8 

 
 ^'' 
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 LETTERS TO M. G. 
 AND H. G.
 
 LETTERS TO 
 M. G. ^ H. G. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN RUSKIN 
 
 WITH PREFACE BY 
 
 THE RIGHT HON. G. WYNDHAM 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED 
 1903
 
 Printed by Ballantvne, Hanson i^' Co. 
 At the Ballantyne Press
 
 f 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 I WRITE these few lines at the request 
 of M. G., the lady to whom the letters 
 in Part II. of this little book were ad- 
 dressed. The request was made to 
 me, and accepted simply in my capacity 
 of a country neighbour and friend ; of 
 one, that is, who reckons among the 
 highest privileges of his life the cour- 
 tesy and friendship extended to him, 
 as a neighbour, by the family group at 
 Hawarden. On no other grounds could 
 any words of Ruskin need, or excuse, 
 an introduction from me. 
 
 Mr. Gladstone, in common with most 
 of those who deserve to be called great, 
 
 ^mr
 
 vi Preface 
 
 gave fully of his best to all who were 
 brought within his ken in any natural 
 relation of life. The diary in Part I., 
 the letters in Parts II. and III., chro- 
 nicle a visit paid in 1878 by Ruskin, 
 the rhetorician, teacher, and diviner of 
 the Beautiful, who yet disbelieved in its 
 acceptability by man, to Gladstone, the 
 statesman, theologian, and prophet of 
 moral energy in the practical affairs of 
 a nation's life, who ever believed, not 
 alone in the merits of his cause, but 
 in the certainty of its triumph. They 
 tell of the talk that passed between 
 these two, who seemed opposite in aim 
 and were so in method ; approaching 
 life, whether as a problem to be solved 
 or a task to be accomplished, by diver- 
 gent paths and with sentiments widely 
 sundered ; the one, in grim earnestness 
 and absolute faith ; the other, with sunlit
 
 Preface vii 
 
 grace playing over all but absolute 
 despair. 
 
 I am permitted to quote the brief 
 allusions in Mr. Gladstone's diary to 
 this, and to a second, visit in the same 
 year : — 
 
 ^^ Jan. 12, 1878. — Mr. Ruskin came; 
 we had much conversation, interesting 
 of course, as it must always be with 
 him. 
 
 ''Jan. 15. — Mr. Ruskin went at lof. 
 In some respects an unrivalled guest, 
 and those important respects too. 
 
 " Oct. 12, 1878. — Mr. Ruskin came; 
 health better, and no diminution of 
 charm. 
 
 ''Oct. 13.— Walk with the Duke (of 
 Argyll), Mr. Ruskin and party. 
 
 ''Oct. 14.— Walk with Mr. .Ruskin. 
 Mr. Ruskin at dinner developed his 
 political opinions. They aim at the
 
 viii Preface 
 
 restoration of the Judaic system, and 
 exhibit a mixture of virtuous absolutism 
 and Christian socialism. All in his 
 charming and benevolent manner. 
 
 " Oct. 15. — Good-bye to Mr. Ruskin 
 and off for London at 9.5 a.m." 
 
 In these diaries and letters we catch 
 glimpses, then, of Ruskin as " an un- 
 rivalled guest " who suffers no dimi- 
 nution of charm from ill-health or, as 
 he supposed, from the world's rejection 
 of all he wished it to believe. We 
 see the instant birth of mutual esteem 
 between him and his unrivalled host, 
 and watch it ripening into the fruit of 
 friendship ; whilst, as that ripens, a 
 thousand blossoms of playfulness and 
 affection are put forth by his admira- 
 tion and love for the daughter of the 
 house. 
 
 In this book we are scarcely to seek
 
 Preface ix 
 
 for literature or philosophy, politics or 
 anecdote ; but we may, if we will — and 
 who would not ? — seize the chance of an 
 introduction to "an unrivalled guest," 
 and learn how many flowers of pure 
 fun and radiant love may bloom in 
 the hortus inclusus which a great man, 
 no matter how embittered by the general 
 waywardness of the world, can still find 
 time to cultivate for women who are 
 gentle, and for little children. Ruskin's 
 love for " sibyls and children and vestals 
 and so on," was as sunlight upon lilies. 
 
 Having entered the family circle at 
 Hawarden, Ruskin is forthwith ready 
 to accept all its members, and to merge 
 one at least in the most intimate rela- 
 tionship of his own life, which, perforce, 
 from the loneliness of that life, was 
 indeed but a creation of his fancy, rever- 
 ence, and love. He had constituted
 
 X Preface 
 
 himself, one may say, the " brevet "- 
 son of his master Carlyle. So to 
 gratify the awestruck devotion of 
 M. G.'s cousin A. L,, then in the zenith 
 of a cricketer's renown (but aspiring to 
 much else he has since won), Ruskin, 
 before leaving Hawarden, writes a letter 
 to Carlyle, and presents a copy to the 
 youth and family. 
 
 " Hawarden Castle, 
 \^th Jan. '78. 
 
 " Dearest Papa, — I am going home 
 to-day, but I think it will be only to bid 
 the servants good New Year, and that 
 I shall be quickly up in Oxford again ; 
 and the more that I want to see you 
 again soon, and not let you say any 
 more " How long ? " 
 
 " Also, I want to bring with me to 
 your quiet presence chamber a youth 
 who deeply loves you, and for whom
 
 Preface xi 
 
 the permission to look upon your face 
 will be strength and memory in the 
 future, much helpful to the resolution 
 and the beauty of his life, and give 
 me also better will to return to my 
 Oxford duty from the Calypso woods of 
 Coiiiston. 
 
 "And so, believe me, ever your faith- 
 ful and loving son, J. Ruskin." 
 
 A. L. had a little later consulted 
 Ruskin on his choice of a profession, 
 indicating a predilection for the bar, 
 and received the following letter in 
 reply : — 
 
 "My dear a., — I am most thankful 
 for your letter, and much more earnest 
 to see you than you can possibly be to 
 see me, though I am not certain that — 
 for many a day yet — I may be able 
 to tell you what you ask in a way
 
 xii Preface 
 
 acceptable to you. That will depend on 
 the time you take in receiving (I do not 
 doubt your receiving ultimately) the 
 truth I have been trying to teach these 
 ten years, that neither the Holy Ghost 
 — nor the Justice of God — nor the life 
 of man — may be sold. 
 
 " Ever affectionately yours, J. R." 
 
 The man's affection for youth is fol- 
 lowed here somewhat abruptly by the 
 prophet's fulmination of his message to 
 the world. But, in another note, he 
 writes : — 
 
 " You know I entirely sympathise 
 with your cricketing, though I don't 
 make a fuss about it." 
 
 The fun and feeling in these letters 
 are so delicately fragile that any appre- 
 ciation of the prophet's " message," also 
 to be found in them here and there,
 
 Preface xiii 
 
 would be not so much out of place as in 
 the way. 
 
 The letters are noteworthy, inas- 
 much as they reveal something more 
 of a great man^ — great in himself, and 
 greater because he changed the minds 
 of many. But for Ruskin, much of 
 Carlyle's teaching would never have 
 reached people, who, in their turn 
 again, have been allowed to reach yet 
 others. Even if we leave Art, Nature, 
 and the Philosophy of Science aside, 
 the man who wrote " Unto this Last " 
 remains a great force, which, thank 
 God, is not yet expended. 
 
 The letters are generally valuable, 
 because they show that great men 
 are playful and affectionate. In par- 
 ticular, the references to Mr. Gladstone 
 in Letter I., to Browning (p. 39), to 
 the Land- League (p. 67), to the law
 
 xiv Preface 
 
 of land-owning (p. 74) — though un- 
 luckily not free from obscurity — are all 
 of public interest. Again, in another 
 category, the planes " twisted grandly 
 by rock-winds" (p. 38), and the pro- 
 found thought of morning and evening, 
 spring and autumn (p. 39), the " move the 
 shadow from the dial evermore " (p. 47), 
 the olives, grass, and cyclamen (p. 80) 
 are treasures not to be kept under lock 
 and key. On page 55 the reference to 
 Lady Day is important, and, to make a 
 quick change, I like also to possess the 
 Bishop and Pig-stye (p. 88). 
 
 An occasional asperity, as for ex- 
 ample the allusion to Browning on 
 p. 39, calls for no steam-roller in so fair 
 a garden, yet, in a censorious world, it 
 may be wise to point out that Ruskin, 
 if he writes there of Browning : " He 
 knows much of music, does not he ? but
 
 Preface xv 
 
 I think he must Hke it mostly for its 
 discords," writes elsewhere that he had 
 never read Paracelsus and could not, 
 without explanations and citations, ap- 
 preciate the tribute paid to him by 
 M. G. when she calls him " Aprile." 
 So he had also, perhaps, omitted to read 
 Abt Vogler and the lines — 
 
 "And what is our failure here but a triumph's 
 
 evidence 
 For the fulness of the days ? Have we withered 
 
 or agonised ? 
 Why else was the pause prolonged but that 
 
 singing might issue thence? 
 Why rushed the discords in but that harmony 
 
 should be prized ? " 
 
 Browning, indeed, practised what 
 Ruskin preached, and was, as it seems, 
 unknown to Ruskin, an apostle, as later, 
 too, was R. L. Stevenson, of the Gos- 
 pel : " There is no need to learn nega- 
 tively : simply go forward, look forward ;
 
 xvi Preface 
 
 never look backward" (p. 5), Ruskin 
 puts it ; and again (p. 57) : " I'm rather 
 going down the hill than up just now, 
 it's so slippery; but I haven't turned 
 — only slipped backwards," with, by 
 characteristic implication, an almost 
 Porsonian censure on the scheme of 
 things. Browning in a last song, throw- 
 ing a gauntlet down to death, and, what 
 is braver, to life, calls himself : — 
 
 " One who never turned his back but marched 
 breast forward. 
 Never doubted clouds would break ;' 
 Never dreamed, though right were worsted, 
 wrong would triumph. 
 Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, 
 Sleep to wake." 
 
 This last Ruskin also believed. On 
 page 65 there stands a grand confession 
 of faith : ** The death of Carlyle is no 
 sorrow to me. It is, I believe, not an 
 end-but a beginning of his real life.
 
 Preface xvii 
 
 Nay, perhaps also of mine. My re- 
 morse, every day he lived, for having 
 not enough loved him in the days gone 
 by, is not greater now, but less, in 
 the hope that he knows what I am 
 feeling about him at this — and all 
 other — moments." 
 
 In Ruskin, too, in his life and in these 
 letters, there is a special note of courage. 
 His despair over all that is known of 
 human polities, and all that may be 
 guessed of their future development, 
 throws up in a higher light the gracious 
 courage with which, whilst treading a 
 via dolorosa, he placed a posy before 
 every shrine of Beauty and Gentleness 
 and Love. 
 
 GEORGE VVYNDHAM. 
 
 New Year's Day 1903.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. FAC.B 
 
 Preface . . ^ . . . v 
 
 I. RUSKIN AT HaWARDEN IN 1878 . 3 
 
 II. Ruskin's Letters to M. G. . . 31 
 
 III. Ruskin's Letters to H. G. . . 99 
 
 lIV. RusKiN AXD Gladstone . . .109 
 
 V. The Dead Ruskin . . . .123
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 To face page 
 
 Hawarden Castle, 1878 . . . . 32 
 
 Hawarden Castle, from the Old Keep, 
 
 1878 38 
 
 " Judge how fondly by this time I think of the 
 Hawarden trees ! " 
 
 Mary, Daughter of the Right Hon. 
 
 W. E. Gladstone .... 86 
 
 (Photogravure from portrait by Sir EDWARD 
 BuRNE Jones) 
 
 The Letter that Puzzled the Butler. 103 
 The Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone . 108 
 
 {Photogravure from portrait by Messrs. 
 Elliott ^ Fry) 
 
 John Ruskin . . . . . .122 
 
 {Photogravure from portrait by Mr, FREDERICK 
 Hollyer)
 
 I 
 
 RUSKIN AT HA WARDEN IN 1878 
 
 {Extracts from an Old Journal)
 
 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1878 
 
 {^Extracts from an Old Journal) ^ 
 
 Jan. 12 [Sat.) 1878. — I had the joyous 
 honour of dining at the Castle with 
 Ruskin and Holland of Christ Church. 
 I asked how the Hinksey work pro- 
 gressed. When, after shaking both my 
 hands, as those of one of his ** diggers," 
 he mournfully admitted its failure, owing 
 to the want of an earnest spirit in the 
 undergrads. They played at it. "It 
 
 1 Nothing was further from the thoughts of the 
 
 writer of this "Journal" than that the rough notes — 
 
 the very existence of which he had forgotten — would 
 
 attain to the dignity of print. But he thinks such 
 
 interest as they possess is best preserved by leaving 
 
 them " in the rough." 
 
