collars of the gladstonian type; and the bright blue stock which every one knows for his heraldic bearing: no rings or gewgaws, but a long thin gold chain to his watch:--plain old-english gentleman, neither fashionable bourgeois nor artistic mountebank. but he gave himself over to his subject with such unreserved intensity of imaginative power, he felt so vividly and spoke so from the heart, that he became whatever he talked about, never heeding his professorial dignity, and never doubting the sympathy of his audience. lecturing on birds, he strutted like the chough, made himself wings like the swallow; he was for the moment a cat, when he explained (not "in scorn") that engraving was the "art of scratch." if it had been an affectation of theatric display, we "emancipated school-boys," as the master of university used to call us, would have seen through it at once, and scorned him. but it was so evidently the expression of his intense eagerness for his subject, so palpably true to his purpose, and he so carried his hearers with him, that one saw in the grotesque of the performance only the guarantee of sincerity. if one wanted more proof of that, there was his face, still young-looking and beardless; made for expression, and sensitive to every change of emotion. a long head, with enormous capacity of brain, veiled by thick wavy hair, not affectedly lengthy but as abundant as ever, and darkened into a deep brown, without a trace of grey; and short, light whiskers growing high over his cheeks. a forehead not on the model of the heroic type, but as if the sculptor had heaped his clay in handfuls over the eyebrows, and then heaped more. a big nose, aquiline, and broad at the base, with great thoroughbred nostrils and the "septum" between them thin and deeply depressed; and there was a turn down at the corners of the mouth, and a breadth of lower lip, that reminded one of his verona griffin, half eagle, half lion; scotch in original type, and suggesting a side to his character not all milk and roses. and under shaggy eyebrows, ever so far behind, the fieriest blue eyes, that changed with changing expression, from grave to gay, from lively to severe; that riveted you, magnetised you, seemed to look through you and read your soul; and indeed, when they lighted on you, you felt you had a soul of a sort. what they really saw is a mystery. some who had not persuaded them to see as others see, maintained that they only saw what they looked for; others, who had successfully deceived them, that they saw nothing. no doubt they might be deceived; but i know now that they often took far shrewder measurements of men--i do not say of women--than anybody suspected. for the inaugural course, he was, so to speak, on his best behaviour, guarding against too hasty expression of individuality. he read careful orations, stating his maturest views on the general theory of art, in picked language, suited to the academic position. the little volume is not discursive or entertaining, like "modern painters," and contains no pictures either with pen or pencil; but it is crammed full of thought, and of the results of thought. the slade professor was also expected to organise and superintend the teaching of drawing; and his first words in the first lecture expressed the hope that he would be able to introduce some serious study of art into the university, which, he thought, would be a step towards realising some of his ideals of education. he had long felt that mere talking about art was a makeshift, and that no real insight could be got into the subject without actual and practical dealing with it. he found a south kensington school in existence at oxford, with an able master, mr. alexander macdonald; and though he did not entirely approve of the methods in use, tried to make the best of the materials to his hand, accepting but enlarging the scope of the system. the south kensington method had been devised for industrial designing, primarily; ruskin's desire was to get undergraduates to take up a wider subject, to familiarise themselves with the technical excellences of the great masters, to study nature, and the different processes of art,--drawing, painting and some forms of decorative work, such as, in especial, goldsmiths' work, out of which the florentine school had sprung. he did not wish to train artists, but, as before in the working men's college, to cultivate the habit of mind that looks at nature and life, not analytically, as science does, but for the sake of external aspect and expression. by these means he hoped to breed a race of judicious patrons and critics, the best service any man can render to the cause of art. and so he got together a mass of examples in addition to the turners which he had already given to the university galleries. he placed in the school a few pictures by tintoret, some drawings by rossetti, holman hunt, and burne-jones, and a great number of fine casts and engravings. he arranged a series of studies by himself and others, as "copies," fitted, like the turners in the national gallery, with sliding frames in cabinets for convenient reference and removal. after spending most of his first lent term in this work, he went home for a month to prepare a catalogue, which was published the same year: the school not being finally opened until october, . during these first visits to oxford he was the guest of sir henry acland; on april , , professor ruskin, already honorary student of christ church, was elected to an honorary fellowship at corpus, and enabled to occupy rooms, vacated by the rev. henry furneaux, who gave up his fellowship on marrying mr. arthur severn's twin-sister.[ ] [footnote : his rooms were in fellows' buildings, no. staircase, first floor right.] after this work well begun, he went abroad for a vacation tour with a party of friends--as in ; lady trevelyan's sister, mrs. hilliard, to chaperone the same young ladies, and three servants with them. they started on april th; stayed awhile at meurice's to see paris; and at geneva, to go up the salève, twice, in bitter black east wind. then across the simplon to milan. after a month at venice and verona, where he recurred to his scheme against inundation, then ridiculed by _punch_, but afterwards taken up seriously by the italians, they went to florence, and met professor norton. in the end of june they turned homewards, by pisa and lucca, milan and como, and went to visit their friend marie of the giessbach. at the giessbach they spent a fortnight, enjoying the july weather and glorious walks, in the middle of which war was suddenly declared between germany and france. the summons of their german waiter to join his regiment brought the news home to them, as such personal examples do, more than columns of newspaper print; and as hostilities were rapidly beginning, ruskin, with the gloomiest forebodings for the beautiful country he loved, took his party home straight across france, before the ways should be closed. august was a month of feverish suspense to everybody; to no one more than to ruskin, who watched the progress of the armies while he worked day by day at the british museum preparing lectures for next term. this was the course on greek relief-sculpture, published as "aratra pentelici."[ ] it was a happy thought to illustrate his subject from coins, rather than from disputed and mutilated fragments; and he worked into it his revised theory of the origin of art--not schiller's nor herbert spencer's, and yet akin to theirs of the "spieltrieb,"--involving the notion of doll-play;--man as a child, re-creating himself, in a double sense; imitating the creation of the world and really creating a sort of secondary life in his art, to play with, or to worship. in the last lecture of the series (published separately) the professor compared--as the outcome of classic art in renaissance times--michelangelo and tintoret, greatly to the disadvantage of michelangelo. this heresy against a popular creed served as text for some severe criticism; but as he said in a prefatory note to the pamphlet, readers "must observe that its business is only to point out what is to be blamed in michael angelo, and that it assumes the fact of his power to be generally known," and he referred to mr. tyrwhitt's "lectures on christian art" for the opposite side of the question. [footnote : delivered nov. , , dec. , , and , .] meanwhile the war was raging. ruskin was asked by his friends to raise his voice against the ravage of france; but he replied that it was inevitable. at last, in october, he read how rosa bonheur and edouard frère had been permitted to pass through the german lines, and next day came the news of the bombardment of strasburg, with anticipations of the destruction of the cathedral, library, and picture galleries, foretelling, as it seemed, the more terrible and irreparable ruin of the treasure-houses of art in paris. his heart was with the french, and he broke silence in the bitterness of his spirit, upbraiding their disorder and showing how the german success was the victory of "one of the truest monarchies and schools of honour and obedience yet organised under heaven." he hoped that germany, now that she had shown her power, would withdraw, and demand no indemnity. but that was too much to ask. before long paris itself became the scene of action, and in january was besieged and bombarded. so much of ruskin's work and affection had been given to french gothic that he could not endure to think of his beloved sainte chapelle as being actually under fire--to say nothing of the horror of human suffering in a siege. he joined cardinal (then archbishop) manning, professor huxley, sir john lubbock and james knowles in forming a "paris food fund," which shortly united with the lord mayor's committee for the general relief of the besieged. the day after writing on the sainte chapelle he attended the meeting of the mansion house, and gave a subscription of £ . he followed events anxiously through the storm of the commune and its fearful ending, angered at the fratricide and anarchy which no mansion house help could avert or repair. it was no time for talking on art, he felt: instead of the full course, he could only manage three lectures on landscape, and these not so completely prepared as to make them ready for printing. before christmas he had been once more to woolwich, where colonel brackenbury invited him to address the cadets at the prize-giving of the science and art department, december , , in which the rev. w. kingsley, an old friend of ruskin's and of turner's, was one of the masters. two of the lectures of the "crown of wild olive" had been given there, with more than usual animation, and enthusiastically received by crowded and distinguished audiences, among whom was prince arthur (the duke of connaught), then at the royal military academy. this time it was the "story of arachne," an address on education and aims in life; opening with reminiscences of his own childhood, and pleasantly telling the greek myths of the spider and the ant, with interpretations for the times. in the three lectures on landscape, given january , february and , , he dwelt on the necessity of human and historic interest in scenery; and compared greek "solidity and veracity" with gothic "spirituality and mendacity," greek chiaroscuro and tranquil activity with gothic colour and "passionate rest." botticelli's "nativity" (now in the national gallery) was then being shown at the old master's exhibition, and ruskin took it, along with the works of cima, as a type of one form of greek art. in april, , his cousin, miss agnew, who had been seven years at denmark hill, was married to mr. arthur severn. ruskin, who had added to his other work the additional labour of "fors clavigera," went for a summer's change to matlock. july opened with cold, dry, dark weather, dangerous for out-of-door sketching. one morning early--for he was always an early riser--he took a chill while painting a spray of wild roses before breakfast (the drawing now in the oxford schools). he was already overworked, and it ended in a severe attack of internal inflammation, which nearly cost him his life. he was a difficult patient to deal with. the local practitioner who attended him used to tell how he refused remedies, and in the height of the disease asked what would be _worst_ for him. he took it; and to everybody's surprise, recovered.[ ] [footnote : mrs. arthur severn, in a note on the proof, says: "it was a slice of cold roast beef he hungered for, at matlock (to our horror, and dear lady mount temple's, who were nursing him): there was none in the hotel, and it was late at night; and albert goodwin went off to get some, somewhere, or anywhere. all the hotels were closed; but at last, at an eating-house in matlock bath, he discovered some, and came back triumphant with it, wrapped up in paper; and j.r. enjoyed his late supper thoroughly; and though we all waited anxiously till the morning for the result, it had done no harm! and when he was told pepper was bad for him, he dredged it freely over his food in defiance! it was directly after our return to denmark hill he got linton's letter offering him this place (brantwood). there are, i believe, ten acres of moor belonging to brantwood." mr. albert goodwin, r.w.s., the landscape painter, travelled, about this time, in italy with ruskin.] during the illness at matlock his thoughts reverted to the old "iteriad" times of forty years before, when he had travelled with his parents and cousin mary from that same "new bath hotel," where he was now lying, to the lakes; and again he wearied for "the heights that look adown upon the dale. the crags are lone on coniston." if he could only lie down there, he said, he should get well again. he had not fully recovered before he heard that w.j. linton, the poet and wood-engraver, wished to sell a house and land at the very place: £ , , and it could be his. without question asked he bought it at once; and as it would be impossible to lecture at oxford so soon after his illness, he set off, before the middle of september, with his friends the hilliards to visit his new possession. they found a rough-cast country cottage, old, damp, decayed; smoky chimneyed and rat-riddled; but "five acres of rock and moor and streamlet; and," he wrote, "i think the finest view i know in cumberland or lancashire, with the sunset visible over the same." the spot was not, even then, without its associations: gerald massey the poet, linton, and his wife mrs. lynn linton the novelist, dr. g.w. kitchin (dean of durham) had lived and worked there, and linton had adorned it outside with revolutionary mottoes--"god and the people," and so on. it had been a favourite point of view of wordsworth's; his "seat" was pointed out in the grounds. tennyson had lived for a while close by: his "seat," too, was on the hill above lanehead. but the cottage needed thorough repair, and that cost more than rebuilding, not to speak of the additions of later years, which have ended by making it into a mansion surrounded by a hamlet. and there was the furnishing; for denmark hill, where his mother lived, was still to be headquarters. ruskin gave carte-blanche to the london upholsterer with whom he had been accustomed to deal; and such expensive articles were sent that when he came down for a month next autumn, he reckoned that, all included, his country cottage had cost him not less than £ , . but he was not the man to spend on himself without sharing his wealth with others. on november nd, convocation accepted a gift from the slade professor of £ , to endow a mastership of drawing at oxford, in addition to the pictures and "copies" placed in the schools; he had set up a relative in business with £ , , which was unfortunately lost; and at christmas he gave £ , , the tithe of his remaining capital, to the st. george's fund; of which more hereafter. on november rd he was elected lord rector of st. andrew's university, by votes against for lord lytton. after the election it was discovered that, by the scottish universities act of , no one holding a professorship at a british university was eligible. professor ruskin was disqualified, and gave no address; and lord neaves was chosen in his place. mrs. ruskin was now ninety years of age; her sight was nearly gone, but she still retained her powers of mind, and ruled with severe kindliness her household and her son. her old servant anne had died in march. anne had nursed john ruskin as a baby, and had lived with the family ever since, devoted to them, and ready for any disagreeable task-- "so that she was never quite in her glory," "præterita" says, "unless some of us were ill. she had also some parallel speciality for _saying_ disagreeable things, and might be relied upon to give the extremely darkest view of any subject, before proceeding to ameliorative action upon it. and she had a very creditable and republican aversion to doing immediately, or in set terms, as she was bid; so that when my mother and she got old together, and my mother became very imperative and particular about having her teacup set on one side of her little round table, anne would observantly and punctiliously put it always on the other: which caused my mother to state to me, every morning after breakfast, gravely, that if ever a woman in this world was possessed by the devil, anne was that woman." but this gloomy calvinism was tempered with a benevolence quite as uncommon. it was from his parents that ruskin learned never to turn off a servant, and the denmark hill household was as easy-going as the legendary "baronial" retinue of the good old times. a young friend asked mrs. ruskin, in a moment of indiscretion, what such a one of the ancient maids did--for there were several without apparent occupation about the house. mrs. ruskin drew herself up and said, "she, my dear, puts out the dessert." and yet, in her blindness, she could read character unhesitatingly. that was, no doubt, why people feared her. when mr. secretary howell, in the days when he was still the oracle of the ruskin-rossetti circle, had been regaling them with his wonderful tales, after dinner, she would throw her netting down and say, "how _can you_ two sit there and listen to such a pack of lies?" she objected strongly, in these later years, to the theatre; and when sometimes her son would wish to take a party into town to see the last new piece, her permission had to be asked, and was not readily granted, unless to miss agnew, who was the ambassadress in such affairs of diplomacy. but while disapproving of some of his worldly ways, and convinced that she had too much indulged his childhood, the old lady loved him with all the intensity of the strange fierce lioness nature, which only one or two had ever had a glimpse of. and when (december th, ) she died, trusting to see her husband again--not to be near him, not to be so high in heaven but content if she might only _see_ him, she said--her son was left "with a surprising sense of loneliness." he had loved her truly, obeyed her strictly and tended her faithfully; and even yet hardly realized how much she had been to him. he buried her in his father's grave, and wrote upon it, "here beside my father's body i have laid my mother's: nor was dearer earth ever returned to earth, nor purer life recorded in heaven." chapter ii "fors" begun ( - ) on january st, , was issued a small pamphlet, headed "fors clavigera," in the form of a letter to the working men and labourers of england, dated from denmark hill, and signed "john ruskin." it was not published in the usual way, but sold by the author's engraver, mr. george allen, at heathfield cottage, keston, kent. it was not advertised; press-copies were sent to the leading papers; and of course the author's acquaintance knew of its publication. strangers, who heard of this curious proceeding, spread the report that in order to get ruskin's latest, you had to travel into the country, with your sevenpence in your hand, and transact your business among mr. allen's beehives. so you had, if you wanted to see what you were buying; for no arrangements were made for its sale by the booksellers: sevenpence a copy, carriage paid, no discount, and no abatement on taking a quantity. by such pilgrimages, but more easily through the post, the new work filtered out, in monthly instalments, to a limited number of buyers. after three years the price was raised to tenpence. in the first thousands of the earlier numbers were sold: "the public has a very long nose," mr. ruskin once said, "and scents out what it wants, sooner or later." a second edition was issued, bound up into yearly volumes, of which eight were ultimately completed. meanwhile the work went on, something in the style of the old addison _spectator_; each part containing twenty pages, more or less, by ruskin, with added contributions from various correspondents. the charm of "fors" is neither in epigram nor in anecdote, but in the sustained vivacity that runs through the texture of the work; the reappearance of golden threads of thought, glittering in new figures, and among new colours; and throughout all the variety of subject a unity of style unlike the style of his earlier works, where flowery rhetorical passages are tagged to less interesting chapters, separately studied sermonettes interposed among the geology, and johnson, locke, hooker, carlyle--or whoever happened to be the author he was reading at the time--frankly imitated. it was always clever, but often artificial; like the composition of a renaissance painter who inserts his _bel corpo ignudo_ to catch the eye. in "fors," however, the web is of a piece, all sparkling with the same life; though as it is gradually unwound from the loom it is hard to judge the design. that can only be done when it is reviewed as a whole. at the time, his mingling of jest and earnest was misunderstood even by friends. the author learnt too painfully the danger of seeming to trifle with cherished beliefs. he forswore levity, but soon relapsed into the old style, out of sheer sincerity: for he was too much in earnest not to be frankly himself in his utterances, without writing up to, or down to, any other person's standard. ruskin did not wish to lead a colony or to head a revolution. he had been pondering for fifteen years the cause of poverty and crime, and the conviction had grown upon him that modern commercialism was at the root of it all. but his attacks on commercialism--his analysis of its bad influence on all sections of society--were too vigorous and uncompromising for the newspaper editors who received "fors," and even for most of his private friends. there were, however, some who saw what he was aiming at: and let it be remarked that his first encouragement came from the highest quarters. just as sydney smith, the chief critic of earlier days, had been the first to praise "modern painters," in the teeth of vulgar opinion, so now carlyle spoke for "fors." " , cheyne row, chelsea, _april th_, . "dear ruskin, "this 'fors clavigera,' letter th, which i have just finished reading, is incomparable; a quasi-sacred consolation to me, which almost brings tears into my eyes! every word of it is as if spoken, not out of my poor heart only, but out of the eternal skies; words winged with empyrean wisdom, piercing as lightning,--and which i really do not remember to have heard the like of. _continue_, while you have such utterances in you, to give them voice. they will find and force entrance into human hearts, _whatever_ the 'angle of incidence' may be; that is to say, whether, for the degraded and _in_ human blockheadism we, so-called 'men,' have mostly now become, you come in upon them at the broadside, at the top, or even at the bottom. euge, euge!