WORKING WOMEN’S CLASSES AND ART TRAINING
APRIL, 1856—DECEMBER, 1858
The appointment mentioned in the last letter of the previous chapter
must have been surprising to some of those interested in the classes.
It was certainly a most responsible position for a girl not much over
seventeen. Not only had Octavia to superintend the business
arrangements of the classes, but also to advise the women attending as
to the subjects that would be most useful to them. And she was even
expected to step into the place of any teacher who happened to be
absent from her class. This was a sufficiently trying demand, even
when the class dealt with subjects with which she was tolerably well
acquainted; but on one occasion, at any rate, she found herself
required to teach botany; and, as she explained to her sister
Gertrude, “I knew nothing of botany, but a great deal about flowers;
and as there happened to be a bunch of flowers in the room, I talked
to the women about them, and I do not think the time was wasted.” When
the Ladies’ Guild was broken up the toy work was continued by Mr.
Neale for a time, in a room at Devonshire Street, which, being near
the working women’s classes, was convenient for Octavia. She and her
mother and sisters were in lodgings at Francis Street, and then moved
back to 4, Russell Place, which was let out in furnished apartments,
after the Guild left.
In 1857 a scholarship at Queen’s College, Harley Street, was founded
in honour of Mr. Maurice, who was given the choice of the first
scholar, in recognition of the time and money that he had devoted to
the College. He knew that Emily was very anxious to become a teacher;
and he offered the scholarship to her, partly out of sympathy with
this wish, and partly out of regard to Octavia. Thus when, later on,
the school was started, Emily was able to help Octavia in a way she
could not possibly have done otherwise.
In 1868, Miranda’s health began to fail. She had begun work very
early, and had found the strain of so many hours’ teaching, added to
the long walk, and exposure to weather, more than she could bear. It
was therefore arranged that she should join her aunt and Florence in
Italy, and obtain teaching there, while Mrs. Hill took over her
English pupils.
[Sidenote: LETTER FROM TOY-WORKER]
May 1st, 1856.
FROM ONE OF THE TOY-WORKERS.
DEAREST MISS OCKEY,
I hope you arrived at Plaistow quite safely on Monday. Dear Miss Ockey I
hope you are quite well and very happy; but I suppose that you are very
happy with your dear friends.
Dear Miss Ockey we do miss you so dreadfully. I do so long to see you
and hear your voice again. The place is so dull without you, and to me
seems like a prison. I have been agoing to say so often—“Miss Ockey
repeat some poetry (_sic_) or talk about birds, or do something.”
Dear Miss Ockey, will you, if you please if it will not be too much
trouble, get me a furn (_sic_); only gather it yourself, or else it will
not do. Dear Miss Ockey I have thought so often of what you said on
Saturday that two people could hardly work for one year without owing
each other something; and I am ashamed and very very sorry to be obliged
to come to the conclusion that all you owe me is the recollection of
many unhappy days, and the great trouble and anxiety that I have been to
you; for you said yourself that, when you were in bed of a night you
used to think what could you do to me to alter me; while on my part I
owe you that no one on earth can ever repay you. Dear Miss Ockey your
Mama as been reading to us out of Howitt’s “Boys’ Country Book,” and
teaching us poetry. I hope you are not working, for I am sure Mr. Ruskin
would not wish you.
How is dear little Emma?[25] I hope you have some fun with her, and you
will be able to tell us of the fun which you had with her. How does the
beautiful celandine and violets and primroses look? On Tuesday I saw Mr.
Morris running so quickly. Dear Miss Ockey do you know that I knew a
person who was afraid to speak to there (_sic_) friends, what do you
think of them? Do please come home on Saturday, and if you write to
anyone will you tell them at what time you will be there dear Miss
Ockey. I do not mean this for a hint, but if you take it for one I shall
be very glad indeed. Will you give my love to the flowers?
I am yours ever truly and affectionately,
LOUISA.
No date (1856).
TO MISS MARGARET HARRISON.
Well! if I had power, I certainly would write or draw something very
bitter, _sad_, and severe about people; but it ought to go hand in hand
with something deep, pathetic, and reverent about them. I wish I could
draw or write; for I believe that I feel people’s characters to my very
fingers. I long to draw them as I see them, both when my spirit mourns
over them, and when it bows before them. I say I feel their characters;
and so I do, just as one _feels_ the beauty or harshness of a colour or
line.
[Sidenote: LETTER ABOUT A TOY-WORKER]
39, Devonshire Street, Queen’s Square,
July 5th, 1856.
TO THE MOTHER OF ONE OF THE TOY-MAKERS.
DEAR MRS. J.,
I regret to have to tell Harriet not to return to work till Thursday
next, as I have said that those children who do not earn five shillings
in a week should lose three days’ work. I am very sorry to be obliged to
say this, but I hope it, or a sense of the necessity of being
industrious, will soon render any such law unnecessary. I shall be as
pleased as proud when the day arrives, when I see all the children
steady, earnest, and eager to do all they can to help those near and
dear to them. I am sure their idleness results more from want of thought
than anything else; but they must try to overcome this; and if they fail
to do this because it is right to do so, they must be taught to do so by
other means.
However, I ought to say that Harriet has improved very much indeed
lately; she has been so much more gentle and steady, and more earnest
about her lessons. It is therefore with much pleasure that I give her
Mr. Neale’s invitation to spend a day at his house, and hope that she
may grow more and more good, gentle, generous, and earnest, working for
you, herself and all whom she can benefit, not only willingly but
unceasingly; and I am sure she will find in quiet earnest work a
happiness and peace which are far more joyous than giddiness. I ought to
tell you how much I love her, and how much life and pleasure she gives
to all here. I am pleased to see her take a deeper interest in things,
because I am sure we all care too little, and not too much for things;
and rightly directed, her love for all she cares for may be a constant
source of joy to herself and others. I wish she would draw more. I am
sure she would do it well.
With many thanks to you for all the pleasure she has given us, believe
me, dear Mrs. J., yours very truly,
OCTAVIA HILL.
The Cedars,
July 24th, 1856.
“Let earnest work for ever show
Our willing service to our God;
Let peace and grace like flowers grow,
Beside the path that we have trod.
Let them be watered by that rain
Which from strong trees is wont to fall;
Which they themselves receive again
From Heaven which bendeth over all.
For not so much a flower depends
Upon the rain on which it lives,
As men do on the love of friends,—
The trust, the hope, which that love gives.
Yet if the rain is like man’s love,
Like God’s love is the blessed earth;
The one refreshing from above,
The other giving beings birth.
That which on God’s love does not stand
No might of human love can plant.
God grant us rain! oh let us stand!
A root in Thee to all men grant!”
For dear little Harriet from her friend Octavia Hill, with earnest hope
that neither summer drought nor winter frost may ever deprive her of the
rain, and that her trust, like the roots of the flowers she loves, may
ever take more firm hold of God, as their little fibres do of the strong
nourishing dear old earth.
[Sidenote: VISIT FROM FORMER TOY-WORKER]
31, Red Lion Square,
August 19th, 1856.
TO MISS ANNIE HARRISON.