 3
 
 4 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1 878 
 
 is only one of the many signs of the 
 diaboHccil condition of Oxford." His 
 talk at dinner was altogether delight- 
 ful. Nevertheless there was an utter 
 hopelessness ; a real, pure despair be- 
 neath the sunlight of his smile, and ring, 
 ing through all he said. Why it does not 
 wholly paralyse him I cannot make out. 
 He pitched into Museums, and Natural 
 Science in general, as tending to fix at- 
 tention upon all Nature's mistakes and 
 failures— every vile, and ugly, and mon- 
 strous, and odious specimen of Nature's 
 doino-s. He insisted that we were never 
 to look at, to think of, anything un- 
 lovely, impure, horrible ; we were to 
 remedy evils by bringing up the good 
 against them — to scathe and annihi- 
 late them. This was true of social re- 
 forms also. In reply to Holland, he 
 urged that for practical purposes we
 
 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1878 5 
 
 knew right and wrong sufficiently ; or, 
 rather, we had enough knowledge of 
 what beauty, truth, and goodness were, 
 to work and live in. There was no 
 need to learn negatively ; simply go for- 
 ward, look forward ; never look back- 
 ward. "He that putteth his hand . . . 
 and looketh backl' &c. Holland spoke of 
 a rabbit, one of whose lower teeth had 
 grown round the skull, and killed it 
 by entering the back of the head ! 
 "An entirely tit specimen — being a 
 monstrous and hideous thing — for the 
 Oxford Museum," said Ruskin, hear- 
 ing that it was there to be seen — its 
 skull, at least. "In Museums we ought 
 to have specimens — the loveliest, most 
 perfect that are to be found — of 
 Nature's handiwork. Birds in all their 
 feathers, animals in their skins. I 
 don't ever desire to see a Dodo in
 
 6 RUSKIN AT KaWARDEN IN 1 878 
 
 its skeleton state ; I never saw one 
 in its plumage, and why should I wish 
 to see one without ? " Again, in reply- 
 to Mr. Gladstone, Ruskin said : " For at 
 least twenty years past 1 have made it 
 a rule to know nothinof about doubtful 
 and controverted facts — nothing but 
 what is absolutely true — absolutely 
 certain. I do not care for opinions, 
 views, speculations, whose truth is 
 doubtful. I wish to know only true 
 things ; and there are enough of them 
 to take a full lifetime to learn. Why 
 is there not an absolutely truthful 
 newspaper in the world ? I hate find- 
 ing that what I believed yesterday I 
 must disbelieve to-day. Why is not 
 a newspaper started which we may 
 entirely trust, which should wait until 
 news was certain before admitting it ; 
 what would delay signify if truth were
 
 RUSKIX AT HAWARDEX IN 1 878 7 
 
 assured ? I wonder no such paper 
 should have been got up — if only as 
 a mere luxury. 
 
 " How horrible is the condition of our 
 daily press ! Columns full of horrors, 
 murders, suicides, brutalities — conspicu- 
 ous villainy and abomination. I would 
 have a paper that would tell us of the 
 loveliest and best people in every town 
 or place — of nothing but pure and beau- 
 tiful things. Nowadays it is the most 
 infamous people who are published to 
 the world, who are forced upon our 
 thoughts. I would have the gentlest, 
 purest, noblest of mankind, set before 
 the public mind — made famous in the 
 journals. This fame and the world's 
 admiration could not " [this in reply to 
 H. S. H.'s objection and Miss G.'s] 
 "spoil the really good, nice people. 
 Their light ought to shine and be set
 
 8 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1878 
 
 Up on a candlestick. It would indeed 
 go on burning even under a bushel, 
 but goodness ought to be set up, a 
 city set on a hill. No ! There need 
 be no fear of spoiling the truly nice 
 people by bringing them into promi- 
 nence. At present, they are precisely 
 the last people in a place to be heard 
 
 Mr. Gladstone spoke of round towers 
 in Ireland. Ruskin said that was a 
 controverted subject and therefore he 
 knew nothing of it. Then some words 
 from Mr. Gladstone about architecture, 
 and some serpentine arrangement of 
 some stones in some building's ground- 
 plan, or some such thing, led to ser- 
 pents as a topic. Ruskin said that 
 Doctor Buckland once sent a young 
 lady to a ball with a live snake for 
 her bracelet, and he stayed there !
 
 RUSKIN AT HaWARDEN IN 1 878 
 
 "Yes! and well he might in such an 
 honourable place. Any snake might 
 be proud of so delightful a position." 
 
 Ruskin said he believed taste was 
 improving in many ways, and young 
 ladies were getting more beautiful 
 every year — and tables were being 
 more beautifully decorated. [These 
 were compliments aimed at his left- 
 hand lady — Miss G.] 
 
 Racing at Oxford — utterly ruinous. 
 " Boats " — now the destruction of all 
 the river's deliofht and beauties. Rid- 
 ing ought to be encouraged at Oxford. 
 The horse, like other things, ruined 
 [he spoke as an artist, of its beauty 
 ideally] by racing. Mr. Gladstone 
 fully agreed. A great discussion, or 
 
 talk, followed about horses — in Homer 
 and in general. Increase in size of 
 horses, one marked feature in the
 
 10 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1 878 
 
 breedinof results In Eng^land. Mr. 
 Gladstone talked of the broad line 
 drawn in Homer between man, as the 
 speaking animal — as articulate — and 
 the lower animals ; so the Fates stay 
 
 the prophetic utterance of 's horse 
 
 in a moment, as soon as ever the 
 needful words are ended. Then a 
 very jolly discussion concerning the 
 Eumenides, the Parc^e, the Fates, or 
 so-called " Furies," and their true idea 
 in the Greek mind ; not merely penal 
 retributors, but representatives of jus- 
 tice. Mr. Wickham inclined against 
 this, and vilified the "Furies." 
 
 Ruskin said that he gave his support 
 to the defenders of Thirlmere from out- 
 rage and abomination only out of con- 
 sideration for his friends' wishes. Its 
 margin was already strewed with empty 
 bottles and sandwich papers, and herded
 
 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1 878 II 
 
 over by excursionists, till it was entirely 
 spoiled for rational enjoyment : "Its 
 bottom is literally paved over with 
 broken plates and dishes, so it may 
 as well go altogether, and be drained 
 away." 
 
 Then, after some talk with Mr. Glad- 
 stone, he expounded some notions of 
 domestic virtues. Mothers ought not 
 to expend their love upon their own 
 children ; but, while making that love 
 the central care, should love all other 
 children too ; especially the poor and 
 suffering. They should not spend so 
 much care and money in dressing out 
 their little ones gorgeously and at 
 such cost, but should clothe the naked 
 and feed the hungry children around 
 them. "To be a father to the father- 
 less is the peculiar glory of a Christian " 
 — not to be exclusive, but all-embrac-
 
 12 RUSKIN AT HaWARDEN IN 1878 
 
 ing in every kind of love. Adop- 
 tion of children is a noble Christian 
 work ; choose out good and promising 
 children. If you find really wicked 
 tendencies in a child — give him up, 
 don't hope to reform the bad ones ; the 
 chances are that in ninety-nine cases 
 out of a hundred you would fail. So 
 don't waste time on the ill-disposed ; 
 but take up good children, and sur- 
 round them with all holy and en- 
 nobling influences. Ruskin described 
 a grievous failure of his own — a great 
 disappointment he had met with in a 
 girl whom he had adopted, or, at least, 
 schooled and guided her in her bring- 
 ing up. For three years she was on 
 trial in the best of homes, among 
 helpful and pure surroundings, yet it 
 entirely failed. 
 
 Then a few words to Alfred Lyttelton
 
 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1 878 1 3 
 
 in reference to maternal love and its 
 instinctive nature. 
 
 At this point Ruskin, to our dismay, 
 abruptly rose from his chair (at a 
 quarter to 1 1 p.m.) and moving bed- 
 wards, with the remark, " I always go 
 early to bed," vanished. 
 
 Then — absc7ite magistro — a quick 
 tangle of remarks followed on his 
 manifold pleasant ways ; his graceful 
 and delightful manner — bright, gentle, 
 delicately courteous ; the lyric melody 
 of his voice — more intensely spiritual, 
 more subduedly passionate, more thril- 
 ling than any voice I ever heard. He 
 is a swift observer and acute. Not 
 talkative, but ever willing to be inter- 
 ested in things, and to throw gleams 
 of his soul's sunlight over them ; 
 original in his dazzling idealism. For 
 ever "thinking on whatsoever things
 
 14 RUSKIN AT HaWARDEN IN 1878 
 
 are pure, and lovely, and of good 
 report," &c. ; a7mikilating, in the in- 
 tense white heat of his passionate con- 
 tempt and hatred, all vile, dark, 
 hateful things. They are not — cannot 
 be. They are lies, negations, blanks, 
 nonentities. " God is — and there is 
 notie else beside Him." 
 
 So I wend my way home by a circuit 
 through the cottage domain, dreaming 
 of nothing but Ruskin and the glory 
 of his soul, and the lovely visions he 
 creates for us, and the ideals he would 
 have us worship. 
 
 Jan. 14 \^Mo7iday\ — The event was 
 my visit to the Castle to tea about 
 5 P.M., to listen to the great master of 
 all gracefulness. But, at first, all seemed 
 to fail. Mr. Gladstone talked chiefly 
 on pathetic subjects : drunken clergy 
 in old days, &c. Still, there was
 
 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1 878 1 5 
 
 much interesting; discussion of the 
 Oxford course ; the tendencies of the 
 schools ; their strain and mental 
 effects. Gladstone gave, as a strong 
 argument, pro the value of the sudden 
 strain and effort, the vast concentra- 
 tion of mind, the hasty calling into 
 play of all the intellectual powers, as 
 a training for political life. Ruskin 
 (with his inimitable genuine modesty) 
 "had never thought of that": "It 
 was quite a new idea," and worthy 
 of much consideration. But he still 
 seemed to think the general effect of 
 the strain bad. Speaking around the 
 same topic, he said: "The man who 
 has failed in any subject has no right 
 whatsoever to say one word respect- 
 ing the subject in which he has failed. 
 But if I, speaking as one who has en- 
 tirely failed," &c. ; and he then told
 
 l6 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1878 
 
 US how he had failed, " partly through 
 ill-health " ; how, out of kind considera- 
 tion, they gave him a double-fourth ; 
 how great a disappointment his failure 
 had been : *' not only on my own ac- 
 count I wished to succeed, but also for 
 my father's sake." I was greatly struck 
 by his simplicity and modesty about this. 
 At last, in response to the noble 
 
 attacks of Miss G , Ruskin came 
 
 into the ante-room to show us his 
 copies of the three "Saint Ursula" 
 pictures of Carpaccio. Oh ! that I 
 could tell, myself, a thousandth part 
 of the delightful things he said or 
 chanted — or looked — in telling us about 
 the Saint. It was, I really believe, 
 the loveliest speech I ever heard : 
 graceful and artlessly exquisite, beyond 
 words. Saint Ursula was a beautiful 
 and pure virgin of Brittany, and her
 
 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1878 17 
 
 Story is a simple one of the heroic 
 martyr-spirit of Christian saintHness. 
 The first picture showed her sleeping 
 upon her bed, calm and still ; an angel 
 entering her chamber to bring her a 
 message from on high ; sweet and 
 glorious flowers in her window ; low- 
 heeled shoes beside her bed ; the 
 colouring was rich and glowing, and 
 the picture was highly finished, unlike 
 the others. The second picture is of 
 Ursula and her two maidens, awaitinor 
 martyrdom. Ursula is strong and 
 radiant ; of the kneeling maidens, she 
 on the left of her mistress kneels with 
 up-turned face, wrapt in an enthusiasm 
 of prayer ; she on the right with down- 
 cast eyes, faithful and resigned, but 
 hardly confident. The third picture is 
 of bishops bearing Ursula's body to its 
 rest — grand old bishops (though only 
 
 B
 
 1 8 RUSKIN AT HaWARDEN IN 1 878 
 
 two are filled in). It is but a fragment- 
 ary representation of the picture — this 
 copy of Ruskin's — but enough to tell 
 the story of Ursula. Well, he told us 
 of her loveliness and radiant purity and 
 holiness ; and how she died ere she 
 should wed the rude English king who 
 wooed her — told it all entrancingly. 
 
 And he told us, too, of the modesty 
 and simplicity of Carpaccio, who would 
 be known only as Titian's disciple, and 
 " put his name to his pictures in the 
 mouth of a lizard or some other beastly 
 little animal." 
 
 Alfred Lyttelton told me, by-the-bye, 
 that Ruskin had preached him and 
 Miss G. a long sermonic talk — nearly 
 an hour — last night, chiefly on marriage; 
 how the woman should not venture to 
 hope for or think for perfectness in him 
 she would love, but he should believe
 
 RUSKIN AT HaWARDEN IN 1 878 1 9 
 
 the maiden to be purity and perfection, 
 absolute and unqualified ; perfectly fault- 
 less, entirely lovely. " Women are, in 
 general, far nobler, purer, more divinely 
 perfect than men, because they come 
 less in contact with evil ! " 
 
 Ruskin gave Alfred Lyttelton a 
 commendatory letter to Carlyle, whom 
 he addresses as " Papa " ; he ever 
 speaks of him as "my Master." Lord 
 Acton thinks he idealises Carlyle be- 
 fore he worships him ; and Holland 
 congratulates the world that he does 
 not reproduce him in some respects — 
 nor again in his style has any close 
 resemblance to Hooker, whom he 
 [Ruskin] says he studied minutely and 
 laboriously, constructing whole sen- 
 tences on his as types ; being told his 
 was the purest English. 
 
 Ruskin said that one of the loveliest
 
 20 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1 878 
 
 graces of holy childhood — that pretty 
 leaning of a youngling against your 
 knee, and bending over gracefully as 
 a lily, with inimitably winsome love — 
 is a thing rarely caught by artists. It 
 is so fine and exquisite a movement 
 as to be generally passed over. He 
 only knew one artist who had truly 
 found it — V^andyke, it was. Little May 
 
 T is with me in spirit as I think 
 
 of this : in her it is the sweetest, most 
 heart-melting gesture imaginable. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 On Saturday, 12th October, Ruskin 
 came with the evening, and when I 
 first saw him was stuck fast with Mr. 
 Gladstone in a political talk in a door- 
 way — an anchorage which was long 
 enough fairly to exasperate one. After 
 some minutes, however, I met him, 
 and his eyes of true sunshine, seeming
 
 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1 878 21 
 
 incredibly to recognise one. Only dull 
 words, rather, at first. "How was he 
 in health?" "Surprised at his own 
 recovery so far," he said, " but still 
 not up to any real work. He had 
 resigned, or rather sent in his resigna- 
 tion of, the Professorship at Oxford ; 
 and henceforward would write his ser- 
 mons — * what he wanted to say,' and 
 not lecture." "Could he not write lec- 
 tures, and let T. read them?" "That 
 he would like best of all ; but he must 
 wait to see what the Oxford authorities 
 would say in reply to his proffered 
 resignation." 
 