--yours ever, "t. carlyle." others, like sir arthur helps, joined in this encouragement. but the old struggle with the newspapers began over again. they united in considering the whole business insane, though they did not doubt his sincerity when ruskin put down his own money, the tenth of what he had, as he recommended his adherents to do. by the end of the year he had set aside £ , toward establishing a company to be called of "st. george," as representing at once england and agriculture. sir thomas dyke acland and the right hon. w. cowper-temple (afterwards lord mount temple), though not pledging themselves to approval of the scheme, undertook the trusteeship of the fund. a few friends subscribed; in june, , after a year and a half of "fors," the first stranger sent in his contribution, and at the end of three years £ s. were collected, to add to his £ , , and a few acres of land were given. meanwhile ruskin practised what he preached. he did not preach renunciation; he was not a pessimist any more than an optimist. sometimes he felt he was not doing enough; he knew very well that others thought so. i remember his saying, in his rooms at oxford in one of those years: "here i am, trying to reform the world, and i suppose i ought to begin with myself, i am trying to do st. benedict's work, and i ought to be a saint. and yet i am living between a turkey carpet and a titian, and drinking as much tea"--taking his second cup--"as i can _swig_!" that was the way he put it to an undergraduate; to a lady friend he wrote later on, "i'm reading history of early saints, too, for my amiens book, and feel that i ought to be scratched, or starved, or boiled, or something unpleasant; and i don't know if i'm a saint or a sinner in the least, in mediæval language. how did the saints feel themselves, i wonder, about their saintship!" if he had forsaken all and followed the vocation of st. francis,--he has discussed the question candidly in "fors" for may, --would not his work have been more effectual, his example more inspiring? conceivably: but that was not his mission. his gospel was not one of asceticism; it called upon no one for any sort of suicide, or even martyrdom. he required of his followers that they should live their lives to the full in "admiration, hope and love": and not that they should sacrifice themselves in fasting and wearing of camels'-hair coats. he wished them to work, to be honest, and just, in all things immediately attainable. he asked the tenth of their living--not the widow's two mites; and it was deeply painful to him to find, sometimes, that they had so interpreted his teaching: as when he wrote, later, to miss beever: "one of my poor 'companions of st. george' who has sent me, not a widow's but a parlour-maid's (an old schoolmistress) 'all her living,' and whom i found last night, dying, slowly and quietly, in a damp room, just the size of your study (which her landlord won't mend the roof of), by the light of a single tallow candle,--dying, i say, _slowly_ of consumption, not yet near the end, but contemplating it with sorrow, mixed partly with fear lest she should not have done all she could for her children! the sight of this and my own shameful comforts, three wax candles and blazing fire and dry roof, and susie and joanie for friends! oh me, susie, what _is_ to become of me in the next world, who have in this life all my good things!" after carrying on "fors" for some time his attention was drawn by mr. w.c. sillar to the question of "usury." at first he had seen no crying sin in interest. he had held that the "rights of capital" were visionary, and that the tools should belong to him that can handle them, in a perfect state of society; but he thought that the existing system was no worse in this respect than in others, and his expectation of reform in the plan of investment went hand-in-hand with his hope of a good time coming in everything else. so he quietly accepted his rents, as he accepted his professorship, for example, thinking it his business to be a good landlord and spend his money generously, just as he thought it his business to retain the existing south kensington drawing school, and the oxford system of education--not at all his ideal--and to make the best use of them. a lady who was his pupil in drawing, and a believer in his ideals of philanthropy, miss octavia hill, undertook to help him in in efforts to reclaim part--though a very small part--of the lower-class dwellings of london. half a dozen houses in marylebone left by ruskin's father, to which he added three more in paradise place, as it was euphemistically named, were the subjects of their experiment. they were ridiculed at first; but by the noblest endeavour they succeeded, and set an example which has been followed in many of our towns with great results. they showed what a wise and kind landlord could do by caring for tenants, by giving them habitable dwellings, recreation ground and fixity of tenure, and requiring in return a reasonable and moderate rent. he got five per cent. for his capital, instead of twelve or more, which such property generally returns, or at that time returned. but when he began to write against rent and interest there were plenty of critics ready to cite this and other investments as a damning inconsistency. he was not the man to offer explanations at any time. it was no defence to say that he took less and did more than other landlords. and so he was glad to part with the whole to miss hill; nor did he care to spend upon himself the £ , , which i believe was the price. it went right and left in gifts; till one day he cheerfully remarked: "it's a' gane awa' like snaw aff a wa'." "is there really nothing to show for it?" he was asked. "nothing," he said, "except this new silk umbrella." he had talked so much of the possibility of carrying on honest and honourable retail trade, that he felt bound to exemplify his principles. he took a house no. , paddington street, with a corner shop, near his marylebone property, and set himself up in business as a teaman. mr. arthur severn painted the sign, in neat blue letters; the window was decked with fine old china, bought from a cavaliere near siena, whose unique collection had been introduced to notice by professor norton; and miss harrie tovey, an old servant of denmark hill, was established there, like miss mattie in "cranford," or rather like one of the salaried officials of "time and tide," to dispense the unadulterated leaf to all comers. no advertisements, no self-recommendation, no catchpenny tricks of trade were allowed; and yet the business went on, and, i am assured, prospered with legitimate profits. at first, various kinds of the best tea only were sold; but it seemed to the tenant of the shop that coffee and sugar ought to be included in the list. this was not at all in ruskin's programme, and there were great debates at home about it. at last he gave way, on the understanding that the shop was to be responsible for the proper roasting of the coffee according to the best recipe. after some time miss tovey died. and when, in the autumn of , miss octavia hill proposed to take the house and business over and work it with the rest of the marylebone property, the offer was thankfully accepted. another of his principles was cleanliness; "the speedy abolition of all abolishable filth is the first process of education." he undertook to keep certain streets, not crossings only, cleaner than the public seemed to care for, between the british museum and st. giles'. he took the broom himself, for a start, put on his gardener, downes, as foreman of the job, and engaged a small staff of helpers. the work began, as he promised, in a humorous letter to the _pall matt gazette_ upon new year's day, , and he kept his three sweepers at work for eight hours daily "to show a bit of our london streets kept as clean as the deck of a ship of the line." there were some difficulties, too. one of the staff was an extremely handsome and lively shoeblack, picked up in st. giles'. it turned out that he was not unknown to the world: he had sat to artists--to mr. edward clifford, to mr. severn; and went by the name of "cheeky." every now and then ruskin "and party" drove round to inspect the works. downes could not be everywhere at once: and cheeky used to be caught at pitch and toss or marbles in unswept museum street. ruskin rarely, if ever, dismissed a servant; but street sweeping was not good enough for cheeky, and so he enlisted. the army was not good enough, and so he deserted; and was last seen disappearing into the darkness, after calling a cab for his old friends one night at the albert hall. one more escapade of this most unpractical man, as they called him. since his fortune was rapidly melting away, he had to look to his works as an ultimate resource: they eventually became his only means of livelihood. one might suppose that he would be anxious to put his publishing business on the most secure and satisfactory footing; to facilitate sale, and to ensure profit. but he had views. he objected to advertising; though he thought that in his st. george's scheme he would have a yearly book gazette drawn up by responsible authorities, indicating the best works. he distrusted the system of _unacknowledged_ profits and percentages, though he fully agreed that the retailer should be paid for his work, and wished, in an ideal state, to see the shopkeeper a salaried official. he disliked the bad print and paper of the cheap literature of that day, and knew that people valued more highly what they did not get so easily. he had changed his mind with regard to one or two things--religion and glaciers chiefly--about which he had written at length in earlier works. so he withdrew his most popular books--"modern painters" and the rest--from circulation, though he was persuaded by the publisher to reprint "modern painters" and "stones of venice" once more--"positively for the last time," as they said the plates would give no more good impressions. he had his later writings printed in a rather expensive style; at first through smith & elder, after two years by messrs. watson & hazell (later hazell, watson & viney, ltd.), and the method of publication is illustrated in the history of "sesame and lilies," the first volume of these "collected works." it was issued by smith & elder, may, , at s., to the trade only, leaving the retailer to fix the price to the public. in september, , the work was also supplied by mr. george allen, and the price raised to s. d., (carriage paid) to trade and public alike, with the idea that an extra shilling, or nearly ten per cent., might be added by the bookseller for his trouble in ordering the work. if he did not add the commission, that was his own affair; though with postage of order and payment, when only one or two copies at a time were asked for, this did not leave much margin. so it was doubled, by the simple expedient of doubling the price!--or, to be accurate, raising it to s. (carriage paid) for s. over the counter. it was freely prophesied by business men that this would not do: however, at the end of fifteen years the _sixth edition_ of this work in this form was being sold, in spite of the fact that, five years before, a smaller reprint of the same book had been brought out at s., and was then in its fourth edition of , copies each. compared with the enormous sale of sensational novels and school books, this is no great matter; but for a didactic work, offered to the public without advertisement, and in the face of the almost universal opposition of the book-selling trade, it means not only that, as an author, ruskin had made a secure reputation, but also that he deserved the curious tribute once paid him by the journal of a big modern shop (compton house, liverpool) as a "great tradesman." chapter iii oxford teaching ( - ) early in , after bringing out "munera pulveris," the essays he had written ten years before for _fraser_ on economy; after getting those street-sweepers to work near the british museum where he was making studies of animals and greek sculpture; and after once more addressing the woolwich cadets, this time[ ] on the bird of calm (the mythology of the halcyon), professor ruskin went to oxford to give a course of ten lectures[ ] on the relation of natural science to art, afterwards published under the title of "the eagle's nest." he wrote to professor norton: [footnote : january , .] [footnote : feb. , , , , , . ; march , , and .] "i am, as usual, unusually busy. when i get fairly into my lecture work at oxford i always find the lecture would come better some other way, just before it is given, and so work from hand to mouth. i am always unhappy, and see no good in saying so. but i am settling to my work here--recklessly--to do my best with it: feeling quite sure that it is talking at hazard for what chance good may come. but i attend regularly in the schools as mere drawing-master, and the men begin to come in one by one, about fifteen or twenty already; several worth having as pupils in any way, being of temper to make good growth of." why was he always unhappy? it was not that mr. w.b. scott criticised "ruskin's influence" in that march; or that by easter he had to say farewell to his old home on denmark hill, and settle "for good" at brantwood. nor that he could go abroad again for a long summer in italy with mr. and mrs. severn and the hilliards and mr. albert goodwin. they started about the middle of april, and on the journey out he wrote, beside his "fors" which always went on, a preface to the rev. r. st. john tyrwhitt's "christian art and symbolism." he drew the apse at pisa, half-amused and half-worried by the little ragamuffin who varied the tedium of watching his work by doing horizontal-bar tricks on the railings of the cathedral green. then to lucca, where, to show his friends something of italian landscape, he took them for rambles through the olive farms and chestnut woods, among which miss hilliard lost her jewelled cross. greatly to ruskin's delight, as a firm believer in italian peasant-virtue, it was found and returned without hint of reward. at rome they visited old mr. severn, and then went homeward by way of verona, where ruskin wrote an account of the cavalli monuments for the arundel society, and venice, where he returned to the study of carpaccio. at rome he had been once more to the sistine, and found that on earlier visits the ceiling and the last judgment had taken his attention too exclusively. now that he could look away from michelangelo he become conscious of the claims of botticelli's frescoes, which represent, in the florentine school, somewhat the same kind of interest that he had found in carpaccio. he became enamoured of botticelli's zipporah, and resolved to study the master more closely. on reaching home he had to prepare "the eagle's nest" for publication; in the preface he gave special importance to botticelli, and amplified it in lectures on early engraving, that autumn;[ ] in which i remember his quoting with appreciation the passage on the venus anadyomene from pater's "studies in the renaissance" just published. [footnote : "ariadne florentina," delivered on nov. , , , , , and dec. , and repeated on the following thursdays. ruskin's first mention of botticelli was in the course on landscape, lent term, .] this sudden enthusiasm about an unknown painter amused the oxford public: and it became a standing joke among the profane to ask who was ruskin's last great man. it was in answer to that, and in expression of a truer understanding than most oxford pupils attained, that bourdillon of worcester wrote on "the ethereal ruskin,"--that was carlyle's name for him:-- "to us this star or that seems bright, and oft some headlong meteor's flight holds for awhile our raptured sight. "but he discerns each noble star; the least is only the most far, whose worlds, may be, the mightiest are." the critical value of this course however, to a student of art-history, is impaired by his using as illustrations of botticelli, and of the manner of engraving which he took for standard, certain plates which were erroneously attributed to the artist. "it is strange," he wrote in despair to professor norton, "that i hardly ever get anything stated without some grave mistake, however true in my main discourse." but in this case a fate stronger than he had taken him unawares. the circumstances do not extenuate the error of the professor, but they explain the difficulties under which his work was done. the cloud that rested on his own life was the result of a strange and wholly unexpected tragedy in another's. it was an open secret--his attachment to a lady, who had been his pupil, and was now generally understood to be his _fiancée_. she was far younger than he; but at fifty-three he was not an old man; and the friends who fully knew and understood the affair favoured his intentions and joined in the hope, and in auguries for the happiness for which he had been so long waiting. but now that it came to the point the lady finally decided that it was impossible. he was not at one with her in religious matters. he could speak lightly of her evangelical creed--it seemed he scoffed in "fors" at her faith. she could not be unequally yoked with an unbeliever. to her, the alternative was plain; the choice was terrible: yet, having once seen her path, she turned resolutely away.[ ] [footnote : in former editions the following sentence was added: "three years after, as she lay dying, he begged to see her once more. she sent to ask whether he could yet say that he loved god better than he loved her; and when he said 'no,' her door was closed upon him for ever." the statement was suggested by information from ruskin in later days. i must, however, have misrepresented the facts, as the lady's mother has left it in writing that no such incident occurred.] meanwhile, in the bitterest despair he sought refuge as he had done before, in his work. he accepted the lesson, though he, too, could not recant; still he tried to correct his apparent levity in the renewed seriousness and more earnest tone of "fors," speaking more plainly and more simply, but without concession. he wrote on the next christmas eve to an aberdeen bible-class teacher: "if you care to give your class a word directly from me, say to them that they will find it well, throughout life, never to trouble themselves about what they ought _not_ to do, but about what they _ought_ to do. the condemnation given from the judgment throne--most solemnly described--is all for the _undones_ and not for the _dones_. people are perpetually afraid of doing wrong; but unless they are doing its reverse energetically, they do it all day long, and the degree does not matter. make your young hearers resolve to be honest in their work in this life. heaven will take care of them for the other." that was all he could say: he did not _know_ there was another life: he _hoped_ there was: and yet, if he were not a saint or a christian, was there any man in the world who was nearer to the kingdom of heaven than this stubborn heretic? his heretical attitude was singular. he was just as far removed from adopting the easy antagonism of science to religion as from siding with religion against science. in a paper singularly interesting--and in his biography important--on the "nature and authority of miracle," read to the metaphysical society (february , ), he tried to clear up his position and to state a qualified belief in the supernatural. with that year expired the term for which he had been elected to the slade professorship, and in january he was re-elected. in his first three years he had given five courses of lectures designed to introduce an encyclopædic review and reconstruction of all he had to say upon art. beginning with general principles, he had proceeded to their application in history, by tracing certain phases of greek sculpture, and by contrasting the greek and the gothic spirit as shown in the treatment of landscape, from which he went on to the study of early engraving. the application of his principles to theory was made in the course on science and art ("the eagle's nest"). now, on his re-election, he proceeded to take up these two sides of his subject, and to illustrate this view of the right way to apply science to art, by a course on birds, in nature, art and mythology, and next year by a study of alpine forms. the historical side was continued with lectures on niccola pisano and early tuscan sculpture, and in with an important, though unpublished, course on florentine art. it is to this cycle of lectures that we must look for that matured ruskinian theory of art which his early works do not reach; and which his writings between and do not touch. though the oxford lectures are only a fragment of what he ought to have done, they should be sufficient to a careful reader; though their expression is sometimes obscured by diffuse treatment, they contain the root of the matter, thought out for fifteen years since the close of the more brilliant, but less profound, period of "modern painters." the course on birds[ ] was given in the drawing school at the university galleries. the room was not large enough for the numbers that crowded to hear professor ruskin, and each of these lectures, like the previous and the following courses, had to be repeated to a second audience. great pains had been given to their preparation--much greater than the easy utterance and free treatment of his theme led his hearers to believe. for these lectures and their sequel, published as "love's meinie," he collected an enormous number of skins--to compare the plumage and wings of different species; for his work was with the _outside_ aspect and structure of birds, not with their anatomy. he had models made, as large as swords, of the different quill-feathers, to experiment on their action and resistance to the air. he got a valuable series of drawings by h.s. marks, r.a., and made many careful and beautiful studies himself of feathers and of birds at the zoological gardens, and the british museum; and after all, he had to conclude his work saying, "it has been throughout my trust that if death should write on these, 'what this man began to build, he was not able to finish,' god may also write on them, not in anger, but in aid, 'a stronger than he cometh.'" [footnote : march , may and ; repeated march , may , and , .] two of the lectures on birds were repeated at eton[ ] before the boys' literary and scientific society and their friends; and between this and ruskin often went to address the same audience, with the same interest in young people that had taken him in earlier years to woolwich. [footnote : may and .] after a long vacation at brantwood, the first spent there, he went up to give his course on early tuscan art ("val d'arno")[ ]. the lectures were printed separately and sold at the conclusion and the first numbers were sent to carlyle, whose unabated interest in his friend's work was shown in his letter of oct. st: "_perge, perge_;--and, as the irish say, 'more power to your elbow!' i have yet read this 'val d'arno' only once. froude snatched it away from me yesterday; and it has then to go to my brother at dumfries. after that i shall have it back...." [footnote : on mondays and thursdays, oct. , , , , nov. , , , , , ; repeated on the wednesdays and fridays following.] during that summer and autumn ruskin suffered from nights of sleeplessness or unnaturally vivid dreams and days of unrest and feverish energy, alternating with intense fatigue. the eighteen lectures in less than six weeks, a "combination of prophecy and play-acting," as carlyle had called it in his own case, and the unfortunate discussion with an old-fashioned economist who undertook to demolish ruskinism without understanding it, added to the causes of which we are already aware, brought him to new year, , in "failing strength, care, and hope." he sought quiet at the seaside, but found modern hotel-life intolerable; he went back to town and tried the pantomimes for distraction,--saw kate vaughan in cinderella, and violet cameron in jack in the box, over and over again, and found himself: "now hopelessly a man of the world!