Do you remember a long time ago when you were at Marshals, taking a
great interest in all that I told you of a little girl, called
Elizabeth. I had not been able to find her house, and so had not seen or
heard anything of her for many months—last night, however, as we were
sitting expecting Mr. Simpson, some one came up and said, “Miss Ockey a
little girl of the name of Elizabeth wants you.” I ran down and led up
the little girl. She is not much grown, has still a pale but pretty
face; and her dark hair and eyelashes make her look quite southern; she
speaks in a raised voice, and like a child; she is very small, but is, I
believe, thirteen years old. She was so glad to see us. I asked her how
she found us out. She had been first to the Guild, and was told, as she
said, “That no such name lived there.” She then determined to go to the
other children’s houses, to which she had been once last summer. She
went to Clara’s. She had moved; she went to Margaret’s, she was out; but
her mother directed her to Harriet’s, and she is one of the girls who
now works for us, so she told Elizabeth we now worked in Devonshire
Street. “I told her she had better tell me your residence; for that
Devonshire Street was such a long way. I thought so because of its name,
but I must have come by the end of it, if it leads into Theobald’s Road.
I said the number of the house all the way for fear I forgot it.” She
said she has “been at service in a large _gentleman’s_ family at King’s
Cross where I did all the washing; I kep’ it (meaning the situation) six
months but I was forced to give it up, it was too hard, for I had all
the work to do, they didn’t keep no other servant.” “Have you seen
anything of the country lately?” I asked. “Oh no Miss, I haven’t seen it
since you took me; oh, don’t I remember Romford!” I had seen her large
bright eyes looking earnestly at a bunch of glorious purple flowers I
had brought with me, and I could not help giving her one piece to carry
back to the miserable home she had left. Her father has lost his work
through drinking, her mother has but little washing to do, and has two
children younger than Elizabeth, and a baby. The eldest boy has work at
4/6 a week but he has to walk an immense way to it. They lived in
Clerkenwell, over a rag-shop, where this little girl used to sleep in a
back-parlour, but could not go to bed till after eleven or later,
because the girl she slept with always kept the key; “for there was lots
of rags there.” And this is a child who seems meant to live wherever
beauty may be found, comparatively without affection, utterly
indifferent to home. She is hardly touched by kindness; but at the sight
of flowers her face lights up, her eyebrows rise, her whole being seems
expanded. I never, never shall forget her in the fields at Hampstead.
She is high-spirited; and I trust she may not be crushed by sorrow.
Energetic and persevering to the extreme, I think she will make herself
master of events by submitting to their laws. She, alone of all my
children, worked beautifully when I doomed her to do anything. “It is no
use, it must be done,” said in an unsympathetic tone, acted like magic.
Indeed, she was altogether indifferent to sympathy. When I had to go and
help and teach and encourage others, Elizabeth struggled on alone. She
is gloriously proud, can stand alone, and say candidly to us what she
thinks. There is not one-half the feeling about equality in classes in
any of the others, notwithstanding all their talk, that there is in her,
with her free, independent spirit. Twice, and twice only, have I seen it
broken, and then but for a short time; once because she came late and I
ordered her to leave work. Her mother it seems would not let her come
without breakfast; her father had been out all night drinking, and had
not returned with the money. And again when she heard she was to leave,
she cried as though her little strong heart would break;—still, unlike
the others, not complaining, but passionately. When the last day of work
came, and the others were all miserable, she was laughing, calling it
the day of judgment, and hopping about like a little spirit of evil.
And, when the last moment came, she only made a bow, and said good-bye
like a little cockatoo, and left us. Left us; and went where no mother’s
love was strong enough to call forth love which ought to direct that
strong will, and mighty energy,—to Clerkenwell, where no gleam of beauty
should gladden, and so soften, her little heart; where the angel face,
that I have seen smile forth from below wreaths of flowers instinctively
arranged, and most beautifully so, should cease to be beautiful because
children’s faces are often like deep water, reflecting only the images
of what they see. The strength of her nature will not leave her; but to
what will it be applied? who will direct the strong will? who will
cultivate the latent powers? who will call forth the spirit of love?
I have written more than I intended, I only meant to let you know we had
seen Elizabeth as you seemed to take an interest in her. She is coming
to me on Thursday at Devonshire Street.
September 10th, 1856.
LOUISA TO EMILY.
It was such a pretty little cottage where I went. It has a thatched roof
with pretty green creepers all over it, and the birds come and build
their nests there, and bees and wasps make nests there. At the back of
this house there are some beautiful fields, and into these I went, and
all round was the garlands of bright nightshade. The field looked one
glow of scarlet berries, and of course I gathered some for my dear Miss
Ockey, and I put some nightshade and some of Miss Ockey’s own thistles
and some buttercups together. The buttercups always remind me of dear
Miss Florence. I never see one without thinking of the day I first went
with her in the fields, how she jumped up those banks! I think she
sprang up them like the silvery-footed Antelope does about the rocks.
Miss Ockey was at Miss Harris’s on Sunday and Monday and she did some
photographs of leaves, and Miss Harris is agoing to do us each one of
our favourite leaves. Mr. Furnivall came on Saturday to see the drawing
class given, was not that a gloriously beautiful thing?... Mr. Evans the
toy dealer has gave us an order of a pound’s worth of things, and when
they were taken in, he gave another order for another nine shillings’
worth of things. Is not that good news? I think we all go on better with
our work. Last week I earned ten shillings at ring stands, which I think
was wonderful, because I never did any before.... Please come back soon.
You have got four weeks longer to stay now. It seems as if you had been
away two years.
[Sidenote: “TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS”]
October, 1856.
TO MARY HARRIS.
Oh, about Tom Brown! No it is not by Arthur Hughes, the artist, but by
Thos. Hughes, the barrister, the friend of Mr. Maurice, teacher of
gymnastics at the College, co-worker with Mr. Furnivall in establishing
social meetings, etc.; one of the brightest, best men in the world. _I_
think the book one of the noblest works I have read, possessing the
first element one looks for in a great book, namely progress—a book,
too, opposed to the evil of the age, as I think, sadness. I know you may
say, “Oh! that is the fault of the bit of the world you see as a worker,
one who sees the poor, and who knows earnest people.” There is a sorrow
which I honour; and I believe Mr. Hughes would too; but I speak of that
sorrow which eats into their warmest heart, and fights ever against
their energy, urging them to hopelessness and despair, the selfish
sadness that asks itself continually, “What have I of joy?” I speak of
the sadness pervading all classes, which rushes with sickening force on
the young lady who has danced most gaily at the ball, when she begins to
unfasten her sash in her own room; which weighs heavily on the
comfortable old lady as she sits in her drawing-room, to receive guests;
which makes the worker gaze in gloomy despondency on the long long
wearying days of toil, and makes the poor man say, “Nothing but care and
trouble, and hard work, and the workhouse at last,”—each and all saying,
“What is the end and purpose of all this?”—I feel the book is a healthy
blow at all this way of looking at things; and, as such, I hold it to
possess the second element of a great book, namely fitness, for the age
in which it is written. Then I feel that shadow of Dr. Arnold thro’out
the book, the presence and work felt, the form so rarely seen, both
beautiful and life-like. Then I think the instance of the ennobling
influence of having someone depending on one is most valuable. Then see
how the truly great nature gathers good from all things thro’ life. And
imagine how I delight in the athletic games, and try to feel how I prize
the book. I know you will feel all the objections to it quite strongly
enough; and I won’t try to say anything about them except; Don’t hastily
believe that the author advocates all he paints. There are few things in
the world (are there any?) from which a great nature won’t glean some
good.