 Then brings the Fishery Game, 
 
 and the Duke of Argyll and W. E. G. 
 and Ruskin and Mrs. W. H. G. and 
 others all played and laughed a good 
 deal. Ruskin approved the idea of the 
 game, but wanted lovely little fishes
 
 22 RUSKIN AT HaWARDEN IN 1878 
 
 with silver scales — instead of little 
 ugly lumps of wood — to catch. 
 
 Then, somehow, the talk drifted on 
 to matters of social economy, and 
 intensely interesting was the study of 
 three notable and strongly - contrasted 
 characters. The Duke was astonish- 
 ingly conventional, seeming to think 
 the social condition of England very 
 satisfactory, and little needing reform ; 
 laughing almost contemptuously at 
 Ruskin's doctrines concerning the Thirl- 
 mere scheme and the defilements of 
 factories ; considerino- that the labourinsf 
 classes had but little to complain of, 
 and that agfricultural tenants had no 
 
 t> 
 
 strong case against the landlords. 
 In fact, he appeared, I thought, to re- 
 present vulgar British conservatism — for 
 once, at all events. At polar extreme 
 from which position stood Ruskin —
 
 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1 878 23 
 
 Socialist, Aristocrat, dreaming Idealist, 
 hater of modern " Liberty," of pride 
 of wealth, of bastard " Patriotism " ; 
 lover of the poor and the laborious, 
 toiling multitude ; condemning Rent as 
 a cruel usury, detesting war and its 
 " standing armies." Midway 'twixt 
 these two stood Mr. Gladstone, with 
 his wondrously - blended poetry and 
 matter - of - fact - ness. Rejecting the 
 Duke's criticisms, and, in spirit, going 
 far with Ruskin ; accepting, indeed, I 
 think, almost all his principles, but 
 widely differing as to their practical 
 application. He only spoke at inter- 
 vals, and always deeply and helpfully. 
 Ruskin preached his great truths, and 
 the Duke cavilled impfttiently. 
 
 I liked the talk about war. Ruskin 
 spoke strongly about our national waste 
 in military expenditure, and the insanity
 
 24 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1878 
 
 of our wars. He deplored the existence 
 of our large standing army and navy, 
 and said our country can never truly 
 prosper so long as her best and noblest 
 sons adopt the soldierly profession for 
 a means of livelihood. Here came an 
 abrupt contradiction from the Duke. 
 "They do not, however; nobody enters 
 the army for a living^ Then Mr. Glad- 
 stone interrupts to back up Ruskin, who 
 forthwith explains, "Indeed «// do; they 
 enter the army for the sake of the posi- 
 tion, the uniform, the prestige, &c. ; and 
 that is utterly wrong. I would have 
 every man in England a soldier — able, 
 if need be, to defend his home and his 
 country ; but not a standing profession 
 of fighters, which must encourage the 
 evil war - spirit." " Then you would 
 abolish war entirely ? " asked the Duke. 
 " Most assuredly, if I could," said
 
 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1 878 25 
 
 Ruskin, "and exchange every sword 
 for a ploughshare." In reference to 
 the supposed English love of war the 
 Duke said, "Well, in my opinion, John 
 Bull is a fighting animal." He "sup- 
 posed Ruskin did not share this 
 national feeling which delighted in 
 wars." "I dislike fighting immensely" 
 (J. R. answered), "and, in the first 
 place, because I am a coward." He 
 also felt that war — unless a moral 
 necessity — was the most stupendous 
 crime, and that Christianity certainly 
 made ao'ainst war. The Duke in- 
 stantly attacked him with vehemence, 
 intrenched behind the authority of 
 Mozley's sermon, and appealed to Mr. 
 G., who merely eulogised the sermon 
 without expressing agreement with it. 
 However, it satisfied the Duke, who 
 thought R. crushed, and wound up by
 
 26 RUSKIN AT HAWARDEN IN 1878 
 
 saying, " You seem to want a very- 
 different world to that we experience, 
 Mr. Ruskin," &c., &c. ''Yea, verily, a 
 new heavens and a new earth, and the 
 former things passed away," which prac- 
 tically was a pretty summing up and 
 laughing conclusion of a helpful talk. 
 
 Something like a little amicable duel 
 took place at one time between Ruskin 
 and Mr. G., when Ruskin directly at- 
 tacked his host as a " leveller." " You 
 see you think one man is as good as 
 another, and all men equally competent 
 to judge aright on political questions ; 
 whereas I am a believer in an aristo- 
 cracy." And straight came the answer 
 from Mr. Gladstone, "Oh dear, no! I 
 am nothing of the sort. I am a firm 
 believer in the aristocratic principle — 
 the rule of the best. I am an out-and- 
 out inequalitaria^t^' a confession which
 
 RUSKIX AT HaWARDEX IN 1878 27 
 
 Ruskiii greeted with intense delight, 
 clapping his hands triumphantly. 
 
 W. E. G. went away then, and the 
 Duke and others asked questions. I 
 wanted his opinion of Mozley's great 
 argument, viz., "that by its recogni- 
 tion of nations Christianity implicitly 
 sanctions war." Ruskin almost scorned 
 it as a fallacious and "childish argu- 
 ment." Then we reverted to the subject 
 of lords of the soil and their depend- 
 ents, and employers and employed, and 
 Ruskin told us of shameful instances in 
 France and Italy— of one, e.g., who spoke 
 of his dependents as " cette canaille." 
 Then we talked of the happiness of 
 simple, pastoral life, still found among 
 the yo2uig people of France ; Ruskin 
 said he was rather restrained from say- 
 ing what he wanted to by the presence 
 of the great "landed proprietor."
 
 II, III 
 
 RUSKIN'S LETTERS TO M. G. 
 AND TO H. G.
 
 II 
 
 RUSKIN'S LETTERS TO M. G. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 \Zth January y 1878. 
 
 Dear Miss G ,— You are then 
 
 yet at Hawarden ? It has been only 
 my doubt of your stay there that has 
 prevented my letter of thanks from 
 dutifully anticipating this lovely one of 
 yours—after which, it feels itself very 
 helpless and poor, not so much in 
 actual words, as in ways of showing 
 the pleasant hiding-places of the web 
 of things one doesn't quite like to say ; 
 one's flattered little prides being all 
 threaded in among quite real and more 
 close-set humilities — equally unspeakable 
 
 3'
 
 32 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 — and quick little affections which one 
 is greatly ashamed of for having grown 
 so fast, and which one dares not tell 
 of. But I will courageously say this 
 letter of yours makes me very happy. 
 
 For the thanks after the J. R. — 
 they mean both the things you have 
 all guessed — but are meant, or were 
 on the sudden when you brought me 
 the book, meant, to distinguish the 
 poem^ as one which had taught and 
 helped me in the highest ways, from 
 those which one merely reads with ad- 
 miration or equal sympathy ; one falls 
 "upon the great world's altar stairs" 
 helplessly beside Tennyson. I thank 
 Myers for lifting me up again. 
 
 I thank Fors and your sweet sister, 
 very solemnly, for having let me see 
 your father, and understand him in his 
 
 ' Above the poem " St. John the Baptist" (F. W. H. 
 Myers), Mr. Ruskin wrote, "J. R., with deep thanivs."
 
 ■JO 
 -JO 

 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 33 
 
 earnestness. How is it possible for the 
 men who have known him lono- — to allow 
 the thought of his course of conduct 
 now, or at any other time, having been 
 warped by ambition, to diminish the 
 lustre and the power of his name ? I 
 have been grievously deceived con- 
 cerning him myself, and have once 
 written words about him which I trust 
 you at least may never see. They shall 
 be effaced henceforward (I have written 
 to cancel the page on which they are). 
 If ever you see them, forgive me, and 
 you will know what it is to forgive. 
 
 And you will like having me with 
 you again, then, in the autumn. -* I 
 never can understand that people can 
 like me at all, if I like them. I'll read 
 your letter over and over again, mean- 
 time ; and, am indeed, myself, to your 
 Father and to you all, — Your grateful 
 
 and loving, John Ruskin. 
 
 c
 
 34 RusKiN's Letters to M. G. 
 
 \_Ft'om another letter written in 
 Jan. 1878.] 
 
 It was a complete revelation to me, 
 and has taught me a marvellous quan- 
 tity of most precious things — above all 
 things, the rashness of my own judg- 
 ment (not as to the right or wrong of 
 things themselves, but as to the temper 
 in which men say and do them). 
 
 Arthur Severn's, Herne Hill, S.E., 
 Wedftesday, 24th July 1878. 
 
 My dear M , — Please send me 
 
 just a little line, and tell me what time 
 dinner is, to-morrow. 
 
 Of course, that's only an excuse to 
 get a little note, and be able to tell 
 
 F that I've got one, because I 
 
 could as easily ask at the door ; but you 
 may as well have my London address
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 35 
 
 in case you ever have any orders for 
 me. The doctors say I never obey 
 orders, and, of course, I never do any 
 of theirs. But there are some orders 
 I'm too obedient to, for the peace of 
 my old age ! — Ever gratefully and 
 affectionately yours, J. Ruskin. 
 
 National Gallery, 
 Friday, 7.W1 July 1878. 
 
 My dear M , — You were a per- 
 fect little mother to me last night. I 
 didn't feel safe a moment except when 
 I was close to you. Look here, I've 
 got notice from George Richmond and 
 Acland saying they're both going to 
 try to find me this afternoon. And I 
 should like to see them, and to have 
 that music to hope for all this evening 
 and to-morrow morning ; and, besides, I 
 want you to give me a cup of tea this
 
 36 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 afternoon at about five, and if you can't, 
 you can't, and never mind ; but I'll 
 just ask at the door, and it's of no con- 
 sequence, as Mr. Toots says. You 
 can't tell me you can't, till I ask at 
 the door ; because I don't know where 
 I shall be. And I'll come for my music 
 at three, to-morrow, instead, and you 
 needn't say I may, because I must and 
 will. — And I'm ever your devoted, 
 
 J. RUSKIN. 
 
 Malham (by Leeds), 
 i\thJuly—no, August 1878. 
 
 My dear M , — Please thank your 
 
 Father very dearly for his message, and 
 take dearer thanks still for your own. 
 I will come to Hawarden if I may, 
 towards the close of autumn, for I want 
 the longer days for walks among the 
 hills to get gradual strength, and I
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 37 
 
 shall be better able, I trust, so, for all 
 the happy talk of Hawarden. But 
 papa must mark branches, not trees, for 
 me. / can't cut anything more than 
 inch thick. 
 
 Yes, 1 wish I had known that about 
 Mr. B. ; yet it was perhaps better as it 
 chanced, for I am in a wonderfully sad 
 marsh and pool of thought myself since 
 my illness, and should perhaps only 
 have done him mischief if the talk had 
 touched that shore. — Ever your grateful 
 and loving, J. Ruskin. 
 
 Kendal, 
 \c)th August 1878. 
 
 My dear M , — I'm going home 
 
 to-day, and have just been putting these 
 letters that have been carried in my 
 breast-pocket on the moor, to keep the 
 bleak breezes out, up in their own
 
 38 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 separate envelopes, written in the corner 
 
 — F and M . I've taken them 
 
 as near the sky as I could reach — 
 always ; you have been on the top of 
 every moorland at Malham, and finished 
 with Ingleborough last Sunday after 
 church. Judge how fondly by this 
 time I think of the Hawarden trees ! 
 Not but that there are some dark 
 clusters about the older farmhouses very 
 beautiful, and I learned something quite 
 new to me of the majesty of the plane 
 in a group of them which I took, in the 
 distance, for Scotch Firs, and could 
 scarcely believe my eyes as I drew near 
 and saw the great leaves, the branches 
 had been twisted so grandly by the 
 rock-winds. 
 
 Are you really going to be at Hawar- 
 den all the autumn ? and can you let 
 me come, when the leaves begin to
 
 00 
 
 "— t* 
 
 O ^ 
 
 y. 

 
 RusKiN's Letters to M. G. 39 
 
 fall ? I don't think a pretty tree is ever 
 meant to be drawn with all its leaves 
 on, any more than a day when its sun 
 is at noon. One draws the day in its 
 morning or evening, the tree in its 
 spring or autumn. 
 
 But I'm still afraid of myself, whether 
 I shall be able to draw at all. I am 
 not, yet ; that is to say, it tires me 
 more than anything, when it's the least 
 difficult. It is but too likely I shall 
 just want you to play to me all day 
 long. 
 
 You never told me why you were 
 disappointed that day with Browning, 
 or, did you say, as it seems to me I 
 remember, '■'always disappointed?" He 
 knows much of music, does not he ? but 
 I think he must like it mostly for its dis- 
 cords. I haven't had anybody to show 
 off to since you told me whom to talk
 
 40 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 of, and now I've forgotten his name. 
 It's a great shame to have forgotten 
 anything you told me, but I think it's 
 better to confess at once, and then, 
 perhaps, you'll send me a little note, 
 and tell me, will you? 
 
 With truest and most respectful re- 
 gards to your father, and grateful re- 
 membrances to Mrs. G , and love 
 
 to your sister. — Ever your affectionate, 
 
 J. RUSKIN. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 27//^ August 1878. 
 
 My dear M , — I've been trying 
 
 these three days to make up a plan 
 
 to please myself, and can't. There's 
 
 always something to be left out, or 
 
 dropped, or shortened, or passed by 
 
 on the other side. Do you know, I 
 
 think we children — you, and F ,
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 41 
 
 and I— had better let the old people 
 arrange it all for us ; and then we 
 shan't quarrel, and we'll say it's all their 
 fault if anything goes wrong, won't 
 we? 
 
 I'm so very glad your Father is inter- 
 ested in Deucalion. I never get any 
 credit from anybody for my geology, 
 and it is the best of me by far. And 
 I really think I've got those stuck-up 
 surveyors in a fix, rather! I'm going 
 in at the botanists next, and making 
 diagrams of trees to ask them questions 
 about. I expect him to tell me how to 
 answer them myself. 
 