--of that woeful outside one, i mean. it is now sunday; half-past eleven in the morning. everybody else is gone to church--and i am left alone with the cat, in the world of sin." thinking himself better, he went to oxford, and announced a course on alpine form; but after a week was obliged to retreat and go home to coniston, still hoping to return and give his lectures. but it was no use. the gloom without deepened the gloom within; and he took the wisest course in trying italy, alone this time with his old servant crawley. the greater part of was spent abroad--first travelling through savoy and by the riviera to assisi, where he wrote to miss s. beever: "the sacristan gives me my coffee for lunch in his own little cell, looking out on the olive woods; then he tells me stories of conversions and miracles, and then perhaps we go into the sacristy and have a reverent little poke-out of relics. fancy a great carved cupboard in a vaulted chamber full of most precious things (the box which the holy virgin's veil used to be kept in, to begin with), and leave to rummage in it at will! things that are only shown twice in the year or so, with fumigation! all the congregation on their knees--and the sacristan and i having a great heap of them on the table at once, like a dinner service. i really looked with great respect on st. francis's old camel-hair dress." thence he went to visit colonel and mrs. yule at palermo, deeply interested in scylla and charybdis, etna and the metopes of selinus. his interest in greek art had been shown, not only in a course of lectures, but in active support to archæological explorations. he said once, "i believe heartily in diggings, of all sorts." meeting general l.p. di cesnola and hearing of the wealth of ancient remains in cyprus then newly discovered, mr. ruskin placed £ , at his disposal. general di cesnola was able, in april, , to announce that in spite of the confiscation of half the treasure-trove by the local government, he had shipped a cargo of antiquities, including many vases, terra-cottas, and fragments of sculpture. whence, precisely, these relics came is now doubtful. the landscape of theocritus and the remains of ancient glories roused him to energetic sketching--a sign of returning strength, which continued when he reached rome, and enabled him to make a very fine copy of botticelli's zipporah, and other details of the sistine frescoes. late in october he reached england, just able to give the promised lectures on alpine forms,[ ]--i remember his curious attempt to illustrate the névé-masses by pouring flour on a model;--and a second course on the �sthetic and mathematic schools of florence;[ ] and a lecture on botticelli at eton, of which the literary and scientific society's minute-book contains the following report: [footnote : oct. , ; nov. and , .] [footnote : nov. , , , , , ; dec. and , .] "on saturday, dec. th ( ), professor ruskin lectured before a crowded, influential and excited audience, which comprised our noble society and a hundred and thirty gentlemen and ladies, who eagerly accepted an invitation to hear professor ruskin 'talk' to us on botticelli. it is utterly impossible for the unfortunate secretary of the society to transmit to writing even an abstract of this address; and it is some apology for him when beauty of expression, sweetness of voice, and elegance in imagery defy the utmost efforts of the pen." just before leaving for italy he had been told that the royal institute of british architects intended to present him with their gold medal in acknowledgment of his services to the cause of architecture; and during his journey official announcement of the award reached him. he dictated from assisi (june , ) a letter to sir gilbert scott, explaining why he declined the honour intended him. he said in effect that if it had been offered at a time when he had been writing on architecture it would have been welcome; but it was not so now that he felt all his efforts to have been in vain and the profession as a body engaged in work--such as the "restoration" of ancient buildings--with which he had no sympathy. it had been represented to him that his refusal to accept a royal medal would be a reflection upon the royal donor. to which he replied: "having entirely loyal feelings towards the queen, i will trust to her majesty's true interpretation of my conduct; but if formal justification of it be necessary for the public, would plead that if a peerage or knighthood may without disloyalty be refused, surely much more the minor grace proceeding from the monarch may be without impropriety declined by any of her majesty's subjects who wish to serve her without reward, under the exigency of peculiar circumstances." it was only the term before that prince leopold had been at oxford, a constant attendant on ruskin's lectures, and a visitor to his drawing school. the gentle prince, with his instinct for philanthropy, was not to be deterred by the utterances of "fors" from respecting the genius of the professor; and the professor, with his old-world, cavalier loyalty, readily returned the esteem and affection of his new pupil. a sincere friendship was formed, lasting until the prince's death. in june, , princess alice and her husband, with prince arthur and prince leopold, were at oxford. ruskin had just made arrangements completing his gifts to the university galleries and schools. the royal party showed great interest in the professor and his work. the princess, the grand duke of hesse, and prince leopold acted as witnesses to the deed of gift, and prince arthur and prince leopold accepted the trusteeship. with all the slade professor's generosity, the ruskin drawing school, founded in these fine galleries to which he had so largely contributed, in a palatial hall handsomely furnished, and hung with tintoret and luini, burne-jones and rossetti, and other rare masters, ancient and modern; with the most interesting examples to copy--at the most convenient of desks, we may add--yet in spite of it all, the drawing school was not a popular institution. when the professor was personally teaching, he got some fifteen or twenty--if not to attend, at any rate to join. but whenever the chief attraction could not be counted on, the attendance sank to an average of two or three. the cause was simple. an undergraduate is supposed to spend his morning in lectures, his afternoon in taking exercise, and his evening in college. there is simply no time in his scheme for going to a drawing school. if it were recognised as part of the curriculum, if it counted in any way along with other studies, or contributed to a "school" akin to that of music, practical art might become teachable at oxford; and professor ruskin's gifts and endowments--to say nothing of his hopes and plans--would not be wholly in vain. as he could not make the undergraduates draw, he made them dig. he had noticed a very bad bit of road on the hinksey side, and heard that it was nobody's business to mend it: meanwhile the farmers' carts and casual pedestrians were bemired. he sent for his gardener downes, who had been foreman of the street-sweepers; laid in a stock of picks and shovels; took lessons in stone-breaking himself, and called on his friends to spend their recreation times in doing something useful. many of the disciples met at the weekly open breakfasts at the professor's rooms in corpus; and he was glad of a talk to them on other things beside drawing and digging. some were attracted chiefly by the celebrity of the man, or by the curiosity of his humorous discourse; but there were a few who partly grasped one side or other of his mission and character. the most brilliant undergraduate of the time, seen at this breakfast table, but not one of the diggers, was w.h. mallock, afterwards widely known as the author of "is life worth living?" he was the only man. professor ruskin said, who really understood him--referring to "the new republic." but while mallock saw the reactionary and pessimistic side of his oxford teacher, there was a progressist and optimistic side which does not appear in his "mr. herbert." that was discovered by another man whose career, short as it was, proved even more influential. arnold toynbee was one of the professor's warmest admirers and ablest pupils: and in his philanthropic work the teaching of "unto this last" and "fors" was illustrated--not exclusively--but truly. "no true disciple of mine will ever be a ruskinian" (to quote "st. mark's rest"); "he will follow, not me, but the instincts of his own soul, and the guidance of its creator." like all energetic men, ruskin was fond of setting other people to work. one of his plans was to form a little library of standard books ("bibliotheca pastorum") suitable for the kind of people who, he hoped, would join or work under his st. george's company. the first book he chose was the "economist" of xenophon, which he asked two of his young friends to translate. to them and their work he would give his afternoons in the rooms at corpus, with curious patience in the midst of pre-occupying labour and severest trial; for just then he was lecturing at the london institution on the alps[ ]--reading a paper to the metaphysical society[ ]--writing the academy notes of , and "proserpina," etc.--as well as his regular work at "fors," and the st. george's company was then taking definite form;--and all the while the lady of his love was dying under the most tragic circumstances, and he forbidden to approach her. [footnote : "the simple dynamic conditions of glacial action among the alps," march , .] [footnote : "social policy based on natural selection," may .] at the end of may she died. on the st of june the royal party honoured the slade professor with their visit--little knowing how valueless to him such honours had become. he went north[ ] and met his translators at brantwood to finish the xenophon,--and to help dig his harbour and cut coppice in his wood. he prepared a preface; but the next term was one of greater pressure, with the twelve lectures on sir joshua reynolds to deliver. he wrote, after christmas: [footnote : "on a posting tour through yorkshire". he made three such tours in --southward in january, northward in june and july, and southward in september: and another northward in april and may, .] "now that i have got my head fairly into this xenophon business, it has expanded into a new light altogether; and i think it would be absurd in me to slur over the life in one paragraph. a hundred things have come into my head as i arrange the dates, and i think i can make a much better thing of it--with a couple of days' work. my head would not work in town--merely turned from side to side--never nodded (except sleepily). i send you the proofs just to show you i'm at work. i'm going to translate all the story of delphic answer before anabasis: and his speech after the sleepless night." delphic answers--for he was then again brought into contact with "spiritualism"; and sleepless nights--for the excitement of overwork was telling upon him--were becoming too frequent in his own experience; and yet the lectures on reynolds went off with success.[ ] the magic of his oratory transmuted the scribbled jottings of his ms. into a magnificent flow of rolling paragraph and rounded argument that thrilled a captious audience with unwonted emotion, and almost persuaded many a hearer to accept the gospel of "the ethereal ruskin." in spite of a sense of antagonism to his surroundings, he did useful work which none other could do in the university. that this was acknowledged was proved by his re-election, early in : but his third term of three years was a time of weakened health. repeated absence from his post and inability to fulfil his duties made it obviously his wisest course, at the end of that term, to resign the slade professorship. [footnote : nov. , , , , , , , , , , , and ; .] chapter iv st. george and st. mark ( - ) in the book his bertha of canterbury was reading at twilight on the eve of st. mark, keats might have been describing "fors." among its pages, fascinating with their golden broideries of romance and wit, perplexing with mystic vials of wrath as well as all the seven lamps and shekinah of old and new covenants commingled, there was gradually unfolded the plan of "st. george's work." the scheme was not easy to apprehend; it was essentially different from anything then known, though superficially like several bankrupt utopias. ruskin did not want to found a phalanstery, or to imitate robert owen or the shakers. that would have been practicable--and useless. he wanted much more. he aimed at the gradual introduction of higher aims into ordinary life: it giving true refinement to the lower classes, true simplicity to the upper. he proposed that idle hands should reclaim waste lands; that healthy work and country homes should be offered to townsfolk who would "come out of the gutter." he asked land-owners and employers to furnish opportunities for such reforms;--which would involve no elaborate organization nor unelastic rules;--simply the one thing needful, the refusal of commercialism. as before, he scorned the idea that real good could be done by political agitation. any government would work, he said, if it were an efficient government. no government was efficient unless it saw that every one had the necessaries of life, for body and soul; and that every one earned them by some work or other. capital--that is, the means and material of labour, should therefore be in the hands of the government, not in the hands of individuals: this reform would result easily and necessarily from the forbidding of loans on interest. personal property would still be in private hands; but as it could not be invested and turned into capital, it would necessarily be restricted to its actual use, and great accumulation would be valueless. this is, of course, a very sketchy statement of the ground-work of "fors," but to most readers nowadays as comprehensible as, at the time of its publication, it was incomprehensible. for when, long after "fors" had been written, ruskin found other writers advocating the same principles and calling themselves socialists, he said that he too was a socialist. but the socialists of various sects have complicated, and sometimes confused, their simple fundamental principles with various ways and means; to which he could not agree. he had his own ways and means. he had his private ideals of life, which he expounded, along with his main doctrine. he thought, justifiably, that theory was useless without practical example; and so he founded st. george's company (in called st. george's guild) as his illustration. the guild grew out of his call, in , for adherents: and by began to take definite form. its objects were to set the example of a common capital as opposed to a national debt, and of co-operative labour as opposed to competitive struggle for life. each member was required to do some work for his living--without too strict limits as to the kind--and to practice certain precepts of religion and morality, broad enough for general acceptance. he was also required to obey the authority of the guild, and to contribute a tithe of his income to a common fund, for various objects. these objects were--first: to buy land for the agricultural members to cultivate, paying their rent, not to the other members, but to the company; not refusing machinery, but preferring manual labour. next, to buy mills and factories, to be likewise owned by the guild and worked by members--using water power in preference to steam (steam at first not forbidden)--and making the lives of the people employed as well spent as might be, with a fair wage, healthy work, and so forth. the loss on starting was to be made up from the guild store, but it was anticipated that the honesty of the goods turned out would ultimately make such enterprises pay, even in a commercial world. then, for the people employed and their families, there would be places of recreation and instruction, supplied by the guild, and intended to give the agricultural labourer or mill-hand, trained from infancy in guild schools, some insight into literature, science and art--and tastes which his easy position would leave him free to cultivate. so far the plan was simple. it was not a _colony_--but merely the working of existing industries in a certain way. anticipating further development of the scheme, ruskin looked forward to a guild coinage, as pretty as the florentines had; a costume as becoming as the swiss: and other platonically devised details, which were not the essentials of the proposal, and never came into operation. but some of his plans were actually realised. the chief objects of "st. george" come under three heads, as we have just noticed: agricultural, industrial, and educational. the actual schools would not be needed until the farms and mills had been so far established as to secure a permanent attendance. but meanwhile provision was being made for them, both in literature and in art. the "bibliotheca pastorum," was to be a comprehensive little library--far less than the books of the _pall mall gazette_--and yet bringing before the st. george's workman standard and serious writing of all times. it was to include, in separate volumes, the books of moses and the psalms of david and the revelation of st. john. of greek, the economist of xenophon, and hesiod, which ruskin undertook to translate into prose. of latin the first two georgics and sixth �neid of virgil, in gawain douglas' translation. dante; chaucer, excluding the "canterbury tales"--but including the "romance of the rose"; gotthelf's "ulric the farmer," from the french version which ruskin had loved ever since his father used to read it him on their first tours in switzerland; and an early english history by an oxford friend. later were published sir philip sidney's psalter, and ruskin's own biography of sir herbert edwardes, under the title of "a knight's faith." these books were for the home library; reference works were bought to be deposited in central libraries, along with objects of art and science. it was not intended to keep the guild property centralised; but rather to spread it, as its other work was spread, broad-cast. a number of books and other objects were bought with the guild money, and lent or given to various schools and colleges and institutions where work akin to the objects of the guild was being done. but for the time ruskin fixed upon sheffield as the place of his first guild museum--being the home of the typical english industry--central to all parts of england, near beautiful hill-country, and yet not far from a number of manufacturing towns in which, if st. george's work went on, supporters and recruits might be found. the people of sheffield were already, in , building a museum of their own, and naturally thought that the two might be conveniently worked together. but that was not at all what ruskin wished. not only was his museum to be primarily the storehouse of the guild, rather than one among many means of popular education; but the objects which he intended to place there were not such as the public expected to see. he had no interest in a vast accumulation of articles of all kinds. he wanted to provide for his friends' common treasury a few definitely valuable and interesting examples--interesting to the sort of people that he hoped would join the guild or be bred up in it; and valuable according to his own standard and experience. in september , ruskin stayed a couple of days at sheffield to inspect a cottage at walkley, in the outskirts of the town, and to make arrangements for founding the museum--humbly to begin with, but hoping for speedy increase. he engaged as curator, at a salary of £ a year and free lodging on the premises, his former pupil at the working men's college, henry swan, who had done occasional work for him in drawing and engraving. swan was a quaker, and a remarkable man in his way; enthusiastic in his new vocation, and interested in the social questions which were being discussed in "fors." under his care the museum remained at walkley, accumulating material in the tiny and hardly accessible cottage--being so to speak in embryo, until the way should be clear for its removal or enlargement, which took place in . when ruskin came back on his posting tour of april , he stayed again at sheffield, to meet a few friends of swan's--secularists, unitarians, and quakers, who professed communism. they had an interview (reported in the sheffield _daily telegraph_, april th, ), which brought out rather curiously the points of difference between their opinions and his. they refused to join the guild because they would not promise obedience, and help in its objects. ruskin, however, was willing to advance theirs. a few weeks afterwards he invited them to choose a piece of ground for their communist experiment. they chose a farm of over thirteen acres at abbeydale, which the guild bought in at a cost of £ , s. d. for their use--the communists agreeing to pay the money back in instalments, without interest, by the end of seven years: when the farm should be their own. when it was actually in their hands they found that they knew nothing of farming--and besides, were making money at trades they did not really care to abandon. they engaged a man to work the farm for them: and then another. they were told that the land they had chosen was--for farming purposes--worthless. their capital ran short; and they tried to make money by keeping a tea-garden. the original proposer of the scheme wrote to ruskin, who sent £ :--the others returned the money. ruskin declined to take it back, and began to perceive that the communists were trifling. they had made no attempt to found the sort of community they had talked about; neither their plans nor his were being carried out. so when the original proposer and a friend of his named riley approached ruskin again, they found little difficulty in persuading him to try them as managers. the rest, finding themselves turned out by riley, vainly demanded "explanations" from ruskin, who then was drifting into his first attack of brain fever. so they declined further connection with the farm; the guild accepted their resignation, and undertook for the time nothing more than to get the land into good condition again. this was not the only land held by the st. george's guild. it acquired the acre of ground on which the sheffield museum stood, and a cottage with a couple of acres near scarborough. two acres of rock and moor at barmouth had been given by mrs. talbot in ; and in mr. george baker, then mayor of birmingham, gave twenty acres of woodland at bewdley in worcestershire, to which at one time mr. ruskin thought of moving the museum, before the present building was found for it by the sheffield corporation at meersbrook park. on the resignation of the original trustees, in , mr. q. talbot and mr. baker were offered the trust: and on the death of mr. talbot the trust was accepted by mr. john henry chamberlain. after he died it was taken by mr. george thomson of huddersfield, whose woollen mills, transformed into a co-operative concern, though not directly in connection with the guild, have given a widely known example of the working of principles advocated in "fors." in the middle of , egbert rydings, the auditor of the accounts which, in accordance with his principles of "glass pockets," ruskin published in "fors," proposed to start a homespun woollen industry at laxey, in the isle of man, where the old women who formerly spun with the wheel had been driven by failure of custom to work in the mines. the guild built him a water mill, and in a few years the demand for a pure, rough, durable cloth, created by this and kindred attempts, justified the enterprise. ruskin set the example, and had his own grey clothes made of laxey stuffs--whose chief drawback was that they never wore out. a little later a similar work was done, with even greater success, by mr. albert fleming, another member of the guild; who introduced old-fashioned spinning and hand-loom weaving at langdale. the story of ruskin's posting tour was told many years afterwards, at the opening of the new sheffield museum, by mr. arthur severn, a famous _raconteur_, whose description of the adventures of their cruise upon wheels includes so bright a picture of ruskin, that i must use his words as they were reported on the occasion in the magazine _igdrasil_: "... with the professor, who dislikes railways very much, it was not a question of travelling by rail. he said, 'i will take you in a carriage and with horses, and we will drive the whole way from london to the north of england. and i will not only do that, but i will do the best in my power to get a postilion to ride, and we will go quite in the old-fashioned way ...' the professor went so far that he actually built a carriage for this drive. it was a regular posting carriage, with good strong wheels, a place behind for the luggage, and cunning drawers inside it for all kinds of things that we might require on the journey. we started off one fine morning from london--i must say without a postilion--but when we arrived at the next town, about twenty miles off, having telegraphed beforehand that we were coming, there was a gorgeous postilion ready with the fresh horses, and we started off in a right style, according to the professor's wishes. "after many pleasant days of travelling, we at last arrived at sheffield, and i well remember that we created no small sensation as we clattered up to the old posting inn. i think it was the king's head. we