4, Russell Place,
October 21st, 1856.
TO MARY HARRIS.
Oh, Mary, money _is_ very powerful. I have just came in from paying
several people for some work done, for the execution of an order which
we accepted to give them employment. Many of them are old Guild people,
who arranged to wait till the things were paid for; the payment has been
a little delayed, and so it was unexpected by them; and there they were,
educated and uneducated, living in nice streets renting the whole house,
or in little back attics in small streets,—all glad to see me; but still
more so when I told my errand; and the relieved look that for a few
moments lighted up their careworn faces touched me very much. To think
of the power of those small pieces of money, to think of the
thankfulness they caused! But what struck me especially was that to one
the shilling was of as much importance as the pound to another; and so
it was; one set had learned by hard experience not to expect the little
luxuries of eating. Butter, sugar, and even meat are rarely used by
them; but, more than that, they have less of an appearance to keep up.
Are they better for it? Does that effort to appear something not help to
keep up self-respect? I rather think it does. But in all classes there
is the same care; all thought bent upon that which must be paid for,
whether to-morrow’s dinner, or neat gloves in which to go to church next
Sunday. But God be thanked for English home life! say I, whenever I come
in from visiting anywhere. See how, if one is ill, all the calculations
are gone and forgotten in a moment; and the full ardour of love is given
with a depth of tenderness that withers in a moment all worldly
considerations.—I saw Louisa to-night set out to walk about four miles
home, after coming from Notting Hill this morning,—walking twice from
here to Devonshire Street, and I do not know how many miles yesterday. I
stood and watched her among the hurrying crowd. She was walking slowly,
for her feet were terribly sore, and as she was lost to view, I noticed
how the gas-light flared in the foggy night on the worn faces near me.
[Sidenote: DIFFICULTIES OF THE CHILDREN’S LIVES]
October 27th, 1856.
TO MARY HARRIS.
I am so much disappointed not to finish the illumination. But what a day
I have had! One continual whirl of doing and remembering, taking
addresses, examining pupils, covering books, sorting copy-books, but
(most tiring of all) trying to attend to fifty people at once, with the
knowledge that at least five of them will be offended if they think
themselves the least in the world slighted, and that they think I have
no right to be indifferent to what they think. I am so glad to-morrow
night I shall see Mr. Maurice. Oh! Mary, think of that!
I don’t know what there is in the word “lady” which will connect itself
with all kinds of things I despise and hate; first and most universally
it suggests a want of perseverance, and bending before small obstacles,
a continual “I would if——”
October 29th, 1856.
TO MARY HARRIS.
I can scarcely see because of the terrible fog, but I must tell you what
I know you will be very glad to hear;—all my immediate fear about the
toys is over, as I have this morning received an order from the same
wholesale house to which we had furnished specimens of the toys some
time ago. This will not, I think, necessitate my taking an additional
worker, as the Bazaar gets on so very badly just now; but only fancy how
delightful it would be to have the business steadily increase. These
wholesale dealers, too, are so delightful to do business with, as they
always pay ready money, order things in large quantities, and never
change their minds when things are half done.
4, Russell Place,
November 4th, 1856.
TO MARY HARRIS.
I have left off learning my Latin as I walk to Devonshire Street, and
get a little time to think. I wish the children were better. They have
not at all gone back, but I should like to be able to try them by a
higher standard. I think they grow mentally and morally lazy. They care
about history, natural history, geography and many other things, if once
I begin to talk till they are thoroughly interested, and go on without
giving them trouble; and I—yes the fault always finds its way home—I get
lazy and would rather dream and think, rather be silent than sing or
talk; and so we very often stagnate, except as far as our hands are
concerned. I must study something for them—but when?... Andy says she is
quite as ignorant about dress as you can possibly be. She thanks you
very much for the lace, which she thinks beautiful. I say _she_ because
_I_ know nothing about it, but do thank you very heartily, as far as I
am capable of thinking on the subject.
[Sidenote: EFFECT OF SPIRITUAL BEAUTY]
November 9th, 1856.
TO MARY HARRIS, WHO WAS VISITING IN NEWGATE.
If you knew or could imagine what effect the presence of a noble soul
can have on those usually surrounded by a hurrying struggling crowd;
what it is to be taught to look at spiritual beauty; what to a much worn
care-pressed being it is to know at last that, shut out tho’ she has
seemed from all the best and most honourable around her, borne downwards
as she has been by the weight of many sorrows, much anguish and inward
evil, there is yet left, even on this earth, one who will take her as
she is, and love her because she has that in her which is God given.
This last she will learn afterwards, and I know that, deep in those
hearts hardened by crime and degraded, there yet is human feeling to be
called out by nothing so much as trust and love.
39, Devonshire Street,
November 9th, 1856.
TO MARY HARRIS.
I thank God for work, and for so blessing our work. I believe I might
often say with Ruskin the first clause of the sentence, certainly always
the last, “I am happy while I work; when I play I am miserable.”
Is it not strange that tho’ I have an unusually clear idea of the
sermon, the only impression last Sunday afternoon is one of complete
quiet? It was no effort to understand, nor was I, as usual, dreadfully
tired in church; but I had the consciousness, not of peace nor of rest,
but of quiet, such as when one sits out of doors in the country, not
thinking, only seeing.
4, Russell Place,
January 17th, 1857.
TO MARY HARRIS.
[Sidenote: ABSENCE OF ART IN SCOTLAND]
On Wednesday evening we went to hear Ruskin give a lecture on the
occasion of the presentation of some money offered by him as a prize;
but, owing to the imperfection of the work, the money was divided
between the competitors, as some compensation for their loss of time.
Their failure, he explained, was mainly owing to his having set them to
work which was not possible for them to do well;—the carving of a panel,
the subject to be taken from some historical event of the year.
Apparently both parties took it for granted that it was to be about the
Crimean War; for Ruskin said that he had overlooked the fact that no one
could represent that which he had never seen; and, when the old builders
lived, happily for art, but unhappily for the nations, wars were
continually fought within sight, their scenes were present with the
workman; they haunted him; he dreamed of them by night, and could not
help carving them. Ruskin had expected better things of the workmen,
because he saw with what spirit cheap periodicals were illustrated;
really we see quite wonderful things in them. He had expected, too, that
there would have been many competitors, and there were only two. He felt
sorry for the failure; but not so sorry as he would have been, had he
not noticed that things which begin too swimmingly do not always succeed
so well as those which fail at first. The workmen would not be
altogether pleased that instead of a prize, he gave them a lecture.
“Last year,” he said, “while travelling in the North of Scotland I was
very painfully impressed by the absence of any art—amongst grand natural
scenery; the inhabitants seem to be utterly without any art-expression
of their perception of it; no buildings rise, no pictures are painted;
truly the huts of grey stone are roofed with the peat, set picturesquely
in oblique lines, which seem to have been marked by the stroke of some
gigantic claymore. The only evidence of any power of design among them
is the arrangement of the lines of colour in the tartan. And in
Inverness, a city built on the shore of the most beautiful estuary in
the world, at the foot of the Grampians, set as it were like a jewel to
clasp the folds of the mountains to the blue zone of the sea—the only
building which has evidence of any recognition of art is the modern
decorated prison.”