 I never was so lazy as I am just now, 
 in all my life. If only I enjoyed being 
 lazy I should not mind, but I'm only 
 ashamed of myself, and get none of the 
 comfort. Perhaps, after all, you'll have 
 to bring papa here. Sometimes I think
 
 42 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 I never can stir out of this house any 
 more. But I'm ever your affectionate, 
 
 J. R. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 Sunday, 2)Oth September 1878. 
 
 My dear M , — How dreadfully 
 
 I've behaved to you; and it's not all 
 
 F 's fault, but partly her ponies' 
 
 fault, who bewilder me by always 
 standing on their hind legs, or going 
 eighteen miles an hour ; and partly the 
 dogs' fault, who are always getting 
 between nty legs, or pulling my hair, 
 or licking my face ; and partly her 
 place's fault, which is really too pretty 
 and too good for her or anybody else, 
 and drove me half crazy again because 
 I couldn't paint it up and down and 
 both sides everywhere ; and partly her 
 people's fault, who wanted to " show " 
 me things, and wouldn't understand
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 43 
 
 that it was a vain show, and that my 
 heart was disquieted within me ; — and 
 partly my own fault. (I meant to have 
 said, " of course," but shouldn't have 
 meant it.) And so I didn't answer 
 your letter ; and now here's your 
 forgiving— /<3;r//y forgiving, at least — 
 but laconic note, and, of course, I 
 deserve it — them, I mean, both — the 
 forgiveness and the Laconianism. 
 
 Well, yes, I can come on the 9th, 
 or on the loth, or on any day you 
 want me, pretty nearly. ("You" is to 
 have an emphasis, mind, but I've 
 underlined too many words already.) 
 
 But what does the Duke of A 
 
 want to see me for? He used to be so 
 grim, at the Metaphysical, I never ven- 
 tured within the table's length of him. 
 But look here, — you know — (emphasis 
 on "you" again) that, though I shall
 
 44 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 mightily like studying wood-craft with 
 papa — papa wouldn't have got me to 
 Hawarden all by himself, and Mr. 
 
 G , you know, wouldn't have got 
 
 me to Dunira all by himself — and I 
 should very much like to meet the 
 Duke, of course, yes — but . . . Please, 
 do you know if M. C.'s coming too ? 
 
 You see, I can come on the loth, 
 but, after this time of utter do-nothing- 
 ness at Dunira, I really want to see 
 a little bit of and about books (they're 
 all standing on their hind legs at 
 present, and the printers rabid). And 
 I meant, really and truly, to have 
 written this morning to say I was at 
 Mr. Gladstone's orders from the 25th, 
 on ; but now I'll do just what you tell 
 me will be exemplary, and what I ought 
 to do, and that is, come whenever you 
 please, not before the loth. But, quite
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 45 
 
 seriously, I cannot stay more than two 
 or three days at utmost, for I am 
 indeed not well, and the excitement of 
 conversation breaks me or bends me, 
 banefully always. This was so even 
 before my illness, and you know if 
 
 Mrs. W had not forced me, I 
 
 never should have ventured to Hawar- 
 den, and you must be a dear good 
 little Mother to me, and take care of 
 me every minute all the while I'm 
 there. Love to Papa, though, and 
 very true and respectful regards to 
 Mrs. Gladstone, and I'm ever, — Your 
 obedient and affectionate, 
 
 J. RUSKIN. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 znd October 1879. 
 
 My dear M , — I am most thank- 
 ful for your letter, and will come on
 
 46 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 Saturday the 12th, God letting me. 
 It shocks me to have written as I did, 
 not knowing of the Duchess' death, but 
 you know I never know anything that 
 happens in these days, unless I am 
 specially told by some one. For my 
 own part, I have so much to do with 
 death, that I am far better in the 
 house of mourning than of feasting, 
 when the mourning is noble, and not 
 selfish. 
 
 . . . Yes, I meant Lady Mary ; very 
 glad am I she is coming, and more 
 glad still that you still speak of her as 
 " little." I don^ " know " her a bit. But 
 she came once to take tea in my rooms 
 at Corpus, and she once gave me a 
 smile as she was drivinsf throuorh the 
 narrow street in Kensington. And 
 yes, I know how ill Mrs. Acland is, 
 and I would I could make her well
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 47 
 
 again — and bring the years back again, 
 and move the shadow from the dial 
 evermore. And I am not inclined for 
 *' play," therefore, just now, but am fit 
 for no work, and yet the thoughts 
 come into my head, and if I don't set 
 them down, they torment me — the 
 angry ones chiefly ; and to keep them 
 quiet, I viust try to set down some 
 of the pretty ones, so I'm going to 
 
 write about ^ Ned's pics. F showed 
 
 me three such lovely ones at Dunira ! 
 pencil. 
 
 But the worst of all is that I must 
 not be — what the things and people I 
 like always make me — in the least 
 crazy again, if I can help it. Have 
 you no notion at all how very bad 
 for me you are ? how very bad for 
 me Lady Mary will be } how very 
 
 ^ [Burne Jones.]
 
 48 Ruskin's Letters to M, G. 
 
 baddest Ned and F would be? I 
 
 don't think I can possibly survive more 
 than — well, anyhow, I'll try to get 
 Ned, for indeed it is quite seriously 
 needful for me to see him and talk to 
 him while I'm writing about his pics ; 
 
 but F must not come, for Ned 
 
 and I should both begin to think about 
 her instead of the pics, and that would 
 never do. Besides, I'm busy on the 
 *' Bankruptcy of India," and might say 
 some things about Indian merchants! 
 and my own throwing away of the 
 money my poor dear father made out 
 of Spain, which she mightn't like to 
 hear. I can't write more to-day. 
 Love to your father, and thanks for 
 sewing up Hector. — And I'm ever your 
 loving, J. R-
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 49 
 
 October 1878. 
 
 My dear M , — Yes, I think all is 
 
 best as you have decided ; and I will 
 come when you bid, and do as you bid, 
 and for me it is certainly better that I 
 should be at your command and at those 
 children's, for what good they can find 
 in me, than that I should be led into 
 the track of my own special work and 
 thought by my friend's overwhelming 
 strength at present ; besides that, much 
 as we love each other, there are some 
 points of essential difference in feeling 
 between us, which I sometimes hurt 
 Mr. Jones by showing, and myself 
 much more through him. I am very 
 thankful to know that the children will 
 like me to come. 
 
 I have never heard of anything so 
 instantly^ terrible, except in the grief 
 
 ' [Sudden death of Elizabeth, Duchess of Argyll, 
 when dining in company with Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone 
 at 21 Carlton House Terrace, the house of Lord F. 
 Cavendish.] 
 
 D
 
 50 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 of war ; but yet how infinitely, in the 
 full sense of the word, better to suffer 
 such grief, than — as so many times it 
 chances in this terrible ao^e — never to 
 
 o 
 
 have loved enough to be capable of 
 it. — Ever your affectionate and grateful, 
 
 J. RUSKIN. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 \-]th October iZiZ. 
 
 My dear M ,— I got home quite 
 
 easily and swiftly, though feeling much 
 woe-begone till I got in sight of my own 
 hills. I liked the pony drive and the 
 ideal breakfast in library mightily. The 
 tea at the Rectory, and cake, also a 
 pleasant memory, nor less your father's 
 and mother's kindness, though I think 
 those bright eyes of yours see that I am 
 often pained in talking to your father 
 by not being able, and sometimes by
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 51 
 
 not permitting myself, to say what I 
 want to say. Really and truly, 1 never 
 can do so, but very slowly, and in 
 books ! So I send you another book,^ 
 which really says more of what I want 
 to say, than any, if anybody cared to 
 hear. See specially pp. 60 to 65. — 
 Your grateful and affectionate, 
 
 J. R. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 \2th November 1878. 
 
 My dear IM , — It is very sweet 
 
 of you not to reproach me with for- 
 getting the poor sick painter.^ I have 
 not, but all my scholar-work is so severe 
 that I had no heart to send it him. At 
 
 ^ ["The Eagle's Nest." Ten Lectures on the Re- 
 lation of Natural Science to Art.] 
 
 ^ [A young workingman at Hawarden, dying of 
 consumption, who had been trying to draw according 
 to the teaching he had found in books by Mr. Ruskin, 
 that he had managed to buy.]
 
 52 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 last I have ordered a somewhat rough 
 Hunt to be sent to your care (for I 
 forget his address), which I think it will 
 be of extreme service to him to copy. 
 
 I am very glad to know where F 
 
 is, and if either of you will tell me any- 
 thing of each other, it will be much 
 beatific to me. I am in a despondent 
 state at the short days and shorter 
 years, and need whatever comfort is 
 in either of your hands. I was so glad 
 you noticed what I told you at that 
 last breakfast. It is a wonderful story, 
 if ever I may tell you more of it. 
 
 My most faithful and respectful re- 
 gards to your father and mother. — Ever 
 your loving, J. Ruskin. 
 
 If the whole drawing be too fatigu- 
 ing, the blackberries and plums are the 
 essential part.
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 53 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 January 1879. 
 
 My dear M , — It is wonderfully 
 
 good and dear of you to write a word 
 to me, when I've been so long signless, 
 but I've been curiously oppressed by 
 many things, and could not speak. 
 Thank you again and again. I am 
 happy in having given that poor spirit 
 some comfort. Keep the drawing at 
 present, I'm in confusion, and am only 
 too glad to have it in your care. I 
 would have written — somehow, anyhow 
 — only I wanted to read Paracelsus 
 first, but always felt disinclined to 
 begin, but I'm dying to know what it 
 is you call me.^ I do so like to be 
 called names. 
 
 ' [Paracelsus on Aprile — 
 
 " How he stands 
 With eve's last sunbeam staying on his hair 
 Which turns to it as if they were akin ;
 
 54 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 Poor F , I hear, is gone to Africa, 
 
 and she hasn't sent me a line! but I'm 
 sure I don't deserve half of the sweet 
 notes she did send me during the 
 autumn. Only I did ask her once 
 where yoti were, and she never told 
 me. 
 
 Kind regards to Mr. O , though, 
 
 I think, if he ever asks me where you 
 are / won't tell kim. 
 
 Love to papa and mamma, and 
 
 Mrs. W , if with you. — And I am 
 
 ever your devoted, 
 
 J. RUSKIN. 
 
 And those clear smiling eyes of saddest blue 
 Nearly set free, so far they rise above 
 The painful fruitless striving of the broAv, 
 And enforced knowledge of the lips, firm set 
 In slow despondency's eternal sigh ! 
 Has he too missed life's end, and learned the 
 cause ? " 
 
 — Browning.]
 
 RusKiN's Letters to M. G. 55 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 isi February^ 1879. 
 
 My dear ]\I -, — The enclosed 
 
 pensive little line lay under yours, this 
 morning, on my writing table. Very 
 thankful I was for both of them, as, 
 
 indeed, I ought to be. Poor F 
 
 is sadly gentle ; but I trust the bright 
 Mediterranean sky will revive her father, 
 
 and raise her into a coruscant F 
 
 of fair South France. It's very pretty 
 of you to give me those lovely lines : ^ 
 I like them because that child I told 
 you of, who died, who wasn't usually 
 by way of paying me compliments, did 
 once say " Those eyes," after looking 
 into them awhile. If they could but 
 see ever so little a way towards her, 
 now! To-morrow, Lady-day, it will 
 
 ^ [On Aprile (Paracelsus).]
 
 56 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 be thirteen years since she bade me 
 "wait" three, and I'm tired of waiting. 
 But I'm taking care of myself, yes; 
 perhaps not quite the greatest, but 
 enough to do. I Hke the frost. I 
 can't skate, and won't run the risk of 
 shaking my shaky wits by a fall ; but I 
 was sliding about four miles altogether 
 up and across the lake, yesterday, and 
 came in very hot, and am not stiff, for 
 an old gentleman, this morning. Please 
 imagine me, bowing or kneeling as low 
 as you please, and ever gratefully and 
 affectionately yours, 
 
 J. RUSKIN. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 iZthJuly, 1879. 
 
 My dear M , — I find it will be 
 
 quite impossible for me to come to 
 Hawarden this autumn. I am very 
 utterly sorry, and should only make you
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 57 
 
 sorry for me if I were' to tell you the 
 half of the weaknesses and the worries 
 which compel me to stay at home, and 
 forbid all talking. The chief of all 
 reasons being, however, that, in my 
 present state of illness, nearly every 
 word anybody says, if I care for them, 
 either grieves or astonishes me to a 
 degree which puts me off my sleep, 
 and off my work, and off my meat. 
 I am obliged to work at botany and 
 mineralogy, and to put cotton in my 
 ears ; but you know one can't pay visits 
 while one's climbing that hill of the 
 voices, even if some sweet ones mingle 
 in the murmur of them. 
 
 I'm rather going down the hill than up 
 just now, it's so slippery ; but I haven't 
 turned — only slipped backwards. 
 
 Love to your father and mother. I 
 wonder if your father will forgive my
 
 58 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 sending him a saucy message by his 
 daughter, that I don't think he need 
 have set himself in the Nineteenth 
 Century to prove to the Nineteenth 
 Century that " all the treasures of 
 wisdom and knowledo^e" were value- 
 less. — Ever your affectionate, J. R. 
 
 Amiens, 
 i-})rd October 1880, 
 
 My very dear M , — I only did 
 
 not answer your first letter because I 
 did not think it was in woman's nature 
 (being in the noble state of a loving 
 daughter) to read any syllable of answer 
 with patience, when once she knew the 
 letter was mine. I wrote a word or 
 
 two to F ; and now, if indeed you 
 
 are dear and patient enough to read, 
 I will tell you why that letter was 
 written, and what it means. Of cozirse
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 59 
 
 it was not written for publication. But 
 it was written under full admission of 
 the probability of being some day 
 compelled to allow its publication ; nay, 
 it might be, publish it myself. Do not 
 for an instant admit in your mind the 
 taint of a thought that I would privately 
 write of any man — far less of one whom 
 I honoured and loved — words which I 
 would not let him hear, or see, on due 
 occasion. I love and honour your 
 father ; just as I have always told him 
 and you that I did. As a perfectly 
 right-minded private English gentle- 
 man; as a man of purest religious 
 temper, and as one tenderly compas- 
 sionate, and as one earnestly (desiring 
 to be) just. 
 