stayed a few days, and visited the old museum at walkley; and i remember the look of regret on the professor's face when he saw how cramped the space was there for the things he had to show. however, with his usual kindliness, he did not say much about it at the time, and he did not complain of the considerable amount of room it was necessary for the curator and his family to take up in that place. we stayed about two days looking at the beautiful country,--and i am glad to say there was a good deal still left,--and then the professor gave orders that the carriage should be got ready to take us on our journey, and that a postilion should be forthcoming, if possible. i remember leaving the luncheon table and going outside to see if the necessary arrangements were complete. sure enough, there was the carriage at the door, and a still more gorgeous postilion than any we had had so far on our journey. his riding breeches were of the tightest and whitest i ever saw; his horses were an admirable pair, and looked like going. a very large crowd had assembled outside the inn, to see what extraordinary kind of mortals could be going to travel in such a way. "i went to the room where the professor was still at luncheon, and told him that everything was ready, but that there was a very large crowd at the door. he seemed rather amused; and i said, 'you know, professor, i really don't know what the people expect--whether it is a bride and bridegroom, or what.' he said, 'well, arthur, you and joan shall play at being bride and bridegroom inside the carriage, and i will get on the box.' he got mrs. severn on his arm, and had to hold her pretty tightly as he left the door, because when she saw the crowd outside she tried to beat a retreat. at last he got her into the carriage, i was put in afterwards, and he jumped up on the box. the crowd closed in, and looked at us as if we were a sort of menagerie. i was much amused when i thought how little these eager people knew that the real attraction was on the box; i felt inclined to put my head out of the window, and say, 'my good people, there is the man you should look at,--not us.' i did not like to do so; and the professor gave the word to be off, the postilion cracked his whip, and we went off in grand style, amidst the cheers of the crowd...." on one of these posting excursions, they came to hardraw; mrs. alfred hunt tells the story in her edition of turner's "richmondshire"; mr. severn's account is somewhat different. after examining the fall, mrs. severn and mr. ruskin left mr. severn to sketch, and went away to hawes to order their tea. when they were gone, a man who had been standing by came up and asked if that were professor ruskin. "yes," said mr. severn, "it was; he is very fond of the fall, and much puzzled to know why the edge of the cliff is not worn away by the water, as he expected to find it after so many years." "oh," said the other, "there are twelve feet of masonry up there to protect the rock. i'm a native of the place, and know all about it." "i wish," said mr. severn, absently, as he went on drawing, "mr. ruskin knew that; he would be so interested." and the stranger ran off. when the sketcher came in to tea he felt there was something wrong. "you're in for it!" said his wife. "let us look at his sketch first," said mr. ruskin; and luckily it was a very good one. by and by it all came out;--how the yorkshireman had caught the professor, and eagerly described the horrible vandalism, receiving in reply some very emphatic language. upon which he took off his hat and bowed low: "but, sir," he faltered, "the gentleman up there said i was to tell you, and you would be so interested!" the professor, suddenly mollified, took off his hat in turn, and apologised for his reception of the news: "but," said he, "i shall never care for hardraw waterfall again." "the professor," said mr. severn, "dislikes railways very much:" and on his arrival at brantwood after that posting journey he wrote a preface to "a protest against the extension of railways in the lake district," by mr. robert somervell. ruskin's dislike of railways has been the text of a great deal of misrepresentation, and his use of them, at all, has been often quoted as an inconsistency. as a matter of fact, he never objected to main lines of railway communication; but he strongly objected, in common with a vast number of people, to the introduction of railways into districts whose chief interest is in their scenery; especially where, as in the english lake district, the scenery is in miniature, easily spoiled by embankments and viaducts, and by the rows of ugly buildings which usually grow up round a station; and where the beauty of the landscape can only be felt in quiet walks or drives through it. many years later, after he had said all he had to say on the subject again and again, and was on the brink of one of his illnesses, he wrote in violent language to a correspondent who tried to "draw" him on the subject of another proposed railway to ambleside. but his real opinions were simple enough, and consistent with a practicable scheme of life. in august he left england for italy. he travelled alone, accompanied only by his new servant baxter, who had lately taken the place vacated by crawley, mr. ruskin's former valet of twenty years' service. he crossed the simplon to venice, where he was welcomed by an old friend, rawdon brown, and a new friend, prof. c.h. moore, of harvard. he met two oxford pupils, mr. j. reddie anderson, whom he set to work on carpaccio; and mr. whitehead--"so much nicer they all are," he wrote in a private letter, "than i was at their age;"--also his pupil mr. bunney, at work on copies of pictures and records of architecture, the legacy of st. mark to st. george. two young artists were brought into his circle, during that winter--both venetians, and both singularly interesting men: giacomo boni, now a celebrated antiquary, then capo d'opera of the ducal palace, and doing his best to preserve, instead of "restoring," the ancient sculptures; and angelo alessandri, a painter of more than usual seriousness of aim and sympathy with the fine qualities of the old masters. ruskin had been engaged on a manual of drawing for his oxford schools, which he now meant to complete in two parts: "the laws of fésole"--teaching the principles of florentine draughtsmanship; and "the laws of rivo alto"--about venetian colour. passages for this second part were written. but he found himself so deeply interested in the evolution of venetian art, and in tracing the spirit of the people as shown by the mythology illustrated in the pictures and sculptures, that his practical manual became a sketch of art history, "st. mark's rest"--as a sort of companion to "mornings in florence," which he had been working at during his last visit to italy. his intention was to supersede "stones of venice" by a smaller book, giving more prominence to the ethical side of history, which should illustrate carpaccio as the most important figure of the transition period, and do away with the exclusive protestantism of his earlier work. he set himself to this task, with tintoret's motto--_sempre si fa il mare maggiore_, and worked with feverish energy, recording his progress in letters home. " _nov_.--i never was yet, in my life, in such a state of hopeless confusion of letters, drawings, and work: chiefly because, of course, when one is old, one's _done_ work seems all to tumble in upon one, and want rearranging, and everything brings a thousand old as well as new thoughts. my head seems less capable of accounts every year. i can't _fix_ my mind on a sum in addition--it goes off, between seven and nine, into a speculation on the seven deadly sins or the nine muses. my table is heaped with unanswered letters,--ms. of four or five different books at six or seven different parts of each,--sketches getting rubbed out,--others getting smudged in,--parcels from mr. brown unopened, parcels _for_ mr. moore unsent; my inkstand in one place,--too probably upset,--my pen in another; my paper under a pile of books, and my last carefully written note thrown into the waste-paper basket. " _dec_.--i'm having nasty foggy weather just now,--but it's better than fog in london,--and i'm really resting a little, and trying not to be so jealous of the flying days. i've a most _cumfy_ room [at the grand hotel]--i've gone out of the very expensive one, and only pay twelve francs a day; and i've two windows, one with open balcony and the other covered in with glass. it spoils the look of the window dreadfully, but gives me a view right away to lido, and of the whole sunrise. then the bed is curtained off from rest of room like that [sketch of window and room] with fine flourishing white and gold pillars--and the black place is where one goes out of the room beside the bed. " _dec_.--i hope to send home a sketch or two which will show i'm not quite losing my head yet.... i must show at oxford some reason for my staying so long in venice." beside studies in the chapel of st. george, he copied carpaccio's "dream of st. ursula" which was taken down--it had been "skied" at the academy until then--and placed in the sculpture gallery; and be laboured to produce a facsimile. " _dec_.--i do think st. ursula's lips are coming pretty--and her eyelids--but oh me, her hair. toni, mr. brown's gondolier, says she's all right--and he's a grave and close looking judge, you know." christmas day was a crisis in his life. he was attacked by illness; severe pain, followed by a dreamy state in which the vividly realized presence of st. ursula mingled with memories of his dead lady, whose "spirit" had been shown him a year before by a "medium" met at a country house. since then he had watched eagerly for evidences of another life: and the sense of its conceivability grew upon him, in spite of the doubts which he had entertained of the immortality of the soul. at last, after a year's earnest desire for some such assurance, it seemed to come to him. what others call coincidences, and accidents, and states of mind flashed, for him, into importance; times and seasons, names and symbols, took a vivid meaning. his intense despondency changed for a while into a singular happiness--it seemed a renewed health and strength: and instead of despair, he rejoiced in the conviction of guarding providences and helpful influences. readers of "fors" had traced for some years back the re-awakening of a religious tone, now culminating in a pronounced mysticism which they could not understand, and in a recantation of the sceptical judgments of his middle period. he found, now, new excellences in the early christian painting; he depreciated turner and tintoret, and denounced the frivolous art of the day. he searched the bible more diligently than ever for its hidden meanings; and in proportion as he felt its inspiration, he recoiled from the conclusions of modern science, and wrapped the prophet's mantle more closely round him, as he denounced with growing fervour the crimes of our unbelieving age. chapter v deucalion and proserpina ( - ) in the summer of , ruskin had written: "i begin to ask myself, with somewhat pressing arithmetic, how much time is likely to be left me, at the age of fifty-six, to complete the various designs for which, until past fifty, i was merely collecting material. of these materials i have now enough by me for a most interesting (in my own opinion) history of fifteenth century florentine art, in six octavo volumes; an analysis of the attic art of the fifth century b.c. in three volumes; an exhaustive history of northern thirteenth-century art, in ten volumes; a life of sir walter scott, with analysis of modern epic art, in seven volumes; a life of xenophon, with analysis of the general principles of education, in ten volumes; a commentary on hesiod, with final analysis of the principles of political economy, in nine volumes; and a general description of the geology and botany of the alps, in twenty-four volumes." the estimate of volumes was--perhaps--in jest; but the plans for harvesting his material were in earnest. "proserpina"--so named from the flora of the greeks, the daughter of demeter, mother earth--grew out of notes already begun in . it was little like an ordinary botany book;--that was to be expected. it did not dissect plants; it did not give chemical or histological analysis: but with bright and curious fancy, with the most ingenious diagrams and perfect drawings--beautifully engraved by burgess and allen--illustrated the mystery of growth in plants and the tender beauty of their form. though this was not science, in strict terms it was a field of work which no one but ruskin had cultivated. he was helped by a few scientific men like professor oliver, who saw a value in his line of thought, and showed a kindly interest in it. "deucalion"--from the mythical creator of human life out of stones--was begun as a companion work: to be published in parts, as the repertory of oxford lectures on alpine form, and notes on all kinds of kindred subjects. for instance, before that hasty journey to sheffield he gave a lecture at the london institution on "precious stones" (february th, repeated march th, . a lecture on a similar subject was given to the boys of christ's hospital on april th). this lecture, called "the iris of the earth," stood first in part iii. of "deucalion": and the work went on, in studies of the forms of silica, on the lines marked out ten years before in the papers on banded and brecciated concretions; now carried forward with much kind help from the rev. j. clifton ward, of the geological survey, and mr. henry willett, f.g.s., of brighton. on the way home over the simplon in may and june, , travelling first with signor alessandri, and then with mr. g. allen, professor ruskin continued his studies of alpine flowers for "proserpina." in the autumn he gave a lecture at kendal (oct. st, repeated at eton college dec. th) on "yewdale and its streamlets." "yewdale"--reprinted as part v. of "deucalion"--took an unusual importance in his own mind, not only because it was a great success as a lecture--though some kendalians complained that there was not enough "information" in it:--but because it was the first given since that christmas at venice, when a new insight had been granted him, as he felt, into spiritual things, and a new burden laid on him, to withstand the rash conclusions of "science falsely so called," and to preach in their place the presence of god in nature and in man. writing to miss beever about his oxford course of that autumn, "readings in modern painters," [ ] he said, on the nd december: [footnote : nov. , , , , , , , , , , and dec. , . these lectures were never prepared for publication as a course; the last lecture was printed in the _nineteenth century_ for january, .] "i gave yesterday the twelfth and last of my course of lectures this term, to a room crowded by six hundred people, two-thirds members of the university, and with its door wedged open by those who could not get in; this interest of theirs being granted to me, i doubt not, because for the first time in oxford i have been able to speak to them boldly of immortal life. i intended when i began the course only to have read 'modern painters' to them; but when i began, some of your favourite bits[ ] interested the men so much, and brought so much larger a proportion of undergraduates than usual, that i took pains to re-inforce and press them home; and people say i have never given so useful a course yet. but it has taken all my time and strength." [footnote : miss beever had published early in the extracts from "modern painters," so widely known as "frondes agrestes."] he wrote again, on dec. th, from herne hill: "it is a long while since i've felt so good-for-nothing as i do this morning. my very wristbands curl up in a dog's-eared and disconsolate manner; my little room is all a heap of disorder. i've got a hoarseness and wheezing and sneezing and coughing and choking. i can't speak and i can't think; i'm miserable in bed and useless out of it; and it seems to me as if i could never venture to open a window or go out of a door any more. i have the dimmest sort of diabolical pleasure in thinking how miserable i shall make susie by telling her all this; but in other respects i seem entirely devoid of all moral sentiments. i have arrived at this state of things, first by catching cold, and since trying to 'amuse myself' for three days." he goes on to give a list of his amusements--pickwick, chivalric romances, the _daily telegraph_, staunton's games of chess, and finally analysis of the dock company's bill of charges on a box from venice. ten days after he wrote from oxford, in his whimsical style: "yesterday i had two lovely services in my own cathedral. you know the _cathedral_ of oxford is the chapel of christ church college, and i have my high seat in the chancel, as an honorary student, besides being bred there, and so one is ever so proud and ever so pious all at once, which is ever so nice you know: and my own dean, that's the dean of christ church, who is as big as any bishop, read the services, and the psalms and anthems were lovely; and then i dined with henry acland and his family ... but i do wish i could be at brantwood too." next day it was "cold quite gone." but he was not to be quit so easily this time of the results of overwork and worry. he had been passing through the unpleasant experience of a misunderstanding with one of his most trusted friends and helpers. his work on behalf of the st. george's guild had been energetic and sincere: and he had received the support of a number of strangers, among whom were people of responsible station and position. but he was surprised to find that many of his personal friends held aloof. he was still more surprised to learn, on returning from venice, full of new hope and stronger convictions in his mission, that the caution of one upon whom he had counted as a firm ally had dissuaded an intending adherent from joining in the work. a man of the world, accustomed to overreach and to be overreached, would have taken the discovery coolly, and accepted an explanation. but ruskin was never a man of the world; and now, much less than ever. he took it as treason to the great work of which he felt himself to be the missionary. throughout the autumn and winter the discovery rankled, and preyed on his mind. as for the sake of absolute candour he had published in "fors" everything that related to the guild work,--even his own private affairs and confessions, whatever they risked,--he felt that this too must out; in order that his supporters might judge of his conduct and that nothing affecting the enterprise might be kept back. and so, at christmas, he sent the correspondence to his printers. years afterwards, by the intervention of friends, this breach was healed: but what suffering it cost can be learnt from the sequel. to ruskin it was the beginning of the end. his aberdeen correspondent asked just then for the usual christmas message to the bible class: and instead of the cheery words of bygone years, received the couplet from horace: "inter spem curamque, timores inter et iras, _omnem_ crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum." "amid hope and sorrow, amid fear and wrath, believe _every_ day that has dawned on thee to be thy last." from oxford, early in january, , he went on a visit to windsor castle, whence he wrote: "i came to see prince leopold, who has been a prisoner to his sofa lately, but i trust he is better; he is very bright and gentle under severe and almost continual pain." no less gentle, in spite of the severe justice he was inflicting upon himself even more than upon his friend, was the author of "fors," as the letters of the time to his invalid neighbour in "hortus inclusus" show. how ready to own himself in the wrong,--at that very moment when he was being pointed at as the most obstinate and egotistic of men--how placable he really was and open to rebuke, he showed, when, from windsor, he went to hawarden. nearly three years before he had written roughly of mr. gladstone; as a conservative, he was not predisposed in favour of the leader of the party to whom he attributed most of the evils he was combating. mr. gladstone and he had often met, and by no means agreed together in conversation. but this visit convinced him that he had misjudged mr. gladstone; and he promptly made the fullest apology in the current number of "fors," saying that he had written under a complete misconception of his character. in reprinting the old pages he not only cancelled the offending passage, but he left the place blank, with a note in the middle of it, as "a memorial of rash judgment." he went slowly northward, seeking rest at ingleton; whence he wrote, january :--"i've got nothing done all the time i've been away but a few mathematical figures [crystallography, no doubt, for 'deucalion,'] and the less i do the less i find i can do it; and yesterday, for the first time these twenty years, i hadn't so much as a 'plan' in my head all day." arrived at brantwood, as rest was useless, he tried work. mr. willett had asked him to reprint "the two paths," and he got that ready for press, and wrote a short preface. at venice, mr. j.r. anderson had been working out for him the myths illustrated by carpaccio in the chapel of s. giorgio de' schiavoni; and the book had been waiting for ruskin's introduction until he was surprised by the publication of an almost identical inquiry by m. clermont-ganneau. he tried to fulfil his duty to his pupil by writing the preface immediately; most sorrowfully feeling the inadequacy of his strength for the tasks he had laid upon it. he wrote: "my own feeling, now, is that everything which has hitherto happened to me, and been done by me, whether well or ill, has been fitting me to take greater fortune more prudently, and to do better work more thoroughly. and just when i seem to be coming out of school,--very sorry to have been such a foolish boy, yet having taken a prize or two, and expecting now to enter upon some more serious business than cricket,--i am dismissed by the master i hoped to serve, with a--'that's all i want of you, sir.'" in such times he found relief by reverting to the past. he wrote in the beginning of february a paper for the _university magazine_ on "my first editor," w.h. harrison, and forgot himself--almost--in bright reminiscences of youthful days and early associations. next, as mr. marcus huish, who had shown great friendliness and generosity in providing prints for the sheffield museum, was now proposing to hold an exhibition of mr. ruskin's "turners" at the fine art galleries in new bond street, it was necessary to arrange the exhibits and to prepare the catalogue. for the next fortnight he struggled on with this labour, and with his last "fors"--the last he was to write in the long series of more than seven years.