4, Russell Place,
March 19th, 1857.
TO MARY HARRIS.
Some time ago Miss Sterling had a very long conversation with me on the
way I am ruining my health, but especially about Sunday work; and I told
her just what I have felt about it—that to leave off working was a
privilege, to continue a duty—that I _dared_ not claim any time as my
own; that I had sometimes felt as if I had earned a time to rest or
enjoy leisure; and then had been convinced that all time was God’s and
to be used for Him.
Miss Sterling mentioned it to Mr. Maurice, and in consequence he asked
me to go to his house this evening, to talk to him about it. He spoke
very beautifully indeed about it, and of course very kindly to me. He
thought that rest was as much a part of God’s order as work was; that we
have no right to put ourselves out of that order, as if we were above
it. He told me that the division of things into duties and privileges
was an arbitrary one; there is no such broad distinction, every
privilege involves a duty; our highest privilege is to perform our duty;
rest is as much a duty as work; it is very self-willed to try to do
without it; it is really hopeless to try to exist, if one is for ever
giving out, and never receiving; nor does he think that the doing of
actions rightly, brings with it enough of this receiving. He also
advised that I should go to church every Sunday morning[26] with Mama,
as he believed it would be a great bond of union.
And, Mary, I could not help the tears coming into my eyes, and my voice
being choked at feeling so cared for by one so noble, so infinitely
strong, so perfectly calm; and a strange sense of perfect peace, such as
I have not felt since I saw you, stole over me. And yet I was so hard,
so unconvinced, and so strangely bitter; bitter with myself in feeling
how much of pride had made me think I could stand without help; and we
sat quite silent for a few moments. At last Mr. Maurice spoke in a deep
full voice, you felt what a depth of human sympathy was in it: “Will you
think about it then, Miss Hill?”
I felt how I trusted him; and told him that I did not see clearly about
it, but would do what he advised, and then perhaps all would be plainer
to me. “I am quite sure it will,” he said; and wishing him good-bye I
came away.
45, Great Ormond St.,
July 1st, 1857.
TO EMILY.
[Sidenote: IMPRESSION OF ROSSETTI]
I did not go to Mr. Neale’s and the children made a horrid mess of it.
Miss C. forgot the name of the station; and they went to _Beddington_
and had to walk eight miles, and other absurdities.
I saw Rossetti last night, and learned that Ruskin is not going abroad,
but to Manchester, Oxford, etc., to lecture. He starts to-day. He was at
Russell Place, to see the pictures; but did not see any of us. Rossetti
was so friendly, I could not hate him, with his bright bright eyes, and
recalling, as he did, dear people; and he was so kind too.... Miss R.
has heard of our being confirmed.[27] ... Mr. Maurice has been lecturing
on Milton before the Royal Society.
45, Great Ormond St.,
July 8th, 1857.
TO FLORENCE.
... What fine efforts you are making about the toys! They quite put me
to shame. How nice it is tho’, that we can work together, tho’ we are so
far apart, is it not?... I hope you will get to know Mrs. Browning some
day. How glorious that thunderstorm must have been! Do you know I am to
teach all the classes this autumn, except singing,—(_all_ is not
many—reading, writing and arithmetic). The ladies are all going out of
town.... Do you know I so enjoyed my visit to Weybridge last April. I
have never enjoyed a visit there so much. I enjoyed the riding so, and
how beautiful the country is!... (Of a visit to Buckinghamshire she
writes): You know there are acres and acres and acres of beech woods,
valleys and hills clothed and covered with them, and there are rounded
hills with most beautiful slopes; and from little cleared spaces in the
woods one catches a glimpse of far-off purple hills, and nearer hills
covered with wood, and farm-houses with their great barns golden-roofed,
with lichen lying in a sheltered hollow; and the great bare head of some
uncovered hill, cut with clear outline against the sky; and then perhaps
we plunged into the depths of the woods again, where the sunlight fell
between the fan-like branches of the beeches and thro’ their leaves like
a green mist, on to the silver stems, and on to the ground russet with
last year’s fallen leaves, perhaps upon the crest of some tall fern, or
upon a sheet of blue speed-wells, or on some little wood sorrel plant,
or a grey tree stump, touched with golden lichen, or gold-green moss.
And then the larks, cuckoos, and nightingales seemed hardly to stop by
night or day, but kept up a glad sweet chorus.—The classes will be over
in a minute, and then I must go. Forgive this short letter. I will try
to write more next time. I often think of you, dear dear little Flo, and
love to see “Loke” at the beginning of a letter. It is your own name,
and no one else uses it, so it always reminds me of you.
4, Russell Place, Fitzroy Square,
July 17th, 1857.
TO GERTRUDE.
If you could bring me anything at any time to draw I should be so glad.
I am so tired of privet, and dusty hornbeam,—especially when I have
drawn one piece several times, and don’t the least know when I shall get
a fresh one; and if, moreover, the things you brought told me a little
about far, fair places, where they grew, they would help me.
The following letter refers to the building of a school at All
Saints’, Suffolk.
4, Russell Place, Fitzroy Square, W.,
August 14th, 1857.
TO EMILY.
[Sidenote: ARCHITECTURE OF A SCHOOL]
I return the tracings. I decidedly prefer No. 3 to any which you can
choose. I mean I approve of your choice entirely, under the
circumstances. At the same time, I enclose a small extract from Ruskin,
bearing on the subject. Now I should not propose altering any but the
_entirely_ square windows. But, if that were possible, they would be
much more beautiful. I am afraid they would have to be a little lower
down, to make room for the shield, as they call it (namely, you
understand, the solid block of stone), which need not, I think,
necessarily be carved at all, though it would be more beautiful, of
course. One or two words, or even letters, that were appropriate, might
perhaps be found and placed on the shields. At any rate the Committee
could hardly object, could they? The opening, you understand, would be
square as ever. I suppose each window would require three little
shields. I think you will quite understand about them from the drawing I
send you. It is the window Ruskin refers to (thirteenth century, Oakham
Castle). I could not resist doing a little towards beginning to shade
it; but, in spite of that, I think you’ll understand it. I leave it
entirely to you to apply the suggestion, if practicable. Tell Mr.
Durrant I admire the arrangement of large square panes very much. I
_think_ I even prefer it to the _quarries_. I am very glad indeed to
have influenced, in the least degree, his wish to have Gothic windows.
I’ll make a finished drawing, or clear tracing of this window, if you
want it; but yours will be so simple that this will not be of any use, I
think, except to explain the plan, which my rough sketch will do.
I have seen Ruskin’s manager to-day, and had a long talk about Ruskin,
which I enjoyed much....
P.S.—There is not the smallest necessity for the _aperture_ of the
window being of a pointed shape. Make the uppermost arch pointed only,
and make the top of the window square, filling the interval with a stone
shield, and you may have a perfect school of architecture, not only
consistent with, but eminently conducive to every comfort of your daily
life. The window in Oakham Castle is an example of such a form actually
employed in the thirteenth century.