 But in none of these virtues, God be 
 praised, is he alone in England. In 
 none of these lights, does it seem to
 
 6o Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 me, is he to be vociferously or ex- 
 clusively applauded, without ^whonour 
 implied to other English gentlemen, 
 and to other English politicians. Now 
 for the other side, my adversary side 
 (that which, surely, I candidly enough 
 always warned you there was in me, 
 though one does not show it, " up the 
 lawn nor by the wood," at Hawarden). 
 I have always fiercely opposed your 
 Father's politics ; I have always Despised 
 (forgive the Gorgonian word) his way of 
 declaring them to the people. I have 
 always despised, also. Lord Beacons- 
 field's methods of appealing to Parlia- 
 ment, and to the Queen's ambition, just 
 as I do all Liberal, — so-called appeals to 
 the Mob's — not ambition (for Mobs have 
 not sense enough, or knowledge enough, 
 to be ambitious) but conceit. I could 
 not have explained all this to my
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 6i 
 
 Liberal Glaswegian Constituents ; I 
 would not, had I been able. They 
 asked me a question they had no busi- 
 ness with, and got their answer (written 
 between two coats of colour which I 
 was laying on an oakleaf, and about 
 which I was, that morning, exceedingly 
 solicitous, and had vowed that no letter 
 should be answered at all) — and in my 
 tired state, "le peintre ne s'amuse (mais 
 point du tout !) a etre ambassadeur." 
 The answer, nevertheless — was per- 
 fectly deliberate, and meant, once fur 
 all, to say on the matter the gist of all 
 I had to say. 
 
 After the election is over — and how- 
 ever it goes — all this will be explained 
 in another way ; and you shall see every 
 word before I print it, though there will, 
 and must, be much that will pain you. 
 But there will be nothing that is even
 
 62 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 apparently discourteous ; and, in the 
 meantime, remember, that if your Father 
 said pubHcly of me that he cared no 
 more for nie (meaning Political and 
 Economical me) — than for a broken 
 bottle stuck on the top of a wall — 
 I should say — only — well, I knew that 
 before — but the rest of me he loves, 
 for all that. 
 
 I meant this letter to be so legible, 
 and so clear and quiet — and here it is, all 
 in a mess, as usual. . . . Perhaps you'll 
 like it better so ; but mind, I've written 
 it straight away the moment I opened 
 a line from my niece saying she had 
 seen Mr. Burne Jones, and that you 
 might be written to ! And, my dear, 
 believe this, please— \^ you care to be- 
 lieve it — that I never in my life was 
 in such peril of losing my " political 
 independence" as under my little
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 63 
 
 Madonna's power at Hawarden. — And 
 I am, and shall be ever, her loving 
 servant, John Ruskin. 
 
 [This letter (28th July 1879) was 
 written in answer to one from M. G., 
 in which she informed him that his 
 name had been taken in vain by the 
 newspapers, and quoting the paragraph 
 in question. (She thought this was the 
 best way of j^unishing him.)] 
 
 Amiens, 
 2Ztk October 1880. 
 
 My darling little Madonna, — 
 You are really gratia plena (don't be 
 shocked, I'm writing about the Saints 
 all day, just now, and don't know 
 when I'm talking quite properly to 
 my pets), but it is unspeakably sweet 
 of your Father and you to forgive me 
 so soon, and I'm inclined to believe
 
 64 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 anything you'll tell me of him, after 
 that; only, you know, I'm a great 
 believer in goodness, and fancy there 
 are many people who ought to be 
 canonized who never are ; so that — 
 be a man ever so good — I'm not 
 idolatrous of him. (If it's a — Madonna, 
 it's another thing you know), but I 
 never for an instant meant any com- 
 parison or likeness between D. and 
 your Father — they merely had to be 
 named as they were questioned of. 
 On the other hand, I know nothing 
 about D. whatsoever, but have a 
 lurking tenderness about him because 
 my own father had a liking for him, 
 and was in great grief about my first 
 political letter — twenty (or thirty ?) years 
 ago — which was a fierce attack upon 
 him. 
 
 I do trust nothing more will ever
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 65 
 
 cause you to have doubt or pain. I 
 can't get what I have to say said ; 
 I'm tired to-day, — have found out 
 things very wonderful, and had — with 
 your letter at last — more pleasure than 
 I can bear without breaking down. 
 
 Dear love to your father. — Ever your 
 grateful, St. C.^ 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 1 5//? February 1 88 1 . 
 
 My dear M ,■ — I am more than 
 
 glad to have your letter to-day, for 
 I have been thinking of you quite as 
 often as you of me — to say the least 
 — and wishing, you don't know how 
 much, to see you. 
 
 The death of Carlyle is no sorrow 
 to me. It is, I believe, not an end 
 
 ^ [St. Chrysostom (St. John the Golden-mouthed), 
 the name given to Mr. Ruskin by his friend Mrs. 
 Cowper Temple.] 
 
 E
 
 66 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 — but a beginning of his real life. 
 Nay, perhaps also of mine. My re- 
 morse, every day he lived, for having 
 not enough loved him in the days gone 
 by, is not greater now, but less, in the 
 hope that he knows what I am feeling 
 about him at this — and all other — 
 moments. 
 
 I want woefully to see Alfred also. 
 Can neither of you come here? I 
 want you to play to me, and spiritu- 
 alize me ; him to play with me, and 
 if he thinks it so ! materialize me. 
 
 Please give my love to F . I 
 
 have been thinking of her too. I 
 owe her two pounds, and shall try 
 to send her pious usury. They have 
 been too long in my napkin. 
 
 Don't let her do too much — (nor too 
 little), and I want to see how she looks 
 with more colour — beauty truly blest, &c.
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 67 
 
 Dear love to your father ; but tell him 
 he hasn't scattered the Angelic Land- 
 League, — and that that Punch is not 
 a representation of its stick — or shil- 
 lelagh — power. — Ever your loving, 
 
 John Ruskin. 
 
 20th February 1882. 
 
 Dear M , — Of course I'll come ; 
 
 and at four, or a little earlier, — unless — • 
 a slight feeling of cold upon me to-day 
 should become — tyrannous. I have 
 been so much favoured by Fortune and 
 Fate, since I was here at their mercy, 
 that it will be only like their usual way 
 with me to take this Ash Wednesday 
 from me, and make it truly, what I 
 suppose, in modern, poetical, and 
 scientific diction, I should call Cinere- 
 ous. You will not doubt my hope to
 
 68 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 come, but I must not play with any 
 symptoms of breaking down. 
 
 I will write you a line, in any case, 
 to-morrow. With grateful love to your 
 father. — Ever your loving, St. C. 
 
 1882. 
 
 Dearest M , — The tea and roses 
 
 will be exactly the nicest and sweetest 
 for me to-day; but mind, you're not 
 to have a levee, and cheat me of my 
 music. . . . Please think, meantime, 
 if you can find a tune that would go 
 to Scott's "The heath this night must 
 be my bed," in " The Lady of the Lake." 
 It is quite curious how sometimes the 
 prettiest words won't go to note-times. 
 I cant get any tune to go to those, 
 unless one puts Marie, with accent as 
 in French, for the two short syllables
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 69 
 
 of Scott's Mary. — Ever, my dear, 
 your loving, St. C. 
 
 Shrove Tuesday, 1882. 
 
 My dear M , — It is all over 
 
 with my hopes for to-morrow ; a 
 distinctly threatening cough at once 
 compels me to close my poor little 
 wings and shrink into my nest. I am 
 not afraid of it — on these submissive 
 and resigned terms — but it will not 
 allow itself to be braved ; and all my 
 pretty plans are broken, like Alna- 
 schar's,^ for a week, at least, except that 
 I shall be able to see A on Friday. 
 
 I cannot but accept, in its full force, 
 your assurance that your father wished 
 to see me ; but, surely if there is 
 anything on which he would care 
 to ask me a question, you can write 
 it for him, and I answer, without 
 
 1 Arabian Nights.
 
 70 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 disturbance of his one day of rest ? 
 You will not, nor will he, doubt how 
 eagerly I should have come if I could. 
 — Ever your loving, St. C.^ 
 
 Ash Wednesday, 1882. 
 
 Dear M , — (This) — Wednesday 
 
 week — D.V., shall be kept sacred with 
 you ; I've only a little cough and hot 
 hands ; conquerable, I doubt not, before 
 then ; but insisting on captivity at 
 present. The day is sunny, and my 
 window looks over the Surrey hills ; 
 and I'm thinking over a word or two 
 I want to say in a new small edition of 
 " Sesame and Lilies," for girls only, 
 without the mystery of life — just a few 
 words about obeying Fathers as well as 
 ruling Husbands. I'm more and more 
 convinced of the total inability of Men 
 to manage themselves, much less their
 
 RusKix's Letters to M. G. 71 
 
 wives and daughters ; but it's pretty 
 of daughters to be obedient, and the 
 book's imperfect without a word or two 
 in favour of the papas. (You can 
 guess why it hadn't that — at first.) — 
 Ever your loving, St. C. 
 
 My dear M , — You know your 
 
 Father doesn't really want to see me ; 
 and if he does, he oughtn't, but should 
 rest whenever he can ; and I can't put 
 
 A off, and I don't want to, because 
 
 she's going out of town, and all that / 
 want is to finish that morninor's minute 
 (but I hope a minute takes a long time 
 to finish), and you can do that for me 
 whenever you like — almost. Let me 
 see, I won't be so horrid as to say, I'll 
 stop in town //// you like. But I do 
 think, when I was so civil about that 
 organ yesterday (or whatever it is) that
 
 72 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 you 77iight play me a little music to my 
 mind. — Ever your loving, St. C. 
 
 \st March 1882. 
 
 Darling M , — Your two notes are 
 
 (what do you call them in music?) very 
 lovely to me, I want you to put a third 
 to them, then we can have a chord, can't 
 we? I'm really ever so ill, still, and 
 looking such a fright! I could tell 
 you what I'm like, but please don't 
 ask me. 
 
 Only, please, please very much, my 
 dear little mother, read this enclosed 
 note from one of the most precious 
 girls I've ever known, in mere honesty 
 and simplicity of heart-depth, and tell 
 me what I ous^JU to answer ? Of course 
 I won't answer that, but I should like to 
 know, all the same ; and tell me if you've 
 known any quite horrid papas of this
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 73 
 
 sort, and what's to be said about them 
 in my new preface to '* Sesame." 
 
 I've written a very short moral and 
 anodynic line to her, to-day. The 
 cousin's not the depth of the thing, — 
 but he is, I believe, dying fast ; perhaps 
 for her own peace she's much better out 
 of the way, but she might have been 
 sent to a place where she could enjoy 
 herself. (She's just eighteen.) — Ever 
 your loving (it's all in sympathetic ink, 
 though 'tis faded), lovingest, and grate- 
 fullest, St. C. 
 
 Herne Hill, 
 7.%th {2()th) March 1882. 
 
 My DEAR M , — I have been darkly 
 
 ill again. I do not quite yet know how 
 ill, or how near the end of illness in this 
 world, but I am to-day able to write 
 (as far as this may be called writing)
 
 74 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 again ; and I fain would pray your 
 pardon for what must seem only mad- 
 ness still, in asking you to tell your 
 Father how terrified I am at the position 
 he still holds in the House, for separate 
 law for Ireland and England. 
 
 For these seven, nay these ten years, 
 I have tried to get either Mr. Gladstone 
 or any other conscientious Minister of 
 the Crown to feel that the law of land- 
 possession was for all the world, and 
 eternal as the mountains and the sea. 
 
 Those who possess the land must live 
 on it, not by taxing it. 
 
 Stars and seas and rocks must pass 
 away before that Word of God shall 
 pass away, "The Land is Miney 
 
 And the position taken by the Par- 
 liament just now is so frightful to me, in 
 its absolute defiance of every human 
 prognostic of Revolution, that I must
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 75 
 
 write to you in this solemn way about 
 it, the first note I gravely sit down to 
 write in my own old nursery, with, I 
 trust, yet uncrushed life and brain.— 
 Ever your affectionate, 
 
 John Ruskin. 
 
 1882. 
 Darling M , — I don't know what 
 
 to do, for that music is always in my 
 
 ears, and I can't do my mineralogy. 
 
 Also, I'm rather badly in love with 
 that girl in the cap, you shouldn't have 
 told me of her ! 
 
 Also, I want to be a bear-killer 
 and bull-tamer; and to have vulture 
 maidens ^ going up trees like squirrels 
 to look at me. 
 
 Also, — and this is quite serious (and 
 so's the first sentence, and, indeed, so 
 
 1 M. G. had lent him "The Vulture Maiden" 
 (W. von Hillern).
 
 76 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 are the others) — I want you to get me 
 the prettiest possible pair of gauntlet 
 gloves that will fit a little girl of eleven 
 or ten (I can't quite guess), but 
 they're only to be rough gloves for 
 country walks among thistles, only I 
 want them pretty. She didn't win 
 them fairly (more's the pity), but only 
 in a skirmish with burdock heads, which 
 I had no chance in, but you must have 
 them for me to address, when I come 
 on Monday. 
 
 Dear love to papa and mamma, and 
 
 much to H . — Ever your devoted, 
 
 St. C. 
 
 AVALLON, 
 
 2is/ August 1882. 
 