[ ] how little the thousands who read the preface to his catalogue, with its sad sketch of turner's fate, and what they supposed to be its "customary burst of terminal eloquence," understood that it was indeed the cry of one who had been wounded in the house of his friends, and was now believing every day that dawned on him to be his last. he told of turner's youthful picture of the coniston fells and its invocation to the mists of morning, bidding them "in honour to the world's great author, rise,"--and then how turner's "health, and with it in great degree his mind, failed suddenly with a snap of some vital chord," after the sunset splendours of his last, dazzling efforts.... [footnote : "fors" was taken up again, at intervals, later on; but never with the same purpose and continuity.] "morning breaks, as i write, along those coniston fells, and the level mists, motionless and grey beneath the rose of the moorlands, veil the lower woods, and the sleeping village, and the long lawns by the lake-shore. oh that some one had but told me, in my youth, when all my heart seemed to be set on these colours and clouds, that appear for a little while and then vanish away, how little my love of them would serve me, when the silence of lawn and wood in the dews of morning should be completed; and all my thoughts should be of those whom, by neither, i was to meet more!" the catalogue was finished, and hurried off to the printers. a week of agitating suspense at home, and then it could no longer be concealed. friends and foes alike were startled and saddened with the news of his "sudden and dangerous illness,"--some form of inflammation of the brain--the result of overwork, but still more immediately of the emotional strain from which he had been suffering. on march th, the turner exhibition opened, and day by day the bulletins from brantwood announcing his condition were read by multitudes of visitors with eager and sorrowful interest. newspapers all the world over copied the daily reports: in the far west of america the same telegrams were posted, and they say even a more demonstrative sympathy was shown. nor was the feeling confined to the english speaking public. the oxford proctor in convocation of april th, when the patient, after the first burst of the storm was slowly drifting back into calmer waters, thought it worth while, in the course of his speech, to mention that in italy, where he had lately been on an easter vacation tour, he had witnessed a widespread anxiety about ruskin, and prayers put up for his recovery. by may th he was so much better that he could complete the catalogue with some gossip about those alpine drawings of which he regarded as the climax of turner's work. the first--and best in some ways--of the series was the splügen. without any word to him, the diligence of kind friends and the help of a wide circle of admirers traced the drawing, and subscribed its price-- , guineas, to which mr. agnew generously added his commission--and it was presented to mr. ruskin as a token of sympathy and respect. he was not insensible to the personal compliment implied, and by way of some answer he spent the first few days of his convalescence in arranging and annotating a series of drawings by himself, and engravings, illustrating the turners, to add to his show during the remainder of the season. when they were sent off (early in june) to bond street, he left home with the severns to complete his recovery at malham. there was another reason why that spontaneous testimonial was welcome at the moment, for a curious and unaccustomed ordeal was impending for his claims as an art critic. on his return from venice after months of intercourse with the great old masters, he found the grosvenor gallery just opened for the first time, with its memorable exhibition of the different extra-academical schools. it placed before the public, in sharp contrast, the final outcome of the pre-raphaelitism for which he had fought many a year before, and samples of the last new fashion from paris. the maturer works of burne-jones had been practically unseen by the public, and ruskin took the opportunity of their exhibition to write his praise of the youngest of the old masters in the current numbers of "fors," and afterwards in two papers on the "three colours of pre-raphaelitism" (_nineteenth century magazine_, november and december, ). but in the same "fors" he dismissed with half a paragraph of contempt mr. whistler's eccentric sketch of fireworks at cremorne. long before, in , when he was working with various artists connected with the pre-raphaelite circle, mr. whistler had made overtures to the great critic through mr. swinburne the poet; but he had not been taken seriously. now he had become the missionary in england of the new french gospel of "impressionism," which to ruskin was one of those half-truths which are ever the worst of heresies. mr. whistler appealed to the law. he brought an action for libel, which was tried on november th and th before baron huddleston, and recovered a farthing damages. ruskin's costs--amounting to £ s. d.--were paid by a public subscription to which one hundred and twenty persons, including many strangers, contributed. by that time he was fully recovering from his illness, back at coniston, after a short visit to liverpool. it was forbidden to him to attempt any exciting work. he had given up "fors" and oxford lecturing, and was devoting himself again to quiet studies for "proserpina" and "deucalion." on the first day of the trial the st. george's guild was registered as a company; on the second day he wrote to miss beever: "i have entirely resigned all hope of ever thanking you rightly for bread, sweet odours, roses and pearls, and must just allow myself to be fed, scented, rose-garlanded and be-pearled, as if i were a poor little pet dog, or pet pig. but my cold is better, and i _am_ getting on with this botany; but it is really too important a work to be pushed for a week or fortnight." early in his resignation of the slade professorship was announced; followed by what was virtually his election to an honorary doctor's degree; or, as officially worded--"the hebdomadal council resolved on june , , to propose to convocation to confer the degree of d.c.l. _honoris causa_ upon john ruskin, m.a., of ch. ch., at the enænia of that year; but the proposal, though notified in the _gazette_ of june , was not submitted to vote owing to the inability of mr. ruskin to be present at the encænia." the degree was conferred, in his absence, in . chapter vi the diversions of brantwood ( - ) sixty years of one of the busiest lives on record were beginning to tell upon ruskin. he would not confess to old age, but his recent illness had shaken him severely. the next three years were spent chiefly at coniston, in comparative retirement; but neither in despair, nor idleness, nor loneliness. he had always lived a sort of dual life, solitary in his thoughts, but social in his habits; liking company, especially of young people; ready, in the intervals of work, to enter into their employments and amusements, and curiously able to forget his cares in hours of relaxation. sometimes, when earnest admirers made the pilgrimage to their mecca--"holy brantwood" as a scoffing poet called it--they were surprised and even shocked, to find the prophet of "fors" at the head of a merry dinner-table, and the professor of art among surroundings which a london or a boston "æsthete" would have ruled to be in very poor taste. shall i take you for a visit there,--to brantwood as it was in those old times? it is a weary way to coniston, whatever road you choose. the inconvenience of the railway route was perhaps one reason of ruskin's preference for driving on so many occasions. after changing and changing trains, and stopping at many a roadside station, at last you see, suddenly, over the wild undulating country, the coniston old man and its crags, abrupt on the left, and the lake, long and narrow, on the right. across the water, tiny in the distance and quite alone amongst forests and moors, there is brantwood; and beyond it everything seems uncultivated, uninhabited, except for one grey farmhouse high on the fell, where gaps in the ragged larches show how bleak and storm-swept a spot it is. to come out of the station after long travel is to find yourself face to face with magnificent rocks, and white cottages among the fir-trees. as you are whirled down through the straggling village, and along the shore round the head of the lake, the panorama, though not alpine in magnitude, is almost alpine in character. the valley, too, is not yet built up; it is still the old-fashioned lake country, almost as it was in the days of the "iteriad." you drive up and down a narrow, hilly lane, catching peeps of mountains and sunset, through thick, overhanging trees; you turn sharp up through a gate under dark firs and larches, and the carriage stops in what seems in the twilight a sort of court,--a gravelled space, one side formed by a rough stone wall crowned with laurels and almost precipitous coppice, the _brant_ (or steep) wood above, and the rest is brantwood, with a capital b.[ ] [footnote : the archway supporting a great pile of new buildings did not exist in the time when this visit is supposed to be made. since that time new stables and greenhouses also have been built; with other additions somewhat altering the cottage-like house of ruskin's working days.] you expect that gothic porch you have read of in "lectures on architecture and painting," and you are surprised to find a stucco classic portico in the corner, painted and _grained_, and heaped around with lucky horseshoes, brightly blackleaded, and mysterious rows of large blocks of slate and basalt and trap--a complete museum of local geology, if only you knew it--very unlike an ideal entrance; still more unlike an ordinary one. while you wait you can see through the glass door a roomy hall, lit with candles, and hung with large drawings by burne-jones and by the master of the house. his soft hat, and thick gloves, and chopper, lying on the marble table, show that he has come in from his afternoon's woodcutting. but if you are expected you will hardly have time to look round, for brantwood is nothing if not hospitable. the honoured guest--and all guests are honoured there--after welcome, is ushered up a narrow stair, which betrays the original cottage, into the "turret room." it had been "the professor's" until after his illness, and he papered it with naturalistic pansies, to his own taste, and built out at one corner a projecting turret to command the view on all sides, with windows strongly latticed to resist the storms. there is old-fashioned solid comfort in the way of furniture; and pictures,--a dürer engraving, some prouts and turners, a couple of old venetian heads, and meissonier's "napoleon," over the fireplace--a picture which ruskin bought for one thousand guineas, showed for a time at oxford, and hung up here in a shabby little frame to be out of the way.[ ] [footnote : sold in for , guineas.] if you are a man, you are told not to dress; if you are a lady, you may put on your prettiest gown. they dine in the new room, for the old dining-room was so small that the waitress could not get round the table. the new room is spacious and lofty compared with the rest of the house; it has a long window with thick red sandstone mullions--there at last is a touch of gothicism--to look down the lake, and a bay window open on the narrow lawn sloping steeply down to the road in front, and the view of the old man. the walls, painted "duck egg," are hung with old pictures; the doge gritti, a bit saved from the great titian that was burnt in the fire at the ducal palace in ; a couple of tintorets; turner and reynolds, each painted by himself in youth; raphael by a pupil, so it is said; portraits of old mr. and mrs. ruskin, and little john and his "boo hills." there he sits, no longer little, opposite: and you can trace the same curve and droop of the eyebrows prefigured in the young face and preserved in the old, and a certain family likeness to his handsome young father. since mr. ruskin's illness his cousin, mrs. arthur severn, has become more and more indispensable to him: she sits at the head of the table and calls him "the coz." an eminent visitor was once put greatly out of countenance by this apparent irreverence. after obvious embarrassment, light dawned upon him towards the close of the meal. "oh!" said he, "it's 'the coz' you call mr. ruskin. i thought you were saying' the cuss!'" there are generally two or three young people staying in the house, salaried assistants[ ] or amateur, occasional helpers; but though there is a succession of visitors from a distance, there is not very frequent entertainment of neighbours. [footnote : the face most familiar at brantwood in those times was "laurie's." a strange, bright, gifted boy--admirable draughtsman, ingenious mechanician, marvellous actor; the imaginer of the quaintest and drollest humours that ever entered the head of man; devoted to boats and boating, but unselfishly ready to share all labours and contribute to all diversions; painstaking and perfect in his work, and brilliant in his wit,--laurence hilliard was dearly loved by his friends, and is still loved by them dearly. he was ruskin's chief secretary at brantwood from jan., to , when the death of his father, and ill-health, led him to resign the post, which was then filled by miss sara d. anderson. hilliard continued to live at coniston, and was just beginning to succeed as a painter of still life and landscape when he died of pleurisy on board a friend's yacht in the aegean, april th, , aged thirty-two.] a brantwood dinner is always ample; there is no asceticism about the place; nor is there any affectation of "intensity" or of conversational cleverness. the neat things you meant to say are forgotten--you must be hardened indeed to say them to mr. ruskin's face; but if you were shy, you soon feel that there was no need for shyness; you have fallen among friends; and before dessert comes in, with fine old sherry--the pride of your host, as he explains--you feel that nobody understands you so well, and that all his books are nothing to himself. they don't sit over their wine, and smoking is not allowed. ruskin goes off to his study after dinner--it is believed for a nap, for he was at work early and has been out all the afternoon. in the drawing-room you see pictures--water-colours by turner and hunt, drawings by prout and ruskin, an early burne-jones, a sketch in oil by gainsborough. the furniture is the old mahogany of mr. ruskin's childhood, with rare things interspersed--like the cloisonné vases on the mantelpiece. soon after nine ruskin comes in with an armful of things that are going to the sheffield museum, and while his cousin makes his tea and salted toast, he explains his last acquirements in minerals or missals, eager that you should see the interest of them; or displays the last studies of mr. rooke or mr. fairfax murray, copies from carpaccio or bits of gothic architecture. then, sitting in the chair in which he preached his baby-sermon, he reads aloud a few chapters of scott or miss edgeworth, or, with judicious omissions, one of the older novelists; or translates, with admirable facility, a scene of scribe or george sand. when his next work comes out you will recognise this evening's reading in his allusions and quotations, perhaps even in the subjects of his writing, for at this time he is busy on the articles of "fiction, fair and foul." after the reading, music; a bit of his own composition, "old aegina's rock," or "cockle-hat and staff"; his cousin's scotch ballads or christy minstrel songs; and if you can sing a new ditty, fresh from london, now is your chance. you are surprised to see the prophet clapping his hands to "camptown races," or the "hundred pipers"--chorus given with the whole strength of the company; but you are in a house of strange meetings. by about half-past ten his day is over; a busy day, that has left him tired out. you will not easily forget the way he lit his candle--no lamps allowed, and no gas--and gave a last look lovingly at a pet picture or two, slanting his candlestick and shading the light with his hand, before he went slowly upstairs to his own little room, literally lined with the turner drawings you have read about in "modern painters." you may be waked by a knock at the door, and "are you looking out?" and pulling up the blind, there is one of our coniston mornings, with the whole range of mountains in one quiet glow above the cool mist of the valley and lake. going down at length on a voyage of exploration, and turning in perhaps at the first door, you intrude upon "the professor" at work in his study, half sitting, half kneeling at his round table in the bay window, with the early cup of coffee, and the cat in his crimson arm-chair. there he has been working since dawn, perhaps, or on dark mornings by candlelight. and he does not seem to mind the interruption; after a welcome he asks you to look round while he finishes his paragraph, and writes away composedly. a long, low room, evidently two old cottage-rooms thrown into one; papered with a pattern specially copied from marco marziale's "circumcision" in the national gallery; and hung with turners. a great early turner[ ] of the lake of geneva is over the fireplace. you are tempted to make a mental inventory. polished steel fender, very unæsthetic; curious shovel--his design, he will stop to remark, and forged by the village smith. red mahogany furniture, with startling shiny emerald leather chair-cushions; red carpet and green curtains. most of the room crowded with bookcases and cabinets for minerals. scales in a glass case; heaps of mineral specimens; books on the floor; rolls of diagrams; early greek pots from cyprus; a great litter of things and yet not disorderly nor dusty. "i don't understand," he once said, "why you ladies are always complaining about the dust; my bookcases are never dusty!" the truth being that, though he rose early, the housemaid rose earlier. [footnote : since sold, and replaced by a della robbia madonna.] before you have finished your inventory he breaks off work to show you a drawer or two of minerals, fairy-land in a cupboard; or some of his missals, king hakon's bible, or the original ms. of the scott he was reading last night; or, opening a door in a sort of secrétaire, pulls out of their sliding cases frame after frame of turners--the bridge of narni, the falls of terni, florence, or rome, and many more--to hold in your hand, and take to the light, and look into with a lens--quite a different thing from seeing pictures in a gallery. at breakfast, when you see the post-bag brought in, you understand why he tries to get his bit of writing done early. the letters and parcels are piled in the study, and after breakfast, at which, as in old times, he reads his last-written passages--how much more interesting they will always look to you in print!--after breakfast he is closeted with an assistant, and they work through the heap. private friends, known by handwriting, he puts aside; most of the morning will go in answering them. business he talks over, and gives brief directions. but the bulk of the correspondence is from strangers in all parts of the world--admirers' flattery; students' questions; begging-letters for money, books, influence, advice, autographs, criticism on enclosed ms. or accompanying picture; remonstrance or abuse from dissatisfied readers, or people who object to his method of publication, or wish to convert him to their own religion. and so the heap is gradually cleared, with the help of the waste-paper basket; the secretary's work cut out, his own arranged; and by noon a long row of letters and envelopes have been set out to dry--mr. ruskin uses no blotting-paper, and, as he dislikes the vulgar method of fastening envelopes, the secretary's work will be to seal them all with red wax, and the seal with the motto "to-day" cut in the apex of a big specimen of chalcedony. if you take, as many do, an interest in the minutiæ of portrait painting, and think the picture more finished for its details, you may notice that he writes on the flat table, not on a desk; that he uses a cork penholder and a fine steel pen, though he is not at all a slave to his tools, and differs from others rather in the absence of the _sine quâ non_ from his conditions. he can write anywhere, on anything, with anything; wants no pen-wiper, no special form of paper, or other "fad." much of his work is written in bound notebooks, especially when he _is_ abroad, to prevent the loss and disorder of multitudinous foolscap. he generally makes a rough syllabus of his subject, in addition to copious notes and extracts from authorities, and then writes straight off; not without a noticeable hesitation and revision, even in his letters. his rough copy is transcribed by an assistant, and he often does not see it again until it is in proof.[ ] [footnote : in later years he sometimes had his copy type-written.] printers' proofs are always a trial, and he is glad to shift the work on to an assistant's shoulders, such as mr. harrison was, who saw all his early works through the press. but he is extremely particular about certain matters, such as the choice of type and arrangements of the page; though his taste does not coincide with that of the leaders of recent fashions. mr. jowett (of messrs. hazell, watson & viney, limited) said in _hazell's magazine_ for september; , that ruskin made the size of the page a careful study, though he adopted many varieties. the "fors" page is different from, and not so symmetrical as that of the octavo "works series," although both are printed on the same sized paper--medium vo. then there is the "knight's faith" and "ulric," in both of which the type (pica _modern_--"this delightful type," wrote ruskin) and the size of the page are different from any other; yet both were his choice. the "ulric" page was imitated from an old edition of miss edgeworth. the first proof he criticised thus: "don't you think a quarter inch off this page, as enclosed, would look better? the type is very nice. how delicious a bit of miss edgeworth's is, like this!" "ida" was another page of his choice, and greatly approved. his title pages, too, were arranged with great care; he used to draw them out in pen and ink, indicating the size and position of the lines and letters. he objected to ornaments and to anything like blackness and heaviness, but he was very particular about proportions and spacing, and about the division of words. in the morning everybody is busy. there are drawings and diagrams to be made, ms. to copy, references to look up, parcels to pack and unpack. someone is told off to take you round, and you visit the various rooms and see the treasures, inspect the outhouse with its workshop for carpentry, framing and mounting, casting leaves and modelling; one work or another is sure to be going on; perhaps one of the various sculptors who have made ruskin's bust is busy there. down at the lodge, a miniature brantwood, turret and all, the severn children live when they are at coniston. then there are the gardens, terraced in the steep, rocky slope, and some small hot-houses, which ruskin thinks a superfluity, except that they provide grapes for sick neighbours. below the gardens a path across a field takes you to the harbour, begun in play by the xenophon translators and finished by the village mason, with its fleet of boats--chief of them the "jumping jenny" (called after nanty ewart's boat in "redgauntlet"), ruskin's own design and special private water-carriage. outside the harbour the sail-boats are moored, mr. severn's _lily of brantwood_. milliard's boat, and his _snail_, an unfortunate craft brought from morecambe bay with great expectations that were never realized; though ruskin always professed to believe in her, as a _real sea-boat_ (see "harbours of england") such as he used to steer with his friend huret, the boulogne fisherman, in the days when he, too, was smitten with sea-fever. after luncheon, if letters are done, all hands are piped to the moor. with billhooks and choppers the party winds up the wood paths, "the professor" first, walking slowly, and pointing out to you his pet bits of rock-cleavage, or ivied trunk, or nest of wild strawberry plants. you see, perhaps, the ice-house--tunnelled at vast expense into the rock and filled at more expense with the best ice; opened at last with great expectations and the most charitable intent--for it was planned to supply invalids in the neighbourhood with ice, as the, hothouses supplied them with grapes; and revealing, after all, nothing but a puddle of dirty water. you see more successful works--the professor's little private garden, which he is supposed to cultivate with his own hands; various little wells and watercourses among the rocks, moss-grown and fern-embowered; and so you come out on the moor. there great works go on. juniper is being rooted up; boggy patches drained and cultivated cranberries are being planted, and oats grown; paths engineered to the best points of view; rocks bared to examine the geology--though you cannot get the professor to agree that every inch of his territory has been glaciated. these diversions have their serious side, for he is really experimenting on the possibility of reclaiming waste land; perhaps too sanguine, you think, and not counting the cost. to which he replies that, as long as there are hands unemployed and misemployed, a government such as he would see need never be at a loss for labourers. if corn can be made to grow where juniper grew before, the benefit is a positive one, the expense only comparative. and so you take your pick with the rest, and are almost persuaded to become a companion of st. george. not to tire a new comer, he takes you away after a while to a fine heathery promontory, where you sit before a most glorious view of lake and mountains. this, he says, is his "naboth's vineyard";[ ] he would like to own so fine a point of vantage. but he is happy in his country retreat, far happier than you thought him; and the secret of his happiness is that he has sympathy with all around him, and hearty interest in everything, from the least to the greatest. [footnote : since then become part of the brantwood estate.] coming down from the moor after the round, when you reach the front door you must see the performance of the waterfall: everybody must see that. on the moor a reservoir has been dug and dammed, with ingenious flood-gates--ruskin's device, of course--and a channel led down through the wood to a rustic bridge in the rock. some one has stayed behind to let out the water, and down it comes; first a black stream and then a white one, as it gradually clears; and the rocky wall at the entrance becomes for ten minutes a cascade. this too has it uses; not only is there a supply of water in case of fire (the exact utilisation of which is yet undecided), but it illustrates one of his doctrines about the simplicity with which works of irrigation could be carried out among the hills of italy. and so you go in to tea and chess, for he loves a good game of chess with all his heart. he loves many things, you have found. he is different from other men you know, by the breadth and vividness of his sympathies, by power of living as few other men can live, in admiration, hope and love. chapter vii "fors" resumed ( - ) retirement at brantwood was only partial. ruskin's habits of life made it impossible for him to be idle, much as he acknowledged the need of thorough rest. he could not be wholly ignorant of the world outside coniston; though sometimes for weeks together he tried to ignore it, and refused to read a newspaper. the time when general gordon went out to khartoum was one of these periods of abstraction, devoted to mediæval study. somebody talked one morning at breakfast about the soudan. "and who _is_ the soudan?" he earnestly inquired, connecting the name, as it seemed, with the soldan of babylon, in crusading romance. "don't you know," he wrote to a friend (january th, ): "that i am entirely with you in this irish misery, and have been these thirty years?