4, Russell Place, W.,
September 22nd, 1857.
MRS. HILL TO EMILY.
[Sidenote: SUPERVISION OF THE TOY-WORKERS]
Amelia[28] has taken the toys, and in a rather different spirit from Mr.
P. She said to Miranda, “Well, Miss Miranda, I shall expect of course to
be paid for my time bye and bye; but more than that I don’t want for
myself. If I fail, I shall think others have failed before me; and I may
perhaps have done a little good.” This being her tone, I am proud of
her, and look upon her as a fellow-worker in the cause, who has come in
by God’s providence to relieve Ockey of a burden, and so setting her
free to work her higher influence all the more. I am to go and teach as
usual; and Ockey will keep the accounts for Amelia. Amelia said to M.,
“You know, Miss M., I shall want your Mamma to come and give the
spirit.” The debt on the toys is £25, which Amelia is to repay, as she
can—half to us and half to Mr. Neale. He did not wish to take any, and
entered with zeal into the new plan. Ockey seemed quite touched.... He
seemed most anxious that the teaching should go on. The children are
quite in love with his Geography lessons, and won’t hear a word against
him. On the morning of the day it was all settled, Ockey received the
sweetest letter from Miss Harris, asking what sum it would require to
carry on the toys for another year; but dear O. very properly, I
believe, was firm to carry out the change. We must give all our
influence now to the new phase of things, since the spirit is the
same.... Ockey begins to-morrow to work at home. I mean to read some
nice book to her, and do all I can to make her happy. She is my own
brave, beautiful, good tender Ockey; and it’s a hard trial to lose one’s
post in a Cause; but the Cause itself (that being God’s) can never be
lost.
November 22nd, 1857.
TO FLORENCE.
I don’t know whether you will receive this letter, or the box that was
despatched yesterday, first. So I must tell you that in it you will find
a very few drawings of mine. I will tell you a little about them. I have
selected them from a great many that I have done, for I have been at
work at that kind of drawing all the summer. I am speaking of the
flowers. You will see we chose to send you the water forget-me-not,
cranesbill and lady’s finger, all of which were old favourites of yours.
There is one page of virginian creeper and creeping jenny which I send,
partly because they are of London growth; and when I had no fresh bright
wild country things, day after day did I persevere in drawing the dirty
little fellows from the black wall and dirty earth; so they seem to me
rather characteristic of my work. The dear buglos is one of my friends;
the bramble you know I always loved; and so I have sent you a little
piece shaded. I am rather proud of the stalk of the highest leaf; indeed
I like it all. Then those drawings on note-paper are copies from Albert
Dürer. Is not that a beautiful little piece with the thistle and grass,
and stones? How do you like my old donkey’s head? It is nearly the first
animal I have ever drawn. In the picture, which is one of Joseph and
Mary taking Christ, when a little child, down into Egypt, the donkey is
being led by Joseph, and he is just looking out of the corner of his eye
in that odd way at the thistle, evidently thinking if his rein is long
enough for him to snatch at it; but he is nearly past it, and clearly
will have to go without the treat. Down below two little lizards are at
play; on a log a little bird is perched. I hope you will receive the
drawings on my birthday. They are the only things I have to give you,
dear one; but I like to think you know what I have been doing.—I had not
seen Ruskin all the summer and autumn, but he just came, on Friday, in
time to see my work; so that I could send it to you. He is busy in town
every day, so that he could not see me at Denmark Hill; but he came
here. You do not know how pleased he was with all I had done, or how
happy I was that he was pleased. He said I had done an immense quantity
of work, and that I was far more accurate than any of his men at the
College, whom, you know, he teaches every week. He said of one of my
drawings, “This is quite a marvellous piece of drawing, Octavia.” And
when I showed him one of my Albert Dürers he exclaimed, “Is that yours?
I was going to say you had been cutting up my print.”
[Sidenote: RUSKIN’S CRITICISMS]
“Ah,” I said, “you won’t find it so accurate when you look nearer.” He
then said that it was as accurate as it was possible to be without
absolutely tracing it. He told me he saw with what spirit I had worked.
He is going to take me to Marlboro’ House on Friday, and give me a
student’s ticket; for he wants me to copy some Turners for him in
outline. He says he must give me more teaching, which he can do when I
am working at Marlboro’ House, where he will come and superintend me,
when he has time. I felt altogether so delighted. Ruskin is so kind and
beautiful. You know he is coming to keep my birthday with us.... He has
been very busy, so that his looking over my work has been delayed. He
sent me the Albert Dürer four weeks ago, saying, “Copy this, bit by bit,
till I see you.” At last I had done it so long that I was sure he could
not want me to go on longer. So I hit on this odd plan. I wrote to him
something in this style: “My dear Mr. Ruskin, there was once a
shepherd’s dog, who was ordered by his master to watch a flock of sheep.
His master forgot to call him away, and went home. Surprised at the
dog’s absence, he returned after two days, and found the poor fellow
still watching his sheep. And the dog, who now addresses you, would be
very glad to be thus patient and obedient, if she were sure that she was
really doing the work her master most wanted done; but a great doubt has
arisen in her mind as to it. She would not venture to set up her ideas
of what is best or most necessary above her master’s. If he does want
her to go on with the work, well and good. If not, can he write? If he
cannot, she has done all she could, and will remain obedient to his
words.” Was it not fun? He answered by return of post beginning, “My
poor little doggie, I really will come to-morrow.” We are going to
Lincoln’s Inn to-morrow, and then I am going to hear Spurgeon. Do you
know who he is?
4, Russell Place,
November 22nd, 1857.
EMILY TO FLORENCE.
I told you that Ruskin had promised to come the evening before Ockey’s
birthday. She wanted to give him some present, so this is what we have
thought of. Do you remember a little stand Ockey was going to paint for
a chamois with the words[29]:—
“We see our skies thro’ clouds of smoke.
Theirs bends o’er wastes of sunlit snow.
God leads us all in different ways,
His hand to see, His will to know.”
We have just thought that she might finish that for him. But we were at
a loss how to get a Swiss chamois. Well! you remember you had one given
to you by Joanna, and they appealed to me as to whether I thought you
would like to give it to Ruskin; and, as it is only ten days before the
time, we could not hear from you; so I have ventured to take the
responsibility of Ockey’s giving it, feeling sure what you would say if
you were here. I hope I have done right, but I cannot bear that you
should not join us in doing nice things of the kind, because you are at
a distance. I know that your heart is in them. If she has an
opportunity, Ockey means to say that it is your chamois. Ruskin will be
pleased at its coming from you too. He always asks so kindly and
sympathetically about you. When he was here on Friday he asked about
you, before he looked at any of Ockey’s work.... Our reading in the
evenings goes on delightfully. We have finished that beautiful book of
Myers, “Lives of Great Men,” and are reading Mr. Maurice’s “Philosophy.”
4, Russell Place,
November 27th, 1857.
TO GERTRUDE.