 My dear M , — I thought you 
 
 would be at Hawarden by this time, 
 and venture the vulture maiden there ; 
 frightened lest I should lose her among
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 77 
 
 these granite glens, which I can't tread , 
 in search of her with the elastic step of 
 my youth. And I'm in frightfully 
 bad humour, because I've got nobody 
 coming to tea, and nobody to go to 
 tea to, and this is only to say I've 
 sent the book faithful, and that I still 
 say it's nonsense ; and that I've heard 
 no music yet in France but steam- 
 whistles. — And I'm ever your loving, 
 
 St. C. 
 
 But I'll write you again, soon. 
 
 Chambery, 
 21^/ September 1882. 
 
 My dear M . — But what did you 
 
 go to Skye for? — she'll beguile you 
 into thinking it's all right directly. — 
 Couldn't you have stopped at Hawarden 
 to comfort me a little, first ? The puss 
 never told me a word about it ; and
 
 78 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 when I got your letter, on an extremely- 
 wet day at Annecy, it was as if a bit 
 of the sky had tumbled after the rain. 
 Mind, you must be very good to me 
 yet for a long while, and mustn't go 
 and get married in the next chapter. 
 If I hadn't a vague hope of always 
 finding a vulture maiden on a peak, 
 somewhere accessible, I don't know 
 what would become of me. (The 
 nearest approach to the thing yet was 
 four buzzards on the Dole — but there 
 was no maiden ! ) And perhaps there 
 may be some consolation in Sister 
 Dora, when I get back. 
 
 I've not got to Italy yet, you see, 
 and am reduced to the tunnel to-day, 
 after all my fine plans of walking over 
 the Alps. We have not had a fair 
 day for three weeks, except a bitter 
 cold one, when I got up the Dole, but
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 79 
 
 saw nothing from it except a line of 
 mist where Alps used to be. 
 
 Please, if this ever finds you, send 
 me some chat and some pacifying 
 reflections to P. R. Lucca. Lve half 
 a mind to go on to Monte Cassino and 
 not come back. — But I'm ever your 
 grateful and loving, St. C. 
 
 Lucca, 
 
 3nf October 1882. 
 
 My dear M , — Expecting a letter, 
 
 is she, with my consent and blessing ? 
 But doesn't she mean to take both, 
 whether I give them or not ? Tell 
 her I'm thinking about it; and, in the 
 meantime, I'll thank her not to take 
 you out in boats not meant to be sailed 
 in ; for I don't find that people help me 
 much out of heaven, and you're the 
 only creature I've got left, now, who 
 can at all manage me, or play a note 
 of music for me as I like.
 
 8o Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 And tell her, also, I'm not thinking 
 much about it, neither, for I've got my 
 Ilaria here, and her pug-dog, and am 
 rather happy. 
 
 Such a walk as I had, too, the day 
 before yesterday, on the marble hills 
 which look to Pisa and the sea. It is 
 a great grace of the olive, not enough 
 thought on, that it does not hurt the 
 grass underneath ; and on the shady 
 grass banks and terraces beneath the 
 grey and silver of the wild branches, 
 the purple cyclamens are all out, not 
 in showers merely, but masses, as thick 
 as violets in spring — vividest pale red- 
 purple, like light of evening. 
 
 And it's just chestnut fall time ; 
 and where the olives and cyclamens 
 end, the chestnuts begin, ankle-deep in 
 places, like a thick, golden-brown moss, 
 which the sunshine rests upon as if it
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 8i 
 
 loved it. Higher up come again the 
 soft grass terraces, without the olives, 
 swept round the hillsides as if all the 
 people of Italy came there to sit and 
 gaze at the sea, and Capraja and 
 Gorgona. 
 
 I can walk pretty well, I find, still ; 
 and draw pretty well, if I don't write 
 books nor letters to young ladies on 
 their marriage, nor to bankers on 
 business, nor to authors on literature ; 
 but it's difficult to get a quiet time with 
 a good conscience. I'm not going to 
 do anything to-day but enjoy myself, 
 after this letter's done, which I've 
 rather enjoyed writing, too. You know 
 its chief business is to thank you for 
 your pretty postscript — but you know — 
 none of you know ! 
 
 Meantime, — I'm your comforted and 
 loving, St. C. 
 
 F
 
 82 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 
 May-day 1883. 
 
 Dearest M , — Do you think 
 
 you've been behaving prettily in not 
 sending me a word all this time? Be- 
 cause if you do, I don't, and I wouldn't 
 have written a word to you to-day, only 
 I've just got a most precious letter from 
 Mr. Fuller Maitland about music, and 
 
 as it was F 's doing, taking me to 
 
 hear the Meister-Singer, I want you to 
 
 say to F that I'll make it up, now, 
 
 if she likes to. 
 
 Dear love to papa. — Ever your long- 
 suffering, St. C. 
 
 84 Woodstock Road, Oxford, 
 26/// November 1884. 
 
 You DARLING LITTLE MOTHER, 
 
 You really are the most perfect angel 
 that ever St. Cecilia brought up. 
 
 I've been so woful for not seeing
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 83 
 
 nor hearing you, you wouldn't believe ! 
 Please come and comfort me as soon 
 as ever you can. Your note makes me 
 so happy 1 can't understand it ; but 
 I'll be wherever you want me to be, 
 next week, and always, if I can. — Ever 
 your loving, St. C. 
 
 84 Woodstock Road, Oxford, 
 November 1884. 
 
 My darling M , — Tuesday, 
 
 Wednesday, most of Thursday, all 
 Friday and all Saturday I'm at your 
 beck, call, whisper, look, or lifted finger. 
 
 I've a meeting of St. George's Guild 
 at the schools on Thursday, which 
 fastens me for the afternoon. 
 
 I shall love to hear the story,^ and 
 wish it would take an hour instead 
 of ten minutes ; but, of course, if you 
 
 ^ [" The Mad Lady," A story in manuscript written 
 by Laura Tennant.]
 
 84 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 like it, / shall. I don't mean that in 
 play, but seriously ; you know good 
 writing and feeling as well as I do, and 
 we are not likely to differ a jot about 
 anything else. — Ever your loving, 
 
 St. C. 
 
 The picture is quite lovely. He 
 never did anything else like it.^ 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 l6ih Deceviber 1884. 
 
 My dearest M , — It is ever so 
 
 sweet and wise-thoughtful of you to 
 send me this picture, and it comes just 
 when I most needed something to set 
 me up a little, for I have been strug- 
 gling home through snow and smoke 
 with the heaviest and most depressing 
 cold upon me that one could have, not 
 to be serious, and I feel as if nobody 
 
 ^ [A drawing of M. G., by Burne Jones.]
 
 " The heads of Medea and of T)anae, which I placed in 
 your schools long ago, are represenialive of all that you 
 need aim at in chiaroscuro ; and lately a third type of 
 his (Burne-fones) best woi-h, in subdued pencil light and 
 shade, has been placed within your reach in Dr. Acland's 
 drawing-room — the portrait of Miss Gladstone, in which 
 you will see the painter's best powers stimulated to their 
 utmost, and reaching a serene depth of expression un- 
 attainable by photography, and nearly certain to be lost 
 in finished painting."— ]oHti Ruskin in " The Art of 
 England : II. Burne-Jones and Watts," delivered at 
 Oxford, May 12, iSS^.
 
 ficcrt/ V /icKiJ /i>/i c .
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 87 
 
 could ever love me, or believe me, or 
 listen to me, or get any good of me 
 ever any more. 
 
 Please — this is very serious — make 
 me of any good to you that you can, 
 or care to, always. — Ever your affec- 
 tionate, J. RUSKIN. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 29//-! December 1885. 
 
 Darling M , — Bless you ? Blest 
 
 if I do ; I'll give you absolution, if you 
 come and ask it very meekly, but don't 
 you know how I hate girls marrying 
 curates ? You must come directly and 
 play me some lovely tunes — it's the last 
 chance you'll have of doing anything 
 to please me, for I don't like married 
 women ; I like sibyls and children and 
 vestals, and so on. Not that I mean 
 to quarrel with you, if you'll come now
 
 88 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 and make it up. If you can leave your 
 father at all— sooner or later by a day 
 or two doesn't matter, or a day or two 
 out of what you have left (I had rather 
 you waited till crocus or anemone time, 
 for we're about ugliest just now). As 
 
 for F , she was a horrid traitress, 
 
 but you have been very faithful to me 
 through all my wicked sayings about 
 papa (I can tell you there would have 
 been a word or two more if you hadn't 
 been in the way). As for the poverty 
 and cottaofe and all the rest of that 
 nonsense, do you think you'll get any 
 credit in heaven for being poor when 
 you fall in love first ? If you had 
 married a conscientious Bishop, and 
 made /wit live in a pig-stye — a la bonne 
 henre ! — Ever your loving and too for- 
 giving, St. C.
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 89 
 
 Brantvvood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 \2,th January 1886. 
 
 My dear M , — I am sending you 
 
 to-day some drawings by Miss Alex- 
 ander, which I think you will all like 
 
 to look at ; but I suppose H is 
 
 with you, and I want her to take 
 back to Cambridge, in gift to her 
 college, the two of the Superiora and 
 her girls, and the text of their history. 
 In the course of the spring I shall 
 want the text copied for publication, 
 and will borrow the drawings to 
 photograph. 
 
 The light landscape drawing of girls 
 at a fountain is a present to Girton — 
 promised in the songs of Tuscany. 
 This is my own ; but the Superiora 
 and her story still belong to Miss 
 Alexander ; but as she is my " sorella," 
 I practically give them away.
 
 90 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 I couldn't answer your last letter 
 without being disagreeable. I didn't 
 mean, and never have thought, that 
 girls were higher or holier than wives 
 — Heaven forbid. I merely said I 
 liked them better ; which, surely, is 
 extremely proper of me. — Ever your 
 loving, J. R. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, 
 2jth January 1886, 
 
 My dear M , — Your letter is very 
 
 pretty — but women are stupid creatures, 
 after all! It really hurts a great deal 
 more than you have the least idea — 
 (but you ought to have had an idea, 
 if women weren't stupid) to think that 
 this is the last week of M. G. — and 
 it's horrid to be hurt when one's 
 as old as I am. I shan't think of 
 you a bit. Of course I'll send you
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 91 
 
 " Prseterita," but I must finish the first 
 vol., and bind it for you, I shall write 
 "M. G." in the first number, to-day. 
 I am sending on your letter as I did 
 the last — to my sorella Francesca — 
 who wrote back, I ought not to 
 quarrel with you — but women are 
 stupid creatures ! J. R. 
 
 I've given up being St. C. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 2nd April \2>2>6. 
 
 My dear M , — I am a little glad 
 
 of a word from Hawarden again — 
 though I'm frightfully sulky with every- 
 body in the world except my sorella 
 at Florence (and skes a horrid evan- 
 gelical, and thinks St. Paul was a 
 wicked man before he was unhorsed). 
 But everybody here has gone away 
 to London and left me in my old age.
 
 92 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 I've nothing to depend on except three 
 ducks and the shepherd's Httle girl up 
 the hill, who takes care of his lambs 
 and piglets — and I call her Pigwiggina 
 (I will look over the little girl class 
 drawings — if they'd like me to), and 
 I am teaching her to play upon four 
 bells — A B eft and E — and writing 
 beautiful tunes for her, composed of 
 those elements. 
 
 I thought you'd have forgotten all 
 Praeteritas, and wasn't troubling my- 
 self, but some are coming bound in 
 
 a few days, and I'll write a " M " 
 
 in one of them. The second volume 
 is giving me a lot of trouble, because 
 I have to describe things in it that 
 people never see now-a-days — and it's 
 like writing about the moon. Also, 
 when I begin to crow a little, it doesn't 
 read so pretty as the humble pie.
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 93 
 
 I am thankful your father's getting a 
 little rest. 
 
 Has it never occurred to any of you 
 in all your lives, I wonder, that all 
 Parliamentary debate should be in the 
 Tower, or the Round Tower of Wind- 
 sor, and only the outcome of debate 
 printed — when it's irrevocable. 
 
 If the Queen would have me for 
 Grand Vizier, I'd save papa such a 
 lot of trouble, and come and chop 
 twigs with him afterwards — when he'd 
 got the tree down. — Ever your, 
 
 J. R. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 if^th October 1886. 
 
 My dearest M , — How often I 
 
 think of you, and shall think as long as 
 this life, whether of dream or reality, 
 is spared to me, I am most thankful to
 
 94 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 
 
 be permitted to tell you, for my own 
 sake ; how much more if you can really 
 get some strength or joy from your old 
 friend, not having forgotten, nor tried 
 to forget what you used to be to him. 
 Of course, no one had told me of your 
 illness, or my own would not have pre- 
 vented my trying to hear of your safety ; 
 and, indeed, what you say of these ill- 
 nesses of mine is in great part true, but 
 they are very grievous to me, and I 
 trust yours will return no more. 
 
 I am more passionately and carefully 
 occupied in music than ever yet. Please 
 get well, and be Sainte Cecile again to 
 me. I will not write more to-day, but 
 the moment you tell me again you 
 should like me to. — Ever your loving 
 "Aprile." John Ruskin.
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. 95 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 
 zbth March 1887, 
 
 Darling Cecilia, — I am so very 
 thankful for your letter, and for all it 
 tells of yourself and says of me. If a 
 great illness like that is quite conquered, 
 the return to the lovely world is well 
 worth having left it for the painful time ; 
 one never knew what beauty was before 
 (unless in happy love which I had about 
 two hours and three quarters of once in 
 my life). I am really better now than 
 for some years back, able every day for 
 a little work, not fast, but very slow 
 (Second Praet. isn't out yet, I'm just at 
 work on the eleventh chapter) ; and able 
 to take more pleasure in things than 
 lately. It's not to go into " Prseterita," 
 
 but you and F may know that 
 
 I've been these last two years quite 
 badly in love with , who's a Skye
 
 96 RusKiN's Letters to M. G. 
 
 girl, half rook, half terrier, with a won- 
 derful musical gift, and led me a dog's 
 life, and never would play a note righdy 
 if I was in the room, but made the 
 piano clash and growl at me. At last 
 I've been obliged to make them keep 
 her at Heme Hill, and I'm getting 
 some peace, but badly piqued and pro- 
 voked and hurt. Tell F I've got 
 
 some very comforting birch trees, how- 
 ever, and cut everything away that 
 worries thein. — Ever your lovingest, 
 
 " Aprile." 
 