--only one can't speak plain without distinctly becoming a leader of revolution? i know that revolution _must come_ in all the world--but i can't act with dan ton or robespierre, nor with the modern french republican or italian one. i _could_ with you and your irish, but you are only at the beginning of the end. i have spoken,--and plainly too,--for all who have ears, and hear." the author of "fors" had tried to show that the nineteenth-century commercialist spirit was not new; that the tyranny of capital was the old sin of usury over again; and he asked why preachers of religion did not denounce it--why, for example, the bishop of manchester did not, on simply religious grounds, oppose the teaching of the "manchester school," who were the chief supporters of the commercialist economy. not until the end of had dr. fraser been aware of the challenge; but at length he wrote, justifying his attitude. the popular and able bishop had much to say on the expediency of the commercial system and the error of taking the bible literally; but he seemed unaware of the revolution in economical thought which "unto this last" and "fors" had been pioneering. "i'm not gone to venice yet," wrote ruskin to miss beever, "but thinking of it hourly. i'm very nearly done with toasting my bishop; he just wants another turn or two, and then a little butter." the toasting and the buttering appeared in the _contemporary review_ for february ; and this incident led him to feel that the mission of "fors" was not finished. if bishops were still unenlightened, there was yet work to do. he gave up venice, and resumed his crusade. brantwood life was occasionally interrupted by short excursions to london or elsewhere. in the autumn he had heard professor huxley on the evolution of reptiles; and this suggested another treatment of the subject, from his own artistic and ethical point of view, in a lecture oddly called "a caution to snakes," given at the london institution, march th, (repeated march rd, and printed in "deucalion"). he was not merely an amateur zoologist and f.z.s., but a devoted lover and keen observer of animals. it would take long to tell the story of all his dogs, from the spaniel dash, commemorated in his earliest poems, and wisie, whose sagacity is related in "præterita," down through the long line of bulldogs, st. bernards, and collies, to bramble, the reigning favourite; and all the cats who made his study their home, or were flirted with abroad. to miss beever, from bolton abbey (january th, ) he describes the wharfe in flood, and then continues: "i came home (to the hotel) to quiet tea, and a black kitten called sweep, who lapped half my cream-jugful (and yet i had plenty), sitting on my shoulder." grip, the pet rook at denmark hill, is mentioned in "my first editor," as celebrated in verse by mr. w.h. harrison. ruskin had not thoreau's intimate acquaintance with the details of wild life, but his attitude towards animals and plants was the same; hating the science that murders to dissect; resigning his professorship at oxford, finally, because vivisection was introduced into the university; and supporting the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals with all his heart. but, as he said at the annual meeting in , he objected to the sentimental fiction and exaggerated statements which some of its members circulated. "they had endeavoured to prevent cruelty to animals," he said, "but they had not enough endeavoured to promote affection for animals. he trusted to the pets of children for their education, just as much as to their tutors." it was to carry out this idea (to anticipate a little) that he founded the society of friends of living creatures, which he addressed, may rd, , at the club, bedford park, in his capacity of--not president--but "papa." the members, boys and girls from seven to fifteen, promised not to kill nor hurt any animal for sport, nor tease creatures; but to make friends of their pets and watch their habits, and collect facts about natural history. i remember, on one of the rambles at coniston in the early days, how we found a wounded buzzard--one of the few creatures of the eagle kind that our english mountains still breed. the rest of us were not very ready to go near the beak and talons of the fierce-looking, and, as we supposed, desperate bird. ruskin quietly took it up in his arms, felt it over to find the hurt, and carried it, quite unresistingly, out of the way of dogs and passers-by, to a place where it might die in solitude or recover in safety. he often told his oxford hearers that he would rather they learned to love birds than to shoot them; and his wood and moor were harbours of refuge for hunted game or "vermin;" and his windows the rendezvous of the little birds. he had not been abroad since the spring of , and in august felt able to travel again. he went for a tour among the northern french cathedrals, staying at old haunts,--abbeville, amiens, beauvais, chartres, rouen,--and then returned with mr. a. severn and mr. brabazon to amiens, where he spent the greater part of october. he was writing a new book--the "bible of amiens"--which was to be to the "seven lamps" what "st. mark's rest" was to "stones of venice." before he returned, the secretary of the chesterfield art school had written to ask him to address the students. mr. ruskin, travelling without a secretary, and in the flush of new work and thronging ideas, put the letter aside; he carried his letters about in bundles in his portmanteau, as he said in his apology, "and looked at them as ulysses at the bags of aeolus." some wag had the impudence to forge a reply, which was actually read at the meeting in spite of its obviously fictitious style and statements: "harlesden(!), london, _friday_. "my dear sir, "your letter reaches me here. have just returned [commercial english, not ruskin] from venice [where he had meant to go, but did not go] where i have ruminated(!) in the pasturages of the home of art(!); the loveliest and holiest of lovely and holy cities, where the very stones cry out, eloquent in the elegancies of iambics" (!!)--and so forth. however, it deceived the newspapers, and there was a fine storm, which mr. ruskin rather enjoyed. for though the forgery was clumsy enough, it embodied some apt plagiarism from a letter to the mansfield art school on a similar occasion. not long before, a forgery of a more serious kind had been committed by one of the people connected with st. george's guild, who had put mr. ruskin's name to cheques. the bank authorities were long in tracing the crime. they even sent a detective to brantwood to watch one of the assistants, who never knew--nor will ever know--that he was honoured with such attentions; and none of his friends for a moment believed him guilty. he had sometimes imitated mr. ruskin's hand; a dangerous jest. the real culprit was discovered at last, and mr. ruskin had to go to london as a witness for the prosecution. "being in very weak health," the _times_ report said (april st, ), "he was allowed to give evidence from the bench." he had told the sheffield communists that "he thought so strongly on the subject of the repression of crime that he dare not give expression to his ideas for fear of being charged with cruelty"; but no sooner was the prisoner released than he gave the help needed to start him again in a better career. though he did not feel able to lecture to strangers at chesterfield, he visited old friends at eton, on november th, , to give an address on amiens. for once he forgot his ms., but the lecture was no less brilliant and interesting. it was practically the first chapter of his new work, the "bible of amiens,"--itself intended as the first volume of "our fathers have told us: sketches of the history of christendom, for boys and girls who have been held at its fonts." the distinctly religious tone of the work was noticed as marking, if not a change, a strong development of a tendency which had been strengthening for some time past. early in the rev. f.a. malleson, vicar of broughton, near coniston, had asked him to write, for the furness clerical society's meetings, a series of letters on the lord's prayer. in them he dwelt upon the need of living faith in the fatherhood of god, and childlike obedience to the commands of old-fashioned religion and morality. he criticised the english liturgy as compared with mediæval forms of prayer; and pressed upon his hearers the strongest warnings against evasion, or explaining away of stern duties and simple faiths. he concluded: "no man more than i has ever loved the place where god's honour dwells, or yielded truer allegiance to the teaching of his evident servants. no man at this time grieves more for the damage of the church which supposes him her enemy, while she whispers procrastinating _pax vobiscum_ in answer to the spurious kiss of those who would fain toll curfew over the last fires of english faith, and watch the sparrows find nest where she may lay her young, around the altars of the lord." but if the anglican church refused him, the roman church was eager to claim him. his interest in mediævalism seemed to point him out as ripe for conversion. cardinal manning, an old acquaintance, showed him special attention, and invited him to charming _tête-à-tête_ luncheons. it was commonly reported that he had gone over, or was going. but two letters (of a later date) show that he was not to be caught. to a glasgow correspondent he wrote in : "i shall be entirely grateful to you if you will take the trouble to contradict any news gossip of this kind, which may be disturbing the minds of any of my scottish friends. i was, am, and can be, only a christian catholic in the wide and eternal sense. i have been that these five-and-twenty years at least. heaven keep me from being less as i grow older! but i am no more likely to become a roman catholic than a quaker, evangelical, or turk." to another, next year, he wrote: "i fear you have scarcely read enough of 'fors' to know the breadth of my own creed or communion. i gladly take the bread, water, wine, or meat of the lord's supper with members of my own family or nation who obey him, and should be equally sure it was his giving, if i were myself worthy to receive it, whether the intermediate mortal hand were the pope's, the queen's, or a hedge-side gipsy's." at coniston he was on friendly terms with father gibson, the roman catholic priest, and gave a window to the chapel, which several of the brantwood household attended. but though he did not go to church, he contributed largely to the increase of the poorly-endowed curacy, and to the charities of the parish. the religious society of the neighbourhood was hardly of a kind to attract him, unless among the religious society should be included the thwaite, where lived the survivors of a family long settled at coniston--miss mary beever, scientific and political; and miss susanna, who won mr. ruskin's admiration and affection by an interest akin to his own in nature and in poetry, and by her love for animals, and bright, unfailing wit. both ladies were examples of sincerely religious life, "at once sources and loadstones of all good to the village," as he wrote in the preface to "hortus inclusus," the collection of his letters to them since first acquaintance in the autumn of . the elder miss beever died at an advanced age on the last day of ; miss susanna survived until october, , . in children he took a warm and openly-expressed interest. he used to visit the school often, and delighted to give them a treat. on january th, , he gave a dinner to coniston youngsters, and the tone of his address to his young guests is noteworthy as taken in connection with the drift of his religious tendency during this period. he dwelt on a verse of the sunday school hymn they had been singing: "jesu, here from sin deliver." "that is what we want," he said; "to be delivered from our sins. we must look to the saviour to deliver us from our sin. it is right we should be punished for the sins which we have done; but god loves us, and wishes to be kind to us, and to help us, that we may not wilfully sin." at this time he used to take the family prayers himself at brantwood: preparing careful notes for a bible-reading, which sometimes, indeed, lasted longer than was convenient to the household; and writing collects for the occasion, still existing in manuscript, and deeply interesting as the prayers of a man who had passed through so many wildernesses of thought and doubt, and had returned at last--not to the fold of the church, but to the footstool of the father. chapter viii the recall to oxford ( - ) this brantwood life came to an end with the end of . early in the next year he went for change of scene to stay with the severns at his old home on herne hill. he seemed much better, and ventured to reappear in public. on march rd he went to the national gallery to sketch turner's python. on the unfinished drawing is written: "bothered away from it, and never went again. no light to work by in the next month." an artist in the gallery had been taking notes of him for a surreptitious portrait--an embarrassing form of flattery. he wrote: "no--i won't believe any stories about overwork. it's impossible, when one's in good heart and at really pleasant things. i've a lot of nice things to do, but the heart fails--after lunch, particularly!" heart and head did, however, fail again; and another attack of brain fever followed. sir william gull brought him through, and won his praise as a doctor and esteem as a friend. ruskin took it as a great compliment when sir william, in acknowledging his fee, wrote that he should keep the cheque as an autograph. by easter monday the patient was better again, and plunging into work in spite of everybody. he wrote: "i was not at all sure, myself, till yesterday, whether i _would_ go abroad; also i should have told you before. but as you have had the (sorrowful?) news broken to you--and as i find sir william gull perfectly fixed in his opinion, i obey him, and reserve only some liberty of choice to myself--respecting, not only climate,--but the general appearance of the--inhabitants, of the localities, where for antiquarian or scientific research i may be induced to prolong my sojourn.--meantime i send you--to show you i haven't come to town for nothing, my last bargain in beryls, with a little topaz besides...." but the journey was put off week after week. there was so much to do, buying diamonds for sheffield museum, and planning a collection of models to show the normal forms of crystals, and to illustrate a subject which he thought many people would find interesting, if they could be got over its first difficulties. not only sheffield was to receive these gifts and helps: ruskin had become acquainted with the rev. j.p. faunthorpe, principal of whitelands college for pupil teachers, and had given various books and collections to illustrate the artistic side of education. now he instituted there the may queen festival, in some sort carrying out his old suggestion in "time and tide." mr. a. severn designed a gold cross, and it was presented, with a set of volumes of ruskin's works, sumptuously bound, to the may queen and her maidens. the pretty festival became a popular feature of the school, "patronised by royalty," and ruskin continued his annual gift to whitelands, and kept up a similar institution at the high school at cork. at last, in august, he started for the continent and stayed a while at avallon in central france, a district new to him. there he met mr. frank randal, one of the artists working for st. george's guild, and explored the scenery and antiquities of a most interesting neighbourhood. he drove over the jura in the old style, revisited savoy, and after weeks of bitter _bise_ and dark weather, a splendid sunset cleared the hills. he wrote to miss beever:--"i saw mont blanc again to-day, unseen since ; and was very thankful. it is a sight that always redeems me to what i am capable of at my poor little best, and to what loves and memories are most precious to me." at annecy he was pleased to find the waiter at the hôtel verdun remembered his visit twenty years before;--everywhere he met old friends, and saw old scenes that he had feared he never would revisit. after crossing the cenis and hastening through turin and genoa, he reached lucca, to be awaited at the albergo reale dell' universo by a crowd, every one anxious to shake hands with signor ruskin. no wonder!--for instead of allowing himself to be a mere number-so-and-so in a hotel, wherever he felt comfortable--and that was everywhere except at pretentious modern hotels--he made friends with the waiter, chatted with the landlord, found his way into the kitchen to compliment the cook, and forgot nobody in the establishment--not only in "tips," but in a frank and sympathetic address which must have contrasted curiously, in their minds, with the reserve and indifference of other english tourists. at florence he met mr. henry roderick newman, an american artist who had been at coniston and was working for the guild. he introduced ruskin to mrs. and miss alexander. in these ladies' home he found his own aims, in religion, philanthropy, and art, realised in an unexpected way. miss alexander's drawing at first struck him by its sincerity. not only did she draw beautifully, but she also wrote a beautiful hand; and it had been one of his old sayings that missal-writing, rather than missal-painting, was the admirable thing in mediæval art. the legends illustrated by her drawings were collected by herself, through an intimate acquaintance with italians of all classes, from the nobles to the peasantry, whom she understood and loved, and by whom she was loved and understood. by such intercourse she had learned to look beneath the surface. in religious matters her american common-sense saw through her neighbours--saw the good in them as well as the weakness--and she was as friendly, not only in social intercourse, but in spiritual things, with the worthy village priest as with t.p. rossetti,[ ] the leader of the protestant "brethren," whom she called her pastor. and ruskin, who had been driven away from protestantism by the poor waldensian at turin, and had wandered through many realms of doubt and voyaged through strange seas of thought, alone, found harbour at last with the disciple of a modern evangelist, the frequenter of the little meeting-house of outcast italian protestants. [footnote : a cousin of the artist, and in his way no less remarkable a man. a short account of his life is given in "d.g. rossetti, his family letters," vol. i., p. . the circumstances of his death are touchingly related by miss alexander in "christ's folk; in the apennine."] one evening before dinner he brought back to the hotel at florence a drawing of a lovely girl lying dead in the sunset; and a little note-book. "i want you to look over this," he said, in the way, but not quite in the tone, with which the usual ms. "submitted for criticism" was tossed to a secretary to taste. it was "the true story of ida; written by her friend." an appointment to meet mr. e.r. robson, who was making plans for an intended sheffield museum, took him back to lucca, to discuss romanesque mouldings and marble facings. mr. charles fairfax murray also came to lucca with drawings commissioned for st. george's guild. but ruskin soon returned to his new friends, and did not leave florence finally until he had purchased the wonderful collection of drawings, with beautifully written text, in which miss alexander had enshrined "the roadside songs of tuscany." returning homewards by the mont cenis he stayed a while at talloires, a favourite haunt, extremely content to be among romantic scenery, and able to work steadily at a new edition of his books in a much cheaper form, of which the first volumes were at this time in hand. he had been making further studies also, in history and alpine geology; but at last the snow drove him away from the mountains. so he handed over the geology to his assistant, who compiled "the limestone alps of savoy" (supplementary to "deucalion") "as he could, not as he would," while ruskin wrote out the new ideas suggested by his visit to cîteaux and st. bernard's birthplace. these notes he completed on the journey home, and gave as a lecture on "cistercian architecture" (london institution, december th, ), in place of the previously advertised lecture on crystallography. he seemed now to have quite recovered his health, and to be ready for re-entry into public life. what was more, he had many new things to say. the attacks of brain fever had passed over him like passing storms, leaving a clear sky. after his retirement from the oxford professorship, a subscription had been opened for a bust by sir edgar boehm, in memorial of a university benefactor; and the model (now in the sheffield museum) was placed in the drawing school pending the collection of the necessary £ . _the oxford university herald_, in its article of june th, , no doubt expressed the general feeling in reciting his benefactions to the university with becoming appreciation. it was natural, therefore, that on recovering his health he should resume his post. professor (now sir) w.b. richmond, the son of his old friend mr. george richmond, gracefully retired, and the _oxford university gazette_ of january th, , announced the re-election. on march nd he wrote that he was "up the old man yesterday"; as much as to say that he defied catechism, now, about his health; and a week later he gave his first lecture. the _st. james's budget_ of march th gave an account of it in these terms: "mr. ruskin's first lecture at oxford attracted so large an audience that, half-an-hour before the time fixed for its delivery, a greater number of persons were collected about the doors than the lecture-room could hold. immediately after the doors were opened the room was so densely packed that some undergraduates found it convenient to climb into the windows and on to the cupboards. the audience was composed almost equally of undergraduates and ladies; with the exception of the vice-chancellor, heads of houses, fellows, and tutors were chiefly conspicuous by their absence." i omit an abstract of the lecture, which can be read in full in the "art of england." the reporter continued: "he had made some