I have been to Marlboro’ House to-day with Ruskin, and of course greatly
enjoyed it. He showed me the work he wants done; but he wishes me to
copy, this week, an etching of Turner’s, that he may see if I can do the
work. It is not what you would call high art, I think. I do not yet at
all know if he still means me for an illuminator or not. He does not
say; but wishes me to copy these sketches in pen and ink, because they
will be of use to him too. He wants me, after that, to copy some pencil
drawings of Turner’s, but says it may possibly be six months before I
can do them. I don’t _think_ he still does mean me for an illuminator;
but I feel, as Dawie[30] says, it is altogether his doing, and I have no
responsibility. He was so kind to-day. We are looking forward to his
visit with great delight. He has lent me 3rd and 4th vols. of “Modern
Painters” to read aloud in the evenings, at my request.
December 10th, 1857.
EMILY TO FLORENCE.
Ruskin came a little before his time. Mama, Ockey and I were in the room
ready to receive him. He came in, looking kind and bright; and the first
thing he asked, before he sat down, was, how you were. Mama read him
Aunt Emily’s letter about you, and one of your letters. Andy soon came
in, and we had a great deal of most interesting conversation—on the
respective influences of town and country—on French, English, and
Americans—on animals, of which Ruskin is very fond—on Reserve and
Cordelia. When Ruskin said something about reserve, Andy and Ockey
exclaimed, laughing, “Oh you should ask Minnie,” which made me feel very
hot and blush. Ruskin took my part and was very kind. He agrees with me
in thinking it so much more easy to write than to speak about anything
one feels. Andy and Ockey disagreed about it. He agreed very much with
all Mama’s remarks. After tea we sang to Ruskin, which he liked, I
think; and it was very interesting to hear his remarks on the different
songs. He always chose out some point which he liked and which he could
praise, which was very pretty of him.
[Sidenote: RUSKIN ON POETRY AND SCENERY]
After that we spoke about poetry. He does not think anyone but a great
poet, who gives up his life to it, should attempt to write any. He says
there is always a good deal of vanity in it; and it spoils one’s ear for
good poetry to compose bad. Mama had been speaking of our poetry; Ruskin
asked Andy to repeat some, saying it would be very pretty of her to do
so, after all he had been saying against it. She did so, and I think he
was pleased with it, and the more so when he heard it had taken a long
time to write. He said that he could not judge of it by hearing it in
that way, and he should like a copy.
Ockey is drawing at Marlboro’ House, and Ruskin is at work in another
room; so he comes up once or twice to look at her work.
January 5th, 1858.
RUSKIN TO OCTAVIA.
MY DEAR OCTAVIA,
I am very glad you and your sisters and friend enjoyed the pictures, and
that you see how beautiful they are. They are quite infinite. I cannot
understand how any human work can possess so much of the
inexhaustibleness of nature.
Do not be sorry that you cannot see beautiful places at present. The
first sensation is a thing to look forward to with hope. It cannot be
had twice—it does not not much matter whether it comes sooner or later.
My lecture is at Kensington on the 13th of this month. If you find
difficulties in getting admission, write to me, and I will get you a
ticket or two.
I send you a new etching, and the print finished.
I only want the etching copied, but thought you would like to see how
Turner prepares in it for his light and shade.
Yours always most truly,
J. RUSKIN.
Kind regards to Mama, Miranda, and Minnie.
That story about the Fisherman always puzzled me sadly to know who the
Fish was. How could _he_ do so many things for the Fisherman?
Florence,
January 9th, 1858.
FLORENCE TO OCTAVIA.
I have spent an evening with Mrs. Browning. I will tell you all about
it; but first I must say how delighted I am with her. I felt from the
first minute how _simpatica_ she was to me, a woman one could love
dearly and admire. Last Tuesday B.[31] met Browning (who is always very
friendly), and he said “Will you come and take tea with us to-morrow
night?” Of course she accepted, and I was most delighted. Accordingly
the next evening we went. As we went in, I felt so excited; it is so
long that I have wanted to see her, and I said to myself that I should
be disappointed. Mr. Browning came forward cordially to welcome us; and
then came Mrs. Browning. She is very short indeed; but one does not
observe the shortness. She has long black curls, and large eyes; one can
hardly say what colour; in some lights they look a beautiful brown; in
others a dark grey; as for the other features they are not pretty; in
fact I suppose she would not be considered at all pretty; but to me she
is a great deal more. She shook hands very kindly and made me sit on the
sofa by her. There was also Mrs. Jameson. She is quite an old lady with
mild blue eyes. There was also Mr. Tennyson, Alfred Tennyson’s brother.
There was a good deal of small talk, and there was a discussion about
places. Mrs. Jameson asked a good deal about Viareggio. At last the
conversation turned towards England. It is evident neither Mrs. Browning
nor her husband like England much.
[Sidenote: MRS. BROWNING ON ENGLAND]
She began abusing it, saying she always felt so downcast when there,
that the sky felt as if it was falling down, and the rooms were so
small; she finished by saying, “I do not sympathise with those who have
yearnings after England.” Then she turned to me and said, “Perhaps you
can tell me something about yearnings after England. Do you yearn after
it?” “Oh yes,” I said, “very much indeed; I love England, and would not
live out of it for long for anything.” “Why not?” said Mrs. Jameson in
her quiet yet energetic way. So I said, “Firstly Mama and all my sisters
are there,” and I was going to say more, when other visitors were
announced and there was a general stir. Mrs. Browning said to me, with a
very sweet smile, “I am sure it is a very good reason.” ... There was a
great deal of very interesting conversation about women, with regard to
their right to property when married. Mrs. Jameson was very energetic
about it, though I did not think her reasoning was good; also Mrs.
Browning talked very nicely about it; but I could not hear all that she
said, because I had changed places, and was not near her; and she has
such a small voice, that it is difficult to hear what she says. They
wanted to get Mr. Browning to sign a petition to Parliament, showing the
injustice done to women, according to the present law, about their
property. I liked what he said very much. He has very liberal ideas
about it, and was quite willing to sign; only he did not know how the
law could be altered without entailing other greater injustices.
However, at the end, he said he would sign. I think he does everything
that his wife wishes. It is so nice to see them together; they are so
exceedingly fond of one another, and he is so attentive to her. There
was a great deal of merry conversation. When we were leaving Mrs.
Browning said, “This is the first time you have spent the evening here;
but I hope it won’t be the last.”
April 21st, 1858.
TO MRS. HOWITT.
MY DEAREST MRS. HOWITT,
How glorious this weather is! To-day I saw, in a little back street near
Soho, two little golden-haired children, leaning out of a window in the
early sunlight, gazing intently into a bird’s cage, hanging on the
wall;—the poor little prisoner singing as if his little heart would
break. Just so, I thought, the children here may want _us_; but we must
break our hearts in longing for the distant glories of hill and wood. In
a moment, one felt that it ought rather to teach that even here Spring
brought joys—that we have visions and witnesses of brighter lands and
fairer lives than we can see around us.
Derwent Bank,
July 4th, 1858.
TO A FRIEND.
To me the whole world is so full of things crying out to be done, each
one of which would be sufficient for a lifetime’s heart and thought, I
think. In fact each work seems to be interesting in almost exact
proportion to the amount I can devote to it, capable of infinite
expansion in breadth or depth. For my part I would always rather choose
the latter, would rather take up wholly a few individuals or pictures or
books, and love and know and study them deeply, than have any more
superficial (though wider) sympathies; and my trial is, and has always
been, that I have to tear myself away from this intense grasp and
absorbing interest, to love and know and help in fresh and fresh
directions. I have often felt like a perpetually uprooted plant. Only
somehow in looking back, I find continuity and deep inner relation
between the various works and times of my life, and always find the past
a possession because in memory I have it still....