 To M. G. and F. G. 
 
 Brantwood, 
 
 I'^th May 1887. 
 
 Dearest Friends, — But however is 
 the sight of you to come to pass then t 
 I need the help of it more than either 
 of you, and have needed it all along
 
 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. and F. G. 97 
 
 while you two were all in the Wedding 
 March by Mendelssohn, as Coventry 
 Patmore put it in his beautiful poem, 
 entitled " The Angel in the House." 
 
 You both of you stole that "march" 
 upon me ; neither of you gave me the 
 slightest warning, but came each down 
 on me with the news that you were to 
 be married on " Monday," and expected 
 me to enjoy the wedding-cake. 
 
 I've never for an instant been faith- 
 less to either of you. But F 
 
 was never more than a birch tree to 
 me, and it didn't always keep march- 
 music time ; M was my little 
 
 mother and Patroness Saint, and sud- 
 denly left me orphaned. 
 
 Heaven knows I bear no malice, but 
 you can't hit your lovers on the heart, 
 like that, when it suits you, and have 
 them whenever you like to look for the
 
 98 Ruskin's Letters to M. G. and F. G. 
 
 bits to hang on your chatelaines again. 
 Least of all can you expect them, 
 when they are well-nigh on their death- 
 beds, to hold your bells at the bridle- 
 rein. . . . 
 
 If either of you, or both, could come 
 here for as long as you please, it would 
 be a beneficence to me of the very 
 highest and grravest kind. And so 
 farewell (and as much love as you care 
 to take) for to-day. To-morrow (D. F.), 
 I'll send you the motive of my " Iron 
 March," which is in extremely steady 
 time, but is not in root-movement of a 
 cheerful character. You may melt it 
 into iron that can be wrought. — Ever 
 your affectionate, J. Ruskin.
 
 Ill 
 
 RUSKIN'S LETTERS TO H. G. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 ^\th January 1885. 
 
 Dear Miss H , — Your letter 
 
 gladdened my heart in many windows 
 of it, east and west at once^ in giving 
 me good news of your father ; in know- 
 ing that, "for M 's sake," I was 
 
 very sure to go the length of forgiv- 
 ing H ; and in allowing me the 
 
 real grace of placing my books in 
 your Newnham library. 
 
 I never was ambitious before in my 
 life, though vain enough always ; but 
 I am verily ambitious now of becoming 
 
 what, though it is much to say, it does 
 
 99
 
 100 Ruskin's Letters to H. G. 
 
 seem to me that I ought to be, an 
 acceptedly standard girl's-author, and 
 I had like to have added " ity " ; but 
 stopped, being very sure they will 
 always have more rule over me than 
 I over them ! 
 
 I have ordered my publisher to send 
 exactly the same series to you that I 
 sent to Girton, and to continue the 
 series that are in course of publication. 
 
 With all sorts of love to M , 
 
 and all true good wishes for your 
 
 Thursday's sunrise. Ever faithfully 
 
 and gratefully yours, 
 
 John Ruskin. 
 
 I think you will like to see the pretty 
 saying about Newnham, which came to 
 me this morning from Chelsea.
 
 Ruskin's Letters to H. G. ioi 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 
 29/A March 1885. 
 
 Dear Miss H , — I have not 
 
 promised my presentation yet ; but 
 please look over enclosed case, and tell 
 me what you think of it. 
 
 I'm so wild just now because your 
 father won't make me prime minister 
 for a day, like the Sleeper Awakened. 
 
 Love to M . She wouldn't come 
 
 to "help to look after" me, would she, 
 if I took the rheumatism badly, or 
 neuralgia, or anything pitiable (without 
 being disagreeable .'*) of that sort ? 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 2nd April 1885. 
 
 Dear Miss G , — It's immensely 
 
 nice, this unification of interests ; but 
 there's still one more case I've got 
 to look into. Will you please ask
 
 102 Ruskin's Letters to H. G. 
 
 Miss Brown if she got my answer to 
 her letter? and why she did not write 
 again ? It is true my reply said this 
 presentation was promised (it is by an 
 accident I find it still free), but I wanted 
 an answer to some points I asked. — 
 Ever faithfully yours, J. R. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 ^Zth November 1886. 
 
 My dear H , — I am especially 
 
 glad of your letter to-day, for I was 
 writing to Mrs. Alexander of a new 
 book I'm planning from her daughter's 
 letters, and she will be so glad to see 
 yours. 
 
 It was only the girls at the fountain 
 that I meant for Girton. Keep the 
 preghiera, with the two others, at 
 Newnham. (What is the connection 
 or distinction of North Hall with the 
 rest of Newnham ?)
 
 
 ^ 
 
 X 
 K 
 
 M 
 
 c 
 
 • -ni-f '^'■*-^- ^- " > ' ■^-
 
 Ruskin's Letters to H. G. 103 
 
 I rejoice in knowing the Superiora 
 drawings give pleasure. I will ask at 
 once for the loan of them when I see 
 my way to publishing them. 
 
 When may I send another letter to 
 puzzle the butler? — Ever affectionately 
 yours, J. RusKiN. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 12nd February 1887. 
 
 Dear Miss G , — In a gushing 
 
 fit of order and remorse, proper to the 
 spring of the year, I have come on 
 a note of yours, dated 22nd Jan. 1885, 
 saying you would like to have my books 
 at Newnham. 
 
 I am sure I meant to send them, but 
 don't remember doing anything of the 
 sort. 
 
 I have ordered them now — about a 
 ton weight of them, of which I specially 
 recommend the Political Economy.
 
 104 Ruskin's Letters to H. G. 
 
 Was it to you that I sent, last year, 
 the story of the Superiora, and did 
 you send me a copy of it? If you have 
 it, and have sent me no copy, please, 
 I want a scratch copy to print. 
 
 Tell me something about M , and 
 
 believe me ever, faithfully and affec- 
 tionately yours, John Ruskin. 
 
 Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
 2i\th February 1887. 
 
 Dear H , — I am most thankful 
 
 for your letter and accounts of M . 
 
 I have not countermanded my order. 
 I think my books may really be of 
 some use to people now — in kind 
 hands. 
 
 I am sending drawings to Girton, on 
 loan from St. George's Guild, in the 
 hope they may copy them well enough 
 to be of use to themselves. I am going
 
 Ruskin's Letters to H. G. 105 
 
 to look you out one or two, also, which 
 you can keep as long as you like to look 
 at, and copy, if anybody can. 
 
 What elementary practice in drawing 
 is there ? 
 
 I shall not need the Superiora draw- 
 ings, only copy of the text, at leisure. 
 When done please let it be sent to 
 Mr. Jowett, Printing Works, Ayles- 
 bury. — Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 J. RUSKIN.
 
 IV, V 
 
 RUSKIN AND GLADSTONE- 
 THE DEAD RUSKIN 
 
 [Papers by Canon Scott Holland)
 
 IV 
 
 RUSKIN AND GLADSTONE 
 
 July 1898. — We felt at Westminster 
 Abbey that we were burying the last 
 of the prophets who can come to us 
 from an earlier and greater genera- 
 tion than our own. But let us not 
 forget that there is still one left, 
 though buried in silence up by Con- 
 iston Lake ; and the long silence is 
 all the more pathetic as we recall the 
 exquisite speech which was the char- 
 acteristic of John Ruskin. There he 
 waits for the end which is so lonsf in 
 coming, and for us he is already passed 
 
 away. Perhaps it may be well for 
 
 109
 
 no RUSKIN AND GLADSTONE 
 
 me to recall the first occasion on 
 which Mr. Gladstone and John Ruskin 
 met. It was, curiously, far on in both 
 lives ; but somewhere about the year 
 1881. Mr. Ruskin had written an ar- 
 ticle, in the Nineteenth Century, which 
 had profoundly stirred Mr. Gladstone, 
 and it was suggested that it would 
 be a happy opportunity for Mr. Ruskin 
 to be invited to Hawarden. He ac- 
 cepted, and I found myself at B rough- 
 ton Station, arriving with him by the 
 same train. As we drove up I dis- 
 covered he had the darkest view 
 possible of his host, imbibed from 
 the " Master " Carlyle, to whose im- 
 agination he figured apparently as 
 the symbol of all with which he 
 was at war. Ruskin was therefore ex- 
 tremely timid and suspicious, and had 
 secured, in view of a possible retreat,
 
 RusKiN AND Gladstone hi 
 
 a telegram which might at any mo- 
 ment summon him home ; this telegram 
 loomed largely the first day, and we 
 were constantly under its menace. 
 But as hour by hour he got happier, 
 the references to its possible arrival 
 came more and more rarely, and 
 finally it became purely mythical. 
 
 The amusement of the meeting of 
 the two lay in the absolute contrast 
 between them at every point on which 
 conversation could conceivably turn. 
 The brimming optimism of Mr. Glad- 
 stone, hoping all things, believing 
 everybody, came clashing up at every 
 turn with the inveterate pessimism of 
 Mr. Ruskin, who saw nothing on every 
 side but a world rushing headlong down 
 into the pit. 
 
 They might talk on the safest of topics, 
 and still the contrast was inevitable.
 
 112 RUSKIN AND GLADSTONE 
 
 We heard Gladstone sret on Homer 
 and Iliad, and a sense that there, at 
 least, all would be well, came over 
 us ; what was our despair when we 
 realised that in the poetic record of 
 some pre-historic exchange Mr. Glad- 
 stone was showing how thoroughly 
 Homer had entered into those prin- 
 ciples of barter which modern eco- 
 nomic science would justify. As he 
 paused in an eloquent exposition for 
 a response from his listener, Mr. 
 Ruskin said, in a tone of bitter re- 
 gret : "And to think that the devil 
 of Political Economy was alive even 
 then." At another time, Walter Scott 
 was uppermost. Here, indeed, we 
 thought was common ground ; but 
 Mr. Gladstone unfortunately dropped 
 the remark that " Sir Walter had 
 made Scotland," and on Mr. Ruskin's
 
 RusKiN AND Gladstone 113 
 
 inquiry as to the meaning of the 
 phrase, imagine our anxiety when Mr. 
 Gladstone began telh'ng us of the amaz- 
 ing contrast between the means of 
 communication in Scotland before Sir 
 Walter wrote, compared with the pre- 
 sent day. He poured out stores of most 
 interesting characteristic memories of 
 his own of days when one coach a 
 week ran between this town and that, 
 and of the strange isolation of the 
 human life hidden away in the High- 
 lands, and with this he triumphantly 
 compared the number of coaches and 
 char-a-bancs, &c., that were conveying 
 masses of happy trippers up and down 
 the Trossachs. Mr. Ruskin's face had 
 been deepening in horror, and at last 
 he could bear it no longer : " But, my 
 dear sir," he broke out, " that is not 
 making Scotland ; that is unmaking it." 
 
 H
 
 114 RusKiN AND Gladstone 
 
 These ruptures of interest were 
 bound to occur. The one trusted 
 in the democratic movement, however 
 chaotic and vulgar might be some of 
 its manifestations ; the other had learnt 
 from his master, and faithfully re- 
 peated his lesson, that the only hope 
 for the great mass of mankind lay in 
 obedience to the strong will of the 
 strong man who would know so much 
 better for them than they would them- 
 selves, what it was their true life 
 needed. 
 
 But the beautiful thing of it all was, 
 that in spite of every collision, they 
 learnt to like and love each other better 
 and better. 
 
 Mr. Gladstone retained throughout 
 the tone of courteous and deferential 
 reverence, as for a man whom he pro- 
 foundly honoured. And Mr. Ruskin
 
 RusKiN AND Gladstone 115 
 
 threw off every touch of suspicion with 
 which he had arrived, and showed, with 
 all the frankness and charm of a child, 
 his new sense of the greatness and 
 nobility of the character of his host. 
 He made himself absolutely at home, 
 showed himself obviously happy, talked 
 in his most delicious freedom ; and 
 finally, on departing, as he stood at 
 the hall steps, begged publicly to re- 
 cant all that he had ever said or 
 thought against Mr. Gladstone, and 
 pledged himself to withdraw from print 
 some unhappy phrase which he had 
 used about him, and which it now stune 
 him with shame to remember. It was 
 a complete victory, and all the more 
 noticeable just because the two talked 
 a different language, and moved in 
 different worlds. 1 drove away with 
 Mr. Ruskin again to the station, after
 
 ii6 RusKiN AND Gladstone 
 
 a three days' visit, and he poured out 
 freely to me the joy of his discovery, 
 but was a Httle nervous as to how 
 he was going to explain it to "the 
 Master " when he got back to Chelsea. 
 I met him again at breakfast in Down- 
 ing Street, when he was in radiant 
 force, and I shall never forget Mr. 
 Gladstone's look of puzzled earnestness 
 as Mr. Ruskin expounded at length a 
 scheme he had for enforcing our social 
 responsibility for crime. We, all of 
 us, were guilty of the crimes done 
 in our neighbourhood. Why had we 
 not sustained a higher moral tone, 
 which would make men ashamed 
 to commit crime when we are near? 
 Why had we allowed the conditions 
 which lead to crime? We ought to 
 feel every crime as our own. How 
 good then would it be if London were
 