discoveries: two lads and two lasses, who[ ] ... could draw in a way to please even him. he used to say that, except in a pretty graceful way, no woman can draw; he had now almost come to think that no one else can. (this statement the undergraduates received with gallant, if undiscriminating, applause.) to many of his prejudices, mr. ruskin said, in the last few years the axe had been laid. he had positively found an american, a young lady, whose life and drawing were in every way admirable. (again great and generous applause on the part of the undergraduates, stimulated, no doubt, by the knowledge that there were then in the room two fair americans, who have lately graced oxford by their presence.) at the end of his lecture mr. ruskin committed himself to a somewhat perilous statement. he had found two young italian artists in whom the true spirit of old italian art had yet lived. no hand like theirs had been put to paper since lippi and leonardo." [footnote : referring to misses alexander and greenaway, and messrs. boni and alessandri.] three more lectures of the course were given in may, and each repeated to a second audience. coming to london, he gave a private lecture on june th to some two hundred hearers at the house of mrs. w.h. bishop, in kensington, on miss kate greenaway and miss alexander. the _spectator_ shared his enthusiasm for the pen and ink drawings of miss alexander's "roadside songs of tuscany," and concluded a glowing account of the lecture by saying: "all professor ruskin's friends must be glad to see how well his oxford work has agreed with him. he has gifts of insight and power of reaching the best feelings and highest hopes of our too indifferent generation which are very rare." with much encouragement in his work, he returned to brantwood for the summer, and resolved upon another visit to savoy for more geology, and another breath of health-giving alpine air. but he found time only for a short tour in scotland before returning to oxford to complete the series of lectures on recent english art. during this term he was prevailed upon to allow himself to be nominated as a candidate for the rectorship of the university of glasgow. he had been asked to stand in the conservative interest in , and he had been worried into a rather rough reply to the liberal party, when after some correspondence they asked him whether he sympathised with lord beaconsfield or mr. gladstone. "what, in the devil's name," he exclaimed, "have _you_ to do with either mr. d'israeli or mr. gladstone? you are students at the university, and have no more business with politics than you have with rat-catching. had you ever read ten words of mine with understanding, you would have known that i care no more either for mr. d'israeli or mr. gladstone than for two old bagpipes with the drones going by steam, but that i hate all liberalism as i do beelzebub, and that, with carlyle, i stand, we two alone now in england, for god and the queen." after that, though he might explain[ ] that he never under any conditions of provocation or haste, would have said that he hated liberalism as he did _mammon_, or belial, or moloch; that he "chose the milder fiend of ekron as the true exponent and patron of liberty, the god of flies," still the matter-of-fact glaswegians were minded to give the scoffer a wide berth. he was put up as an independent candidate in the three-cornered duel; and, as such candidates usually fare, he fared badly. the only wonder is that three hundred and nineteen students were found to vote for him, instead of siding, in political orthodoxy, with mr. fawcett or the marquis of bute. [footnote : epilogue to "arrows of the chace."] at last a busy and eventful year came to a close at coniston, with a lecture at the village institute on his old friend sir herbert edwardes (december nd). his interest in the school and the schoolchildren was unabated, and he was always planning new treats for them, or new helps to their lessons. he had set one of the assistants to make a large hollow globe, inside of which one could sit and see the stars as luminous points pricked through the mimic "vault of heaven," painted blue and figured with the constellations. by a simple arrangement of cogs and rollers the globe revolved, the stars rose and set, and the position of any star at any hour of the year could be roughly fixed. but the inclement climate of coniston, and the natural roughness of children, soon wrecked the new toy. about this time he was anxious to get the village children taught music with more accuracy of tune and time than the ordinary singing-lessons enforced. he made many experiments with different simple instruments, and fixed at last upon a set of bells, which he wanted to introduce into the school. but it was difficult to interfere with the routine of studies prescribed by the code. considering that he scorned "the three r's," a school after his own heart would have been a very different place from any that earns the government grant; and he very strongly believed that if a village child learnt the rudiments of religion and morality, sound rules of health and manners, and a habit of using its eyes and ears in the practice of some good handicraft or art and simple music, and in natural philosophy, taught by object lessons--then book-learning would either come of itself, or be passed aside as unnecessary or superfluous. this was his motive in a well-known incident which has sometimes puzzled his public. once, when new buildings were going on, the mason wanted an advance of money, which mr. ruskin gave him, and then held out the paper for him to sign the receipt. "a great deal of hesitation and embarrassment ensued, somewhat to mr. ruskin's surprise, as he knows a north-country-man a great deal too well to expect embarrassment from him. at last the man said, in dialect: 'ah mun put ma mark!' he could not write. mr. ruskin rose at once, stretched out both hands to the astonished rustic, with the words: 'i am proud to know you. now i understand why you are such an entirely good workman.'" chapter ix the storm-cloud ( - ) the sky had been a favourite subject of study with the author of "modern painters." his journals for fifty years past had kept careful account of the weather, and effects of cloud. he had noticed since a prevalence of chilly, dark _bise_, as it would be called in france; but different in its phenomena from anything of his earlier days. the "plague wind," so he named it--tremulous, intermittent, blighting grass and trees--blew from no fixed point of the compass, but always brought the same dirty sky in place of the healthy rain-cloud of normal summers; and the very thunder-storms seemed to be altered by its influence into foul and powerless abortions of tempest. we should now be disposed to call this simply "the smoke nuisance," but feeling as he did the weight of human wrong against which it was his mission to prophesy, believing in a divine government of the world in all its literalness, he had the courage to appear before a london audience,[ ] like any seer of old, and to tell them that this eclipse of heaven was--if not a judgment--at all events a symbol of the moral darkness of a nation that had "blasphemed the name of god deliberately and openly; and had done iniquity by proclamation, every man doing as much injustice to his brother as it was in his power to do." [footnote : "the storm-cloud of the nineteenth century," london institution, february th, ; repeated with variations and additions a week later.] in the autumn, at oxford, he took up his parable again. his lectures on "the pleasures of england" he intended as a sketch of the main stream of history from his own religious standpoint. it was a noble theme, and one which his breadth of outlook and detailed experience would have fitted him to handle; but he was already nearing the limit of his vital powers. he had been suffering from depression throughout the summer, unrelieved by the energetic work for st. george's museum, which in other days might have been a relaxation from more serious thought. he had been editing miss alexander's "roadside songs of tuscany," and recasting earlier works of his own, incessantly busy; presuming upon the health he had enjoyed, and taking no hints nor advice from anxious friends, who would have been glad to have seen the summer spent in change of scene and holiday-making. at oxford he was watched with concern--restless and excited, too absorbed in his crusade against the tendencies of the modern scientific party, too vehement and unguarded in his denunciations of colleagues, too bitter against the new order of things which, to his horror, was introducing vivisection in the place of the old-fashioned natural history he loved, and speculative criticism instead of "religious and useful learning." he was persuaded to cancel his last three attacks on modern life and thought--"the pleasures of truth," of "sense," and of "nonsense"--and to substitute readings from earlier works, hastily arranged and re-written; and his friends breathed more freely when he left oxford without another serious attack of brain-disease. he wrote on december st, , to miss beever: "i gave my fourteenth, and last for this year, lecture with vigour and effect, and am safe and well (d.g.) after such a spell of work as i never did before." to another correspondent, a few days later: "here are two lovely little songs for you to put tunes to, and sing to me. you'll have both to be ever so good to me, for i've been dreadfully bothered and battered here. i've bothered other people a little, too,--which is some comfort!" but in spite of everything, the vote was passed to establish a physiological laboratory at the museum; to endow vivisection--which to him meant not only cruelty to animals, but a complete misunderstanding of the purpose of science, and defiance of the moral law. he resigned his professorship, with the sense that all his work had been in vain, that he was completely out of touch with the age, and that he had best give up the unequal fight. in former times when he had found himself beaten in his struggles with the world, he had turned to geology for a resource and a relief; but geology, too, was part of the field of battle now. the memories of his early youth and the bright days of his boyhood came back to him as the only antidote to the distress and disappointments of his age, and he strove to forget everything in "bygones"--"præterita." it was professor norton who had suggested that he should write his own life. he had begun to tell the story, bit by bit, in "fors." on the journey of he made a point of revisiting most of the scenes of youthful work and travel, to revive his impressions; but the meeting with miss alexander gave him new interests, and his return to oxford put the autobiography into the background. now, at last he collected the scattered notes, and completed his first volume, which brings the account up to the time of his coming of age. it is not a connected and systematic biography; it omits many points of interest, especially the steps of his early successes and mental development; but it is the brightest conceivable picture of himself and his surroundings--"scenes and thoughts perhaps worthy of memory," as the title modestly puts it--told with inimitable ease and graphic power. we have traced a life which was--even more than might be gathered from "præterita"--a battle with adversities from the beginning. not to discuss the influences of heredity, there was over-stimulus in childhood; intense application to work in youth and middle-age, under conditions of discouragement, both public and private, which would have been fatal to many another man; and this, too, not merely hard work, but work of an intense emotional nature, involving--in his view at least--wide issues of life and death, in which he was another jacob wrestling with the angel in the wilderness, another savonarola imploring reconciliation between god and man. without a life of singular temperance, without unusual moral principle and self-command, he would long ago have fallen like other men of genius of his passionate type. he outlived "consumptive" tendencies in youth; and the repeated indications of over-strain in later life, up to the time of his first serious break-down in , had issued in nothing more than the depression and fatigue with which most busy men are familiar. he had been accustomed to hear himself called mad--the defence of turner was thought by the _dilettanti_ of the time to be possible only to a lunatic; the author of "stones of venice," we saw, was insane in the eyes of his critic, the architect; it was seriously whispered when he wrote on political economy that ruskin was out of his mind; and so on. every new thing he put forward "made quintilian stare and gasp," and _soi-disant_ friends shake their heads, until a still newer nine-days' wonder appeared from his pen. the break-down of , so difficult to explain to his public, made it appear that the common reproach might after all be coming true. the recurrence of a similar illness in and made it still more to be feared. it seemed as though his life's work was to be invalidated by his age's failure; it seemed that the stale, shallow reproach might only too easily be justifiable. these attacks of mental disease, which at his recall to oxford seemed to have been safely distanced, after his resignation began again at more and more frequent intervals. crash after crash of tempest fell upon him--clearing away for a while only to return with fiercer fury, until they left him beaten down and helpless at last, to learn that he must accept the lesson and bow before the storm. like another prophet who had been very jealous for the lord god of hosts, he was to feel tempest and earthquake and fire pass over him, before hearing the still small voice that bade him once more take courage, and live in quietness and in confidence, for the sake of those whom he had forgotten, when he cried, "i, even i only, am left." from one who has been out in the storm the reader will not expect a cool recital of its effects. the delirium of brain-fever brings strange things to pass; and, no doubt, afforded ground for the painful gossip, of which there has been more than enough--much of it absurdly untrue, the romancing of ingenious newspaper-correspondents; some of it, the lie that is half a truth. for in these times there were not wanting parasites such as always prey upon creatures in disease, as well as weak admirers who misunderstood their hero's natural character, and entirely failed to grasp his situation. let such troubles of the past be forgotten: all that i now remember of many a weary night and day is the vision of a great soul in torment, and through purgatorial fires the ineffable tenderness of the real man emerging, with his passionate appeal to justice and baffled desire for truth. to those who could not follow the wanderings of the wearied brain it was nothing but a horrible or a grotesque nightmare. some, in those trials, learnt as they could not otherwise have learnt to know him, and to love him as never before. there were many periods of health, or comparative health, even in those years. while convalescent from the illness of he continued "præterita" and "dilecta," the series of notes and letters illustrating his life. in connection with early reminiscences, he amused himself by reproducing his favourite old nursery book, "dame wiggins of lee." he edited the works of one or two friends, wrote occasionally to newspapers--notably on books and reading, to the _pall mall gazette_, in the "symposium" on the best hundred books. he continued his arrangements for the museum, and held an exhibition (june, ) of the drawings made under his direction for the guild. he was already drifting into another illness when he sent the famous reply to an appeal for help to pay off the debt on a chapel at richmond. the letter is often misquoted for the sake of raising a laugh, so that it is not out of place to reprint it as a specimen of the more vehement expressions of this period. the reader of his life must surely see, through the violence of the wording, a perfectly consistent and reasonable expression of mr. ruskin's views:-- "brantwood, coniston, lancashire. "_may th_, . "sir, "i am scornfully amused at your appeal to me, of all people in the world the precisely least likely to give you a farthing! my first word to all men and boys who care to hear me is 'don't get into debt. starve and go to heaven--but don't borrow. try first begging,--i don't mind, if it's really needful, stealing! but don't buy things you can't pay for!' "and of all manner of debtors, pious people building churches they can't pay for are the most detestable nonsense to me. can't you preach and pray behind the hedges--or in a sandpit--or a coal-hole--first? "and of all manner of churches thus idiotically built iron churches are the damnablest to me. "and of all the sects of believers in any ruling spirit--hindoos, turks, feather idolaters, and mumbo jumbo, log and fire worshippers, who want churches, your modern english evangelical sect is the most absurd, and entirely objectionable and unendurable to me! all which they might very easily have found out from my books--any other sort of sect would!--before bothering me to write it to them. "ever, nevertheless, and in all this saying, your faithful servant, "john ruskin." the recipient of the letter promptly sold it. only three days later, ruskin was writing one of the most striking passages in "præterita" (vol. ii., chap. )--indeed, one of the daintiest landscape pieces in all his works, describing the blue rhone as it flows under the bridges of geneva. this energetic letter-writing made people stare; but a more serious result of these periods between strength and helplessness was the tendency to misunderstanding with old friends. ruskin had spoiled many of them, if i may say so, by too uniform forbearance and unselfishness: and now that he was not always strong enough to be patient, difficulties ensued which they had not always the tact to avert. "the moment i have to scold people they say i'm crazy," he said, piteously, one day. and so, one hardly knows how, he found himself at strife on all sides. before he was fully recovered from the attack of there were troubles about the oxford drawing school; and he withdrew most of the pictures he had there on loan. how little animosity he really felt against oxford is shown from the fact that early in the next year (february, ) he was planning with his cousin, wm. richardson, to give £ , to the drawing school, as a joint gift in memory of their two mothers. mr. richardson's death, and ruskin's want of means--for he had already spent all his capital--put an end to the scheme. but the remaining loans, including important and valuable drawings by himself, he did not withdraw, and it is to be hoped they may stay there to show not only the artist's hand but the friendly heart of the founder and benefactor. in april, , came the news of laurence hilliard's death in the aegean, with a shock that intensified the tendency to another recurrence of illness. for months the situation caused great anxiety. in august he posted with mrs. a. severn towards the south, and took up his quarters at folkestone, moving soon after to sandgate, where he remained, with short visits to town, until the following summer--better, or worse, from week to week--sometimes writing a little for "præterita," or preparing material for the continuation of unfinished books; but bringing on his malady with each new effort. in june, , he went with mr. arthur severn to abbeville, and made his headquarters for nearly a month at the tête de boeuf. here he was arrested for sketching the fortifications and examined at the police station, much to his amusement. at abbeville, too, he met mr. detmar blow, a young architect, whom he asked to accompany him to italy. they stayed awhile at paris,--drove, as in , over the jura, and up to chamouni, where ruskin wrote the epilogue to the reprint of "modern painters"; then, by martigny and the simplon, they went to visit mrs. and miss alexander at bassano; and thence to venice. they returned by the st. gothard, reaching herne hill early in december. but this journey did not, as it had been hoped, put him in possession of his strength like the journey of . then, he had returned to public life with new vigour; now, his best hours were hours of feebleness and depression; and he came home to brantwood in the last days of the year, wearied to death, to wait for the end. chapter x datur hora quieti ( - ) in the summer of , at seascale, on the cumberland coast, ruskin was still busy upon "præterita." he had his task planned out to the finish: in nine more chapters he meant to conclude his third volume with a review of the leading memories of his life, down to the year , when the story was to close. passages here and there were written, material collected from old letters and journals, and the contents and titles of the chapters arranged; but the intervals of strength had become fewer and shorter, and at last, in spite of all his courage and energy, he was brought face to face with the fact that his powers were ebbing away, and that head and hand would do their work no more. he could not finish "præterita"; but he could not leave it without record of one companionship of his life, which was, it seemed, all that was left to him of the old times and the old folks at home. and so, setting aside the plans he had made, he devoted the last chapter, as his forebodings told him it must be, to his cousin, mrs. arthur severn, and wrote the story of "joanna's care." in his bedroom at seascale, morning after morning, he still worked, or tried to work, as he had been used to do on journeys farther afield in brighter days. but now he seemed lost among the papers scattered on his table; he could not fix his mind upon them, and turned from one subject to another in despair; and yet patient, and kindly to those with him whose help he could no longer use, and who dared not show--though he could not but guess--how heart-breaking it was. they put the best face upon it, of course: drove in the afternoons about the country--to muncaster castle, to calder abbey, where he tried to sketch once more; and when the proofs of "joanna's care" were finally revised, to wastwater. but travelling now was no longer restorative. it added not a little to the misfortunes of the time that two of his best friends in the outside world were disputing over a third. by nobody was carlyle's reputation more valued, and yet he acknowledged that froude was but telling the truth in the revelations which so surprised the public; and much as he admired norton, he deprecated the attack on carlyle's literary executor, whose motives he understood and approved. in august, after his return to coniston, the storm-cloud came down upon him once more. it was only in the summer of that he was able to get about. but firmly convinced that his one chance lay in absolute rest and quiet, he wisely refused any sort of exertion, and was rewarded by a temporary improvement in health and strength. in the meantime he was obliged to hand over to others such parts of his work as others could do. the st. george's guild still continued in existence, though it naturally lost much of its interest, and the whole of its distinctive mission, when he ceased to be able to direct it. the museum had quite outgrown its cottage at walkley, never intended for more than temporary premises; and for ten years there had been talk of new buildings, at first on the spot, then on the guild's ground at bewdley, where, at one time, ruskin planned a fairy palace in the woods, with cloistered hostelries for the wandering student. such schemes were stopped less by his illness than by want of means. sheffield, however, did not wish to lose the museum, and offered to house it if the guild would present it to the town. that was, of course, out of the question. but a new offer to take over the collection on loan, the guild paying a curator, was another matter, and was thankfully accepted. the corporation fulfilled their share of the bargain with generosity. an admirable site was assigned at meersbrook park, in a fine old hall surrounded with trees, and overlooking a broad view of the town and country. on april th, , the museum was opened by the earl of carlisle, in presence of the corporation, the trustees of the guild, and a large assembly of friends and sheffield townspeople. since