[Sidenote: DEPTH BETTER THAN BREADTH]
I am so glad you will not turn the ignorant ones out of the class, at
any rate yet. I know well one weakens one’s hands by not keeping one
distinct aim before one; but then one never likes not to meet any
effort, however small, on the part of people under one’s charge. I have
not always the courage to give myself pain of that kind, I believe.
How very beautiful the lines on the Supper are!
4, Russell Place,
August 1st, 1858.
TO MIRANDA AND EMILY.
Take dearest Mama under your special care, for she will not take care of
herself under her own. Send her back stronger, I charge you. Also think
of your old sister here, and how she loves you both, and thinks of you.
You won’t think her unkind not to come, knowing what prevents her, and
she hopes her previous consent proves to you that work and whims
wouldn’t have detained her. Be merry, be happy, be free; send for
anything conveyable that you want, and trust to Aladdin’s lamp. See what
grand things it has done already, and have faith.
August 8th, 1858.
TO GERTRUDE.
If we were all less self-occupied, what a depth of beauty and order we
should see in the influence of persons and things on people, traced in
the momentary lighting up of an eye, or the slight quiver of a lip,
which we lose perhaps in a fit of self-contemplation; and _that_
revelation of God’s purpose and way of work passes unnoticed, a cause of
praise and power lost to us. And then I would wish most lovingly to
grasp the whole purpose of each life, and influence of details on it, to
see all the strong impulses leading to selfishness or pride, or any form
of evil; to watch, not unaiding, the struggle with them; to contemplate
with intense sympathy and reverence every purifying affection,
stimulating hope, earnest purpose, self-control, and every form of good;
to look at all, not as one standing aloof or above; but as
fellow-worker, fellow-sufferer; to trace the same tendency to evil and
good in myself; to find the point or points, as one always does, in
which everyone is so much greater than oneself, that one bows before it
in joy and cries, “Thank God for it.”
4, Russell Place,
August 15th, 1858.
TO MRS. HILL.
R.[32] went on Wednesday. Her mother was much nicer at the last. I hear
from Brighton that the child is very happy. It would have done you good
to see her delight at her new clothes, and the care with which she went
to a clean crossing, tho’ the roads were not very muddy. Her
indifference about leaving home was, of course, very sad. But just as we
were going away, one of those immense Irish women one sometimes sees,
who was selling apples in the Old Bailey, called her back, and giving
her a kiss said, “God bless you, child. Be a good girl.”
[Sidenote: INVITATIONS AND HOLIDAYS]
I have wished Mary good-bye.... We spoke about my going back with her,
which is a relief. I don’t like a thing which both people know the other
is thinking of not spoken of and explained, and so I was very glad she
mentioned it.... _Private._ Would you ferret out for me whether A. is
looking forward to her half holiday for going to see people? and if she
is, say nothing; but, if she isn’t, ask her not to make any engagements
to go away, at first, out of charity or acquiescence, as I shall like
very much to have her at home. _Public again._ I have some more flowers
which are a great pleasure. Everyone is _very_ kind, that is to say
everyone I hear of or see; there are not many.
It seems so strange to feel the piano had not been opened for so long.
This morning I sang all our sacred music,—some that I am fond of and did
not know, I _spelt_ out on the piano. It reminded me, by contrast more
than by likeness, of the Sunday music we sometimes used to have. I have
invitations from Margaret and Gertrude which I shall accept, if I can,
after I know that Mary is gone; but next week my College opens. However,
considering that I have Wednesday free, I hope to get away. I do not
seem of any use to anyone, but I hope I shall do all the better when
work begins.... Thank you for all your long, most welcome, letters....
In constant thought of you, Yours Octavia.
August 19th, 1858.
TO EMILY.
(Tho’ this is for all of you.) It is but right and nice that, having
known of my long waiting, you should know now that I am quite satisfied.
Dear Mary has been here; and really, I don’t know how to be thankful
enough for having seen her so long and so delightfully. I waited all the
morning, getting more distracted and disappointed every quarter of an
hour; for I knew she must be back at Elmhurst at 6.30, and leave Camden
Road at 4.30; and 1, 2, 3 o’clock came. Before 3, however, I had quite
made up my mind to it. I did this the more easily, because I was sure
that, when she did come, if I had been repining and longing before, I
should be selfish and covetous then. Well, at 3.10 she arrived with such
a headache she could hardly stand.... In a very few minutes her head
grew better, and she resolved to go by the 5.50 train. And oh! we had
such an afternoon! It is worth more than many weeks with her in
society.... She asked to hear Andy’s song “Wilt Thou not visit me?”...
She promises that if she comes to London next year she will come to stay
here, if we still want her! At last we parted, not at all sadly. She is
so sweet and good.... Her heart was open as usual to hear all about
everyone,—Ruskin, Mr. Maurice and the children, in fact every person and
thing we care for.
August 17th, 1858.
TO MIRANDA.
Tell Minnie I have just finished Maurice’s “Ecclesiastical History.” I
am so very much interested in it, and think she would be even more so,
knowing so much about all the people. I should very much like to have a
talk with her about them, especially Polycarp, Clemens of Alexandria,
Irenaeus and Ignatius. I should like to know if she has been taught to
like Tertullian or not.... Ruskin’s work seems to take nearly all day.
My own needlework has hardly been touched since Mama left. Certainly I
have despatched R. I think singing and reading have flourished most. I
can’t consider Ruskin’s work has got on, because I was not at Marlboro’
House last week, tho’ in other respects it’s all right. I think, most of
my time _seems_ spent in putting the room neat.
[Sidenote: WORK FOR RUSKIN]
4, Russell Place,
August 26th, 1858.
TO MISS HARRIS.
Margaret[33] has been kindness itself.... She urges that Andy should
take a resident situation on account of her health. But Andy’s heart is
so clinging, and wound so fast round her home, her health even would
suffer.... Her influence on the children is the fruit of three years’
work.... Andy is the sunshine of her home.
4, Russell Place,
December 3rd, 1858.
EMILY TO MIRANDA.
Mr. Maurice talked to Ockey a good deal about the Bible Class at the
College. He wanted to know who some of the pupils were; and Ockey said
it was so interesting to hear his descriptions of the people, and see
the kinds of things he had noticed. One woman he said he met very often;
he fancied she was a milliner; and then he was so distressed lest this
little theory of his should have misled Ockey in any way; and he said he
was sure he did not know why he thought so.
45, Great Ormond Street,
December 8th, 1858.
TO MIRANDA, WHO WAS IN ITALY.
I am doing some work for “Modern Painters.” Ruskin is coming on Friday
to spend the evening with us. Dearest thing, I wish you knew how much I
feel your sweetness. Now I must tell you some news. Ruskin is most kind.
He called the Prouts “quite admirable,” the tones so even and pure;
“some of them,” he continued, “I like better than the originals. But I
think you might make your work more accurate!” Is not the last an odd
remark? He was so delighted with the progress of my Portman Hall pupils,
quite astonished. He writes: “I wish I had seen Miranda before she went.