 RusKiN AND Gladstone 117 
 
 cut up into districts, and when a 
 murder was committed in any one dis- 
 trict, the inhabitants should draw lots 
 to decide who should be hung for it. 
 Would not that quicken the public con- 
 science? How excellent the moral effect 
 would be if the man on whom the lot 
 fell were of a peculiarly high character ! 
 Mr. Ruskin felt sure there would be 
 no more murders in that district for 
 some time. He conceived that even 
 the murderer himself would be pro- 
 foundly moved as he silently witnessed 
 the execution of this innocent and 
 excellent gentleman ; and would make 
 a resolution as he walked away that he 
 would abstain from such deeds in 
 future. What was Mr. Gladstone to 
 say to this ? Was he to confute it, or 
 show the difficulties of its practical 
 working ? Or again, there was a
 
 ii8 RusKiN AND Gladstone 
 
 newspaper which Mr. Ruskin had de- 
 vised, in which the news, all of it, was 
 to be absolutely true. The difficulty was 
 that it would have long ceased to be 
 news before it could be certified to be 
 true ; everything in the paper would be 
 months after the event, and everybody 
 would probably have long forgotten 
 what it was talking about. But still, 
 when it did come, months late, there 
 would be the comfort of knowing that 
 it was at least true. And instead of 
 police news there would be sketches of 
 all the people best worth knowing in 
 the neighbourhood, with notes of their 
 moral characteristics. Speaking of Eliza- 
 beth Fry's prison reforms, he said it was 
 silly to fuss about the insides of prisons. 
 Once you had sent people into prison, 
 make the inside as bad as possible. It 
 was outside you wanted reform. It was
 
 RusKiN AND Gladstone 119 
 
 Society that made crime possible. That 
 the idle rich were the real criminals, that 
 every man who had over ^"5000 a year 
 should be imprisoned if he did no work. 
 On every subject that turned up that 
 morning the side M. took was the unex- 
 pected, and both war and slavery found 
 in him a warm advocate. Ruskin had 
 more than any man the platonic charm 
 which mingles humour and seriousness 
 so that the two are inseparable. And 
 this was the form of humour that was 
 least congenial to Mr. Gladstone. Not 
 at all, as is so often said, that he did 
 not enjoy humour ; few people enjoyed 
 more heartily a good piece of fun, or 
 laughed with a larger freedom. But 
 when Mr. Gladstone was serious he was 
 serious; while Mr. Ruskin, like Plato, had 
 ever a quiver of irony and wit stirring 
 within everything that was most serious,
 
 120 RUSKIN AND GLADSTONE 
 
 SO that it was impossible to separate the 
 two. This caused the bewilderment. 
 
 So the two prophets met, and were 
 knit together by an affectionate rever- 
 ence for one another which never failed. 
 Each was to go his own way and do 
 his separate work, and it was impossible 
 that they should co-operate together. 
 But for all that, they learnt to know 
 that they were fighting on the same 
 side in the great warfare between good 
 and ill ; that they had the same cause 
 at heart ; that they both trusted in 
 the supremacy of conscience over all 
 material things, and in the reality of 
 righteousness, and in the hatefulness of 
 lust and cruelty and wrong. Their spirits 
 drew together though their ways lay so 
 far apart ; and this because, for both, 
 life had its deep root in piety, and had 
 its one and only consummation in God.
 
 " He lifted bis voice in pi-aise of high and noble things 
 through an evil and dark day; and now he sits there, 
 silent and at peace, waiting for the word that will release 
 him and open to him a world where he may ga^e on 
 the vision of Perfect Beauty unhindered and unashamed." 
 
 H. S. H., 1S96.
 
 fon/h I Ama/x/^/ 
 
 ^yjiir/i. ^ye//r. 
 
 S'/- /S/'l
 
 V 
 
 THE DEAD RUSKIN 
 
 RuSKiN is dead. The first instinct 
 is to repeat the words over and over 
 again, even as Charles Lamb went 
 about saying nothing all day but " Cole- 
 ridge is dead ! Coleridge is dead ! " 
 Death is such a strange context for 
 these radiant souls, who flash, and 
 kindle, and inspire. They seem to 
 be part of our life-tissue, to have 
 passed into our blood. We cannot 
 strip ourselves of their presence. We 
 cannot force ourselves to feel that this 
 earth of ours holds them no longer. 
 
 They belong to our vital force. How 
 
 123
 
 124 The Dead Ruskin 
 
 can we believe that they are dead? 
 And, then, there comes the personal 
 memory of the man, with all the 
 notable characteristics that made his 
 presence among us memorable. Who 
 that had ever seen him could forget 
 John Ruskin? He had the touch that 
 goes straight to the heart. He came up 
 to one so confidentially, so appealingly, 
 with the wistful look in his grey-glint- 
 ing eyes, which seemed to say, " I never 
 find anybody who quite understands me, 
 but I still hope and think that you will." 
 How quaint, the mingling of this wist- 
 fulness in the face with the spotted blue 
 stock and the collars and the frock-coat, 
 which made him look like something 
 between an old-fashioned nobleman of 
 the Forties, and an angel that had lost 
 its way. The small, bird-like head 
 and hands and figure had, nevertheless,
 
 The Dead Ruskin 125 
 
 a curious and old-world pomp in their 
 gait and motions. The bushy eye-brows 
 gave a strength to the upper part of the 
 face which was a little unexpected, and 
 which found its proper balance in the 
 white beard of his last years. He, 
 somehow, moved one as with the 
 delicate tenderness of a woman ; and 
 he felt frail, as if the roughness of the 
 world would hurt and break him ; and 
 one longed to shelter him from all that 
 was ugly and cruel. 
 
 I was much struck once by the 
 effect of music upon him. He knew, 
 as Plato did, its educational value. 
 But, as an art, he was not inside it. 
 It moved him from without. One day, 
 at Hawarden, he had tired himself 
 in a long delightful talk to us over 
 St. Ursula and his beloved Carpaccio ; 
 and, after tea, as dusk came on, he lay
 
 126 The Dead Ruskin 
 
 back in a big chair to rest, while M. G. 
 played on to us in the dark, with a 
 magical touch peculiar to herself. We 
 thought that he would sleep, but he 
 grew absorbed, and, at last, rose from 
 his chair and walked over to the piano, 
 and hung- over it until she had finished. 
 As she ended, we all waited for him to 
 speak, but he was so moved that he 
 could find no words, and could only 
 say, *' Thank you ! thank you ! " It was 
 in such sharp contrast to the wonderful 
 speech that he would pour out on a 
 matter of Art whenever he was moved, 
 that one understood how this world of 
 sound had never passed into his speech. 
 It had deep effect, but the effect was 
 dumb. Afterwards, as the trouble grew 
 in his brain, he felt for relief more 
 especially in music. He would send 
 for M. G. to play for him in bad hours,
 
 The Dead Ruskin 127 
 
 and he would have the Cathedral at 
 Christ Church closed at times for him 
 to roam up and down it and listen to 
 the organ. It may be that the un- 
 known Art had more soothing power 
 over him than that which he had 
 himself mastered. 
 
 His social message grew directly out 
 of his Art teaching, under the stormy 
 influence of Carlyle. Good Art could 
 only spring out of right living, so he 
 knew, and Carlyle showed him that 
 there could be no right living under 
 the utilitarian individualism of industrial 
 competition. 
 
 The remedy for the bad Art of the 
 day must begin in the healing of the 
 national life. *' Have you seen Keble 
 Chapel, Mr. Ruskin?" we innocently 
 asked him. "No!" "Are you going 
 to see it?" "No! If it is new, it
 
 128 The Dead Ruskin 
 
 is hideous. Or if it is beautiful, it 
 ought not to be. We don't deserve it. 
 You clergy ought not to have any 
 beautiful churches. You ought to be 
 out in the wilderness with St. John 
 the Baptist. When you have converted 
 England, it will be time to think whether 
 we may have any beautiful things again." 
 That was his verdict. It was no day 
 for Art, while our filthy cities cried to 
 Heaven against us. So he preached 
 with ever intenser vehemence and skill, 
 giving precision and reality and ex- 
 quisite utterance to that which had 
 been, in Carlyle, but as a thunderous 
 roar. To this teaching, he gave close 
 study and thought ; and ever he per- 
 fected, for its expression, his amazing 
 skill over language. His style freed 
 itself from the overloaded consciousness 
 of its earlier forms ; and, without losing
 
 The Dead Ruskin 129 
 
 any of its beauty, became more concise, 
 well-grit, muscular. It was delightful 
 to hear him, in his Oxford days, roll out 
 his magnificent periods from " Modern 
 Painters," and then explain to us their 
 defects and their mannerisms, while 
 still on the defensive against undue 
 depreciation of them. " I wrote that 
 sentence over five times before I was 
 satisfied," he exclaimed ; " and then, 
 the young ladies call it * gush ' ! " We 
 cannot better recall him, than by re- 
 hearsing a great passage from his writ- 
 ings, taken from the Lectures called "A 
 Joy for ever," given in Manchester in 
 
 1857. 
 
 It marks the moment when his interest 
 in Art was just passing into his interest 
 in political economy. He has come 
 down to talk on pictures and a picture- 
 gallery ; and, to the surprise of his
 
 130 The Dead Ruskin 
 
 hearers, he is found to be dealing with 
 the well-worn economic fallacy that 
 luxury gives beneficial employment to 
 the poor. The fallacy was never more 
 forcibly exposed ; and as it still haunts 
 the thievish corners of our streets to-day, 
 we may well suffer the great preacher to 
 speak to us once again from his grave, 
 in his own incomparable utterance : — 
 
 "Granted, that whenever we spend 
 money for whatever purpose, we set 
 people to work ; and passing by, for 
 the moment, the question whether the 
 work we set them to is all equally healthy 
 and good for them, we will assume that 
 whenever we spend a guinea we pro- 
 vide an equal number of people with 
 healthy maintenance for a given time. 
 But, by the way in which we spend it, 
 we entirely direct the labour of those 
 people during that given time. We
 
 The Dead Ruskin 131 
 
 become their masters or mistresses, and 
 we compel them to produce, within a 
 certain period, a certain article. Now, 
 that article may be a useful and lasting 
 one, or it may be a useless and perish- 
 able one — it may be one useful to the 
 whole community, or useful only to our- 
 selves. And our selfishness and folly, 
 or our virtue and prudence, are shown, 
 not by our spending money, but by 
 our spending it for the wrong or the 
 right thing ; and we are wise and kind, 
 not in maintaining a certain number of 
 people for a given period, but only in 
 requiring them to produce, during that 
 period, the kind of things which shall 
 be useful to society, instead of those 
 which are only useful to ourselves. 
 
 " Thus, for instance, if you are a 
 young lady, and employ a certain num- 
 ber of sempstresses for a given time, in
 
 132 The Dead Ruskin 
 
 making a given number of simple and 
 serviceable dresses — suppose seven — of 
 which you can wear one yourself for 
 half the winter, and give six away to 
 poor girls who have none, you are 
 spending your money unselfishly. But 
 if you employ the same number of 
 sempstresses for the same number of 
 days in making four, or five, or six 
 beautiful flounces for your own ball- 
 dress — flounces which will clothe no 
 one but yourself, and which you will 
 yourself be unable to wear at more 
 than one ball — you are employing your 
 money selfishly. You have maintained, 
 indeed, in each case the same number 
 of people, but in one case you have 
 directed their labour to the service of 
 the community ; in the other case you 
 have consumed it wholly upon yourself. 
 I don't say you are never to do so ; I
 
 The Dead Ruskin 133 
 
 don't say you ought not sometimes to 
 think of yourselves only, and to make 
 yourselves as pretty as you can, only 
 do not confuse coquettishness with 
 benevolence, nor cheat yourselves into 
 thinking that all the finery you can 
 wear is so much put into the hungry 
 mouths of those beneath you : it is not 
 so ; it is what you yourselves, whether 
 you will or no, must sometimes instinc- 
 tively feel it to be — it is what those 
 who stand shivering in the streets, 
 forming a line to watch you as you 
 step out of your carriages, know it to 
 be ; those fine dresses do not mean 
 that so much has been put into their 
 mouths, but that so much has been 
 taken out of their mouths. The real 
 politico-economical signification of every 
 one of those beautiful toilettes is just this 
 — that you have had a certain number
 
 134 The Dead Ruskin 
 
 of people put for a certain number of 
 days wholly under your authority by 
 the sternest of slave-masters — hunger 
 and cold ; and you have said to them, 
 ' I will feed you, indeed, and clothe you, 
 and give you fuel for so many days ; 
 but during those days you shall work 
 for me only ; your little brothers need 
 clothes, but you shall make none for 
 them ; your sick friend needs clothes, 
 but you shall make none for her ; you 
 yourself will soon need another and a 
 warmer dress, but you shall make none 
 for yourself. You shall make nothing 
 but lace and roses for me ; for this fort- 
 night to come you shall work at the 
 patterns and petals, and then I will crush 
 and consume them away in an hour.* 
 
 " And it would be strange if at any 
 great assembly which, while it dazzled
 
 The Dead Ruskin 135 
 
 the young and the thoughtless, beguiled 
 the gentler hearts that beat beneath 
 the embroidery, with a placid sensation 
 of luxurious benevolence — as if by all 
 that they wore in waywardness of 
 beauty, comfort had been first given 
 to the distressed, and aid to the indi- 
 gent ; it would be strange, I say, if for 
 a moment the spirits of Truth and of 
 Terror, which walk invisibly among the 
 masques of the earth, would lift the 
 dimness from our erring thoughts, and 
 show us how — inasmuch as the sums 
 exhausted for that magnificence would 
 have given back the failing breath to 
 many an unsheltered outcast on moor 
 and street — they who wear it have 
 literally entered into partnership with 
 Death, and dressed themselves in his 
 spoils. Yes, if the veil could be lifted 
 not only from your thoughts, but from
 
 136 The Dead Ruskin 
 
 your human sight, you would see — the 
 angels do see — on those gay white 
 dresses of yours, strange dark spots, 
 and crimson patterns that you knew 
 not of — spots of the inextinguishable 
 red that all the seas cannot wash away ; 
 yes, and among the pleasant flowers 
 that crown your fair heads, and glow 
 on your wreathed hair, you would see 
 that one weed was always twisted which 
 no one thought of — the grass that grows 
 on graves." 
 
 Printed by Ballantvne, Hanson &* Co. 
 Edinburgh &* London
 
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