then the attendance of visitors and students shows that the collection is appreciated by the public; and it is to be hoped that though nominally a loan it will remain there in perpetuity, and that it will be maintained and used with due regard to the intentions of the founder. many other plans had to be modified, as he found himself less able to work, and was obliged to hand over his business to others. with his early books he had been dissatisfied, as expressing immature views. "the stones of venice" had been recast into two small volumes, and "st. mark's rest" written in the attempt to supplement and correct it. but the original book was obviously in demand, and a new edition was brought out in . "modern painters" had been also on the condemned list. the aggressive protestantism and the geological theories involved in his description of mountains he condemned as errors; moreover, at the time of the last edition published by messrs. smith & elder ( ), he had been told that the plates, which he considered a very important part of the work, would not stand another impression; and so he destroyed nine of them, in order that no subsequent edition might be brought out in the original form. he reprinted vol. ii. in a cheap edition, and began to recast the rest, with annotations and additions, as "in montibus sanctis," and "coeli enarrant", while miss s. beever's selections ("frondes agrestes") found a ready sale. but this did not satisfy the public, and there was a continual cry for a reprint, to which, at last, he yielded. early in the "complete edition" appeared; with the cancelled plates reproduced. he had always felt it a grievance that the enormous popularity of his works in america meant an enormous piracy. towards the end of the "fifties," mr. wiley of new york had begun to print cheap ruskins; not, indeed, illegally, but without proper acknowledgment to the author, and without any reference to the author's wishes as to form and style of production. an artist and writer on art, insisting on delicacy and refinement as the first necessity of draughtsmanship, and himself sparing no trouble or expense in the illustrations of his own works, was naturally dissatisfied with the wretched "artotypes" with which the american editions caricatured his beautiful plates. not only that, but it was a common practice to smuggle these editions, recommended by their cheapness, into other countries. mr. wiley sent, on an average, five hundred sets of "modern painters" to europe every year, the greater number to england. his example was followed by other american publishers, so that in new york alone there came to be half a dozen houses advertising ruskin's works, and many more throughout the cities of the states. mr. wiley, the first in the field, proposed to pay up a royalty upon all the copies he had sold if ruskin would recognise him as accredited publisher in america. the offer of so large a sum would have been tempting, had it not meant that ruskin must condone what he had for years denounced, and sanction what he strongly disapproved. the case would have been different if proposals had been made to reproduce his books in his own style, under competent supervision. this was done in , when arrangements were made with messrs. charles e. merrill & co., of new york, to bring out the "brantwood" edition of ruskin, under the editorship of professor c.e. norton. though the sale of ruskin's books in america had never, until so recently, brought him any profit, his own business in england, started in with the monthly pamphlet of "fors," and in with the volume of "sesame and lilies," prospered singularly. mr. george allen, who, while building up an independent connection, still remained the sole publisher of mr. ruskin's works, said that the venture was successful from its earliest years. it was found that the booksellers were not indispensable, and that business could be done through the post as well as over the counter. in spite of occasional difficulties, such as the bringing out of works in parts, appearing irregularly or stopping outright at the author's illnesses, there was a steady increase of profit, rising in the author's later years (according to mr. allen) to an average of £ , . fortunate it was that this bold attempt succeeded. the £ , he inherited from his parents had gone,--chiefly in gifts and in attempts to do good. the interest he used to spend on himself; the capital he gave away until it totally disappeared, except what is represented by the house he lived in and its contents. the sale of his books was his only income, and a great part of that went to pensioners to whom in the days of his wealth he pledged himself, to relatives and friends, discharged servants, institutions in which he took an interest at one time or other. but he had sufficient for his wants, and no need to fear poverty in his old age. in this quiet retreat at brantwood the echoes of the outer world did not sound very loudly. ruskin had been too highly praised and too roundly abused, during fifty years of public life, to care what magazine critics and journalists said of him. other men of his standing could solace themselves, if it be solace, in the consciousness that a grateful country has recognised their talents or their services. but civic and academic honours were not likely to be showered on a man who had spent his life in strenuous opposition to academicism in art and letters, and in vigorous attacks upon both political parties, and upon the established order of things. and yet oxford and cambridge awarded him the highest honours in their gift. in the royal society of painters in watercolours voted him honorary member, a recognition which gave him great pleasure at the time. at different dates he was elected to various societies--geological, zoological, architectural, horticultural, historical, anthropological, metaphysical; and to the athenæum and alpine clubs. he was elected hon. member of the academy of florence in , of the academy of venice, , of the royal academies of antwerp and brussels in ; and was also an hon. member of the american academy. but he did not seek distinctions, and he even declined them, as in the case of the medal of the royal institute of british architects. a more striking form of distinction than such titles is the fact that he was the first writer whose contemporaries, during his lifetime, formed societies to study his work. the first ruskin society was founded in at manchester, and was followed by the societies of london, glasgow and liverpool. in the ruskin reading guild was formed in scotland, with many local branches in england and ireland, and a journal, subsequently re-named _igdrasil_, to promote study of literary and social subjects in ruskin, and in writers like carlyle and tolstoi taking a standpoint similar to his. in , ruskin societies were formed at birmingham and in the isle of man. many classes and clubs for the study of ruskin were also in operation throughout america during his lifetime. his eightieth birthday was the signal for an outburst of congratulations almost greater than even admirers had expected. the post came late and loaded with flowers and letters, and all day long telegrams arrived from all parts of the world, until they lay in heaps, unopened for the time being. a great address had been prepared, with costly illumination on vellum, and binding by mr. cobden sanderson. "year by year," it said, "in ever widening extent, there is an increasing trust in your teaching, an increasing desire to realize the noble ideals you have set before mankind in words which we feel have brought nearer to our hearts the kingdom of god upon earth. it is our hope and prayer that the joy and peace you have brought to others may return in full measure to your own heart filling it with the peace which comes from the love of god and the knowledge of the love of your fellow-men." among those who subscribed to these sentiments were various people of importance, such as royal academicians, the royal society of painters in watercolours, the trustees of the british museum and of the national gallery, the st. george's guild and ruskin societies, with many others; and the address was presented by a deputation who reported that they had found him looking well "and extremely happy." a similar illuminated address from the university of oxford ran thus: "we venture to send you, as you begin your eighty-first year, these few words of greeting and good-will, to make you sure that in oxford the gratitude and reverence with which men think of you is ever fresh. you have helped many to find in life more happiness than they thought it held; and we trust there is happiness in the latter years of your long life. you have taught many to see the wealth of beauty in nature and in art, prizing the remembrance of it; and we trust that the sights you have best loved come back to your memory with unfading beauty. you have encouraged many to keep a good heart through dark days, and we trust that the courage of a constant hope is yours." the london ruskin society sent a separate address; and to show that if not a prophet in his own country he was at any rate a valued friend, the coniston parish council resolved "and carried unanimously," says the local journal, "with applause," "that the congratulations of this council be offered to mr. john ruskin, on the occasion of his eightieth birthday, together with the warm thanks which they and all their neighbours feel for the kindness he has shown, and the many generous acts he has done to them and theirs during twenty-seven years of residence at coniston, where his presence is most truly appreciated, and his name will always be most gratefully remembered." but as the year went on he did not regain his usual summer strength. walking out had become a greater weariness to him, and he had to submit to the humiliation of a bath-chair. to save himself even the labour of creeping down to his study, he sat usually in the turret-room upstairs, next to his bed-chamber, but still with the look of health in his face, and the fire in his eyes quite unconquered. he would listen while baxter read the news to him, following public events with interest, or while mrs. severn or miss severn read stories, novel after novel; but always liking old favourities best, and never anything that was unhappy. some pet books he would pore over, or drowse over by the hour. the last of these was one in which he had a double interest, for it was about ships of war, and it was written by the kinsman of a dear friend. some of the artists he had loved and helped had failed him or left him, but burne-jones was always true. one night, going up to bed, the old man stopped long to look at the photograph from philip burne-jones's portrait of his father. "that's my dear brother, ned," he said, nodding good-bye to the picture as he went. next night the great artist died, and of all the many losses of these later years this one was the hardest to bear. so when a little boy lent him "a fleet in being" he read and re-read it; then got a copy for himself, and might have learnt it by heart, so long he pored over it. but when the little boy or his sisters went to visit the "di pa" (dear papa), as he liked children to call their old friend, he had now scarcely anything to talk about. "he just looked at us, and smiled," they would report; "and we couldn't think what to say." he had his "bright days," when he would hear business discussed, though a very little of it was wearisome. it was impossible to bring before him half the wants and wishes of his correspondents, who could not yet realise his weakness, and besought the notice they fancied so easily given. yet in that weakness one could trace no delusions, none of the mental break-down which was taken for granted. if he gave an opinion it was clear and sound enough; of course with the old ruskinian waywardness of idea which always puzzled his public. but he knew what he was about, and knew what was going on. he was like the aged queen aud in the saga, who "rose late and went to bed early, and if anyone asked after her health she answered sharply." but all the love and care spent on him could not keep him with us. there came the green yule that makes a fat kirkyard, and in january of hardly a house in the neighbourhood was free from the plague of influenza. in spite of strictest precautions it invaded brantwood. on the th of january he was remarkably well, as people often are before an illness--"fey," as the old northern folk-lore has it. towards evening, when mrs. severn went to him for the usual reading--it was edna lyall's "in the golden days"--his throat was irritable and he "ached all over." they put him to bed and sent for dr. parsons, his constant medical attendant, who found his temperature as high as °, and feared the consequences. but the patient, as he always did, refused to be considered ill, and ate his dinner, and seemed next day to be really better. there was no great cause for alarm, though naturally some for anxiety; and in reasonable hopes of amendment, the slight attack was not made public. on saturday morning, the th, all appeared to be going well until about half-past ten. suddenly he collapsed and became unconscious. it was the dreaded failure of heart after influenza. his breathing weakened, and through the morning and through the afternoon in that historic little room, lined with his turners, he lay, falling softly asleep. no efforts could revive him. there was no struggle; there were no words. the bitterness of death was spared him. and when it was all over, and those who had watched through the day turned at last from his bedside, "sunset and evening star" shone bright above the heavenly lake and the clear-cut blue of coniston fells. next morning brought messages of hurried condolence, and the monday such a chorus from the press as made all the praises of his lifetime seem trifling and all its blame forgotten. if only, in his years of struggle and despair, he had known the place he should win! on the tuesday came a telegram offering a grave in westminster abbey, the highest honour our nation can give to its dead. but his own mind had long since been made plain on that point, and his wishes had not been forgotten. "if i die here," he used to say, "bury me at coniston. i should have liked, if it happened at herne hill, to lie with my father and mother in shirley churchyard, as i should have wished, if i died among the alps, to be buried in the snow." we carried him on monday night down from his bed-chamber and laid him in the study. there was a pane of glass let into the coffin-lid, so that the face might be kept in sight; and there it lay, among lilies of the valley, and framed in the wreath sent by mr. watts, the great painter, a wreath of the true greek laurel, the victor's crown, from the tree growing in his garden, cut only thrice before, for tennyson and leighton and burne-jones. it would be too long to tell of all such tokens of affection and respect that were heaped upon the coffin,--from the wreath of the princess louise down to the tributes of humble dependants,--above a hundred and twenty-five, we counted; some of them the costliest money could buy, some valued no less for the feeling they expressed. i am not sure that the most striking was not the village tailor's, with this on its label--"there was a man sent from god, and his name was john." on the wednesday we made our sad procession to the church, through storm and flood. the village was in mourning, and round the churchyard gates men, women, and children stood in throngs. the coffin was carried in by eight of those who had been in his employ, and the church filled noiselessly with neighbours and friends, who after a hymn, and the lord's prayer, and a long silence, passed up the aisles for their last look, and to heap more offerings of wreaths and flowers around the bier. at dusk tall candles were lit, and so through the winter's night watch was kept. thursday, the th, brought together a great assembly, great for the remoteness of the place and the inclemency of the weather. the country folk have a saying "happy is the dead that the rain rains on;" and the fells were darkly clouded and the beck roared by, swollen to a torrent. the church was far too small to hold the congregation, which included most of his personal friends and the representatives of many public bodies. a crowd stood outside in the storm while the service went on. it began with a hymn written for the occasion by canon rawnsley who with the vicar of hawkshead, brantwood's parish church, read the psalms. a hymn, "comes at times a stillness as of even," was sung by his friend miss wakefield; and the lesson read by canon richmond, arrived officially to represent the bishop of carlisle, but to most of us representing old times and the comradeships of his youth and early manhood. the vicar of coniston and the rev. reginald meister, on behalf of the dean of christ church, also took part in the service. when the dead march sounded the coffin was covered with a pall given by the ruskin linen industry of keswick, lined with bright crimson silk, and embroidered with the motto, "unto this last," and with his favourite wild roses showered over the gray field, just as they fall in the _primavera_ of botticelli. there was no black about his burying, except what we wore for our own sorrow; it was remembered how he hated black, so much that he would even have his mother's coffin painted blue; and among the white and green and violet of the wreaths that filled the chancel, none was more significant in its sympathy than mrs. severn's great cross of red roses. as we carried him down the churchyard path, a drop or two fell from the boughs, but a gleam of sunshine, the first after many days, shot along the crags from under the cloud, and the wind paused. standing there by the graveside, who could help being thankful that he had found so lovely a resting-place after so tranquil a falling to sleep? at his feet, parted only by the fence and the garden, is the village school; and who does not know how he loved the children of coniston? at his right hand are the graves of the beevers; his last old friend, miss susan beever, lies next to him. over the spot hang the thick boughs of a fir-tree--who does not know what he has written of his favourite mountain-pine? and behind the church, shut in with its dark yews', rise the crags of coniston, those that he wearied for in his boyhood, beneath which he prayed, in sickness, to lie down and rest. "the crags are lone on coniston." index abbeville, acland, sir h.w., m.d., acland, sir t.d., adairs and agnews, agnew, miss joan ruskin, _and see_ severn, mrs. a. alessandri, angelo, alexander, mrs. and miss francesca, alice, princess, allen, mr. george, "amiens, the bible of," anderson, mr. j.r., anderson, miss s.d., andrews, dr. and family, animals, ruskin and, anne, nurse, "arachne," "aratra pentelici," architects, royal institute, architectural association, lecture to, "architecture, the poetry of," "architecture, the seven lamps of," "ariadne florentina," armytage, j.c., arthur, prince, assisi, avallon, baker, mr. george, baxter, mr. peter, beever, miss mary, miss susanna, "bibliotheca pastorum," bishop, mrs. w.h., blow, mr. detmar j., boehm, sir edgar, boni, commendatore g., botticelli, bourdillon, mr. f.w., boys, t., bradford lectures, brantwood, brown, dr. john, prof. thomas, rawdon, rev. walter, browning, robert and mrs., buckland, dr., bunney, j.w., burgess, arthur, burne-jones, sir edward, camberwell lectures, cambridge lectures, carlyle, thomas, mrs., carpaccio, carrick and vokins, cesnola, general l.p. di, "cestus of aglaia," chamberlain, john henry, chamouni, christ's hospital lecture, collins, "charley," coniston, lecture, cooke, mr. e., cousen, j., coutet, joseph, cowper-temple, mr. and mrs. (lord and lady mount temple), "crown of wild olive," croydon, cruikshank, george, cutt, r.p., cyanometer, dale, rev. t., dart, henry, darwin, charles, denmark hill, "deucalion," deverell, w.h., dickinson, lowes, dixon, thomas, domecq, adèle, peter, downes, david, dublin lecture, "eagle's nest," edinburgh lectures, edwardes, sir herbert, "elements of drawing," "ethics of the dust," eton lectures, eyre, governor, fall, richard, faunthorpe, rev. j.p., fielding, copley, fleming, mr. a., florence, forbes, principal j.d., forgeries of ruskin, "fors clavigera," "friendship's offering," friends of living creatures, society of, froude, j.a., furnivall, f.j., geneva, geology, _and see_ deucalion, minerals giessbach, gladstone, w.e., glasgow rectorship, glenfarg, glenfinlas, goodwin, mr. albert, r.w.s., gordon, rev. osborne, gothic revival, gray, euphemia (effie), mr. george, of perth, mr. and mrs. richard, greenaway, kate, gull, sir wm., m.d., halle, sir charles, harding, j.d., hardraw fall, harrison, w.h., "harry and lucy concluded," helps, sir arthur, herne hill, hill, miss octavia, hilliard, mrs., miss, laurence jermyn, hooper, w.h., howell, charles augustus, hunt, w. holman, hunt, "old" william, ilaria di caretto, jameson, mrs., jeffery, w., jephson, dr., of leamington, jowett, h. (of hazell, watson and viney), "kata phusin," keble, kendal lecture, keswick, "king of the golden river," king's college, london, kingsley, rev. w., langdale linen industry, "laws of fésole," le keux, j.h., "leoni," leopold, prince, lewis, j.f., r.a., liddell, dean, lockhart, j.g., london institution lectures, longfellow, "lord's prayer, letters on the," loudon's magazines, "love's meinie," lucca, luini, lupton, thomas, macdonald, mr. alex., w.m., of crossmount, mallock, mr. w.h., manchester lectures, manning, cardinal, "marcolini," marks, h.s., r.a., matlock, matterhorn, maurice, rev. f.d., may queens, meissonier's "napoleon," metaphysical society, meteorological society, millais, sir j.e., milman, dean, minerals and crystals, mitford, miss, "modern painters," moore, prof. c.h., rev. daniel, mornex, "mornings in florence," "munera pulveris," munro of novar, murray, mr. c. fairfax, mythology, national gallery, newman, mr. h.r., newton, sir charles, northcote, james, r.a., norton, prof. c.e., oliver, prof., oxford: ruskin as under graduate, as graduate, as professor, his lectures, his drawing school, his hinksey diggings, oxford museum, palermo, paris, patmore, coventry, pedigree of ruskin, perth, photography, ruskin's early use of, pisa, plague wind, poems, "political economy of art," politics, ruskin's attitude, portraits of ruskin, by northcote, richmond, rossetti, boehm, posting-tours, "præterita," pre-raphaelitism, pringle, thomas, "proserpina," prout, samuel, publishing arrangements, ruskin's, "queen of the air," queen victoria, railways, ruskin's attitude toward, randal, mr. frank, religion, ruskin's development, reynolds, lectures on, richardson families, charles, jessie, mary (mrs. bolding), dr. william, mr. william, _and see_ pedigree, richmond, george, r.a., sir william b., r.a., roberts, david, r.a., robson, mr. e.r., rogers, samuel, rome, rooke, mr. t.m., r.w.s., rossetti, d.g., t.p., rowbotham, mr., "royal academy, notes on the," royal institution lectures, runciman, mr., ruskin family, john james, mrs. (margaret cox, john ruskin's mother), st. andrews rectorship, st. george's guild, st. mark's rest, st. ursula, sandgate, saussure, seascale, seddon, thomas, "sesame and lilies," severn, mr. arthur, r.i. mrs. arthur, _and see_ agnew, miss "sheepfolds, notes on the construction of," sheffield communists, museum (st. george's now "ruskin"), sillar, w.c., smetham, james, smith, elder & co., smith, sydney, socialism, ruskin's attitude, somervell, mr. r., south kensington museum lecture, spurgeon, c.h., stanfield, c., r.a., stillman, w.j., "stones of venice," stowe, mrs. h.b., street-sweeping, swan, henry, swiss towns, intended history, talbot, mrs., and mr. q., talloires, taylor, sir henry, tea-shop, ruskin's, telford, henry, tennyson, thackeray, thomson, mr. george, "time and tide," tintoret, toynbee, arnold, trevelyan, sir walter and lady, tunbridge wells, lecture at, turner, j.m.w., "two paths," tyrwhitt, rev. r, st. j. university college, london, lecture at, "unto this last," "val d'arno," venice, vere, aubrey de, verona, waldensians, ward, rev. j. clifton, william, watts, g.f., r.a., wedderburn, mr. a., k.c., whistler, j. mcn., willett, henry, f.g.s., windus, g., winnington school, withers, charlotte, woodward, benjamin, woolwich lectures, working men's college, wornum, r.n., xenophon's "economist," "yewdale and its streamlets," yule, colonel and mrs., zermatt,