But I can’t do a tenth of the things I want to do.”
4, Russell Place,
December 12th, 1858.
EMILY TO FLORENCE.
When Ockey saw Ruskin, he said that he should be sure to come, unless
his father should propose for them to go to the play that night, in
which case, he must put off almost any engagement.
On Friday we got all the room beautifully neat, and decorated with
sprays and leaves that dear Gertrude had sent us from Weybridge. Ockey
and I were in white with black ribbons, and dear Mama looked very nice
in her black dress with white collar and sleeves. There was a splendid
fire, and tea very prettily set out, and all looked cheerful and nice.
When we were all ready and seven o’clock came, Ockey and I began to get
very anxious lest he should not come; listening most intently to all the
carriages, and sitting with the door open, and candle ready to light him
upstairs. A quarter past seven came, and Ockey said, “Well at half past
I shall give up all hope and begin to cry. The only thing that makes me
think he is coming is, that the lamp burns so remarkably well.” A
carriage stopped; a knock at the door came. Ockey, much to my surprise,
would run down to meet him. Mama and I sat demurely on the sofa, and
waited till he came in. He had brought a number of sketches to show
us—all his summer’s work. Was it not kind? When we were all seated, he
asked directly about Andy. How she had got on, on her journey, and how
she had found you. When Mama began talking about you both, he said so
sweetly and sympathetically, “I hope it does not pain you to talk about
these things.”
[Sidenote: VISIT FROM RUSKIN]
He explained to Ockey, one of the first things, that he had not brought
her any birthday present; that it must be a Christmas present, as he had
wanted to know what books she had. Ockey said something about “Oh no! he
did so much”; and Mama said that when we were children, she had
introduced the practice of our _giving_ presents on our birthdays,
rather than receiving them, because she had wished to impress on us that
we were born to give, rather than to receive. Ruskin said that he
thought it was very ungracious that friends should come to a person, and
expect them to give them presents, because it was their birthday, as
much as to say, “You came into the world to give to us. Prove to us that
you are of some good.”
Then Ruskin made a remark about the cream and said that the difficulty
people had in getting cream in London was a proof that it was growing
too large. Ockey said that so much milk and cream came from the country,
and asked Mama if she remembered the cans they had seen the morning they
came from Cambridge. This led to their speaking of the pleasure of their
visit, and, among other things, Ockey spoke of the sunlight dying away
from the stained glass windows in King’s College chapel, when they were
at the service there. Ruskin said there was hardly anything more
solemnly impressive than the death of a stained glass window; and then
he said how very little influence the beauty of the Universities had on
the men. He says they are proud of them, but nothing more; that when he
first went to College he thought it very grand and fine; but soon lost
all the impression of solemnity, and looked on the gowns as so many
black rags, and the service in the chapel as a daily punishment; and he
found that it was the case with all the young men he met. Only perhaps
Tennyson or other poets care for it. Ockey said, “Well! people don’t
feel it at the time, I think they do afterwards. I know many people who
speak with such great pleasure of their University. I am sure it is
quite beautiful to hear Mr. Maurice speak of it.” Ruskin said, “Well!
but Mr. Maurice is a poet.” At which Mama and Ockey said they thought
him anything but that. Mama said how very seldom he made any similes;
Ruskin said, “But I do not look upon it that a poet’s work is to make
similes; but to make things.” He said he did not know much about Mr.
Maurice; he had not read much of his, he found it such hard work. He
could not follow him. He seemed like a man who did not see clearly, and
was always stretching out, moving on in the right direction, but in a
fog.
[Sidenote: OCTAVIA AND RUSKIN ON F. D. MAURICE]
Ockey said, “No! I don’t believe it is so at all. Mr. Maurice quite
understands what he means himself; and the difficulty which people find
in understanding him, arises partly from his style, and partly that
people require to understand his way of putting things.” Ruskin said,
“I’m very glad to hear you say that you think Mr. Maurice knows what he
means himself; but I had always thought that the very greatest men were
essentially simple. The only great man I know who is not, Dante, throws
out a word or two quite knowing what he means, and says, ‘Think out
that,’ and people do not know which end of the thing they have got, and
so quarrel over what he does mean. But when he says anything directly,
it is very clear and simple. And so with _all really_ great men.”
[Sidenote: RUSKIN ON THE DANGER OF UNSELFISHNESS]
I said that Mr. Maurice had a wonderful power of understanding his
pupils’ answers, of finding out what they meant by confused answers, of
getting at the truth they wished to bring out, and of putting it so
clearly to them. Ruskin replied that _that_ was a very great thing.
Ockey said yes it was very beautiful; and that she could not understand
how it was he had such a knowledge of human nature, when he had no
knowledge of individuals. I said, “Perhaps he has more than you think.”
Ockey said, “Of course _you_ would solve the matter in that way.” Ruskin
asked why, and O. said, “Because Minnie has such an admiration for Mr.
Maurice.”—Ruskin said, “Well, Minnie, as you admire Mr. Maurice so much,
can you explain why it is that he is so pained at being misunderstood?”
Ockey answered for me, to my relief and said, “Oh, you refer to the
Preface of the ‘Doctrine of Sacrifice.’ I think it is because he longs
so much for Union.” Ruskin said that was a very good answer. He repeated
again that he was glad we thought Mr. Maurice knew what he meant. O.
said, “O yes, and I would engage to make anyone who took the trouble to
read a small piece of his writing carefully, master the style and
understand him, in three-quarters of an hour.” Ruskin said he would take
her at her word; for he wished to understand Mr. Maurice, and that he
would make out clearly, as his tutor used to say, what he did and what
he did not understand, and ask her about any difficulty he had. So O.
said, would he read the sermon on Mr. Mansfield’s death? And he said he
did not want to read anything about death; it made him so very sad. O.
said she did not think it would make him sad to read what Mr. Maurice
said about death, and explained who Mr. Mansfield was. When Ruskin
remembered, he was interested, and took the sermon. They were talking
about the want of music in Mr. Maurice’s writings; and O. asked Ruskin
what he thought of Kingsley’s poems. Ruskin had not read them; but he
did not like hexameters, he could not read them, even for the sake of a
fine thought; for perhaps the thought would make him remember the
hexameter, which would be too great a punishment. O. said she thought
the ballads very beautiful,—R. said he only knew the poems in “Alton
Locke,” and he liked those very much. Mama asked if he knew the “Three
Fishers,” and asked us to sing it, which we did, without the music of
course. Ruskin was pleased both with words and music. But he said that
in general he thought Kingsley too sad, and that he injured the purpose
for which he wrote by being exaggerated and not correct in his facts. We
were talking about happiness, and Kingsley’s suffering so much when he
came to town. Ruskin said for his part he was never happy except when he
was selfish, when he shut himself up, and read only the books he liked,
or enjoyed the sunshine and nature. He did not know how it was that,
whenever he did what he believed to be right, he suffered for it; that
it seemed like his unlucky star. O. said, “Don’t talk about stars. What
do you mean by it?” R. said, “Well, I will give you a small crumb of an
instance. When I was travelling a great many years ago, at a time my
father was ill, I met with a picture of Turner’s, one of the finest he
ever did. I did not quite know the value of it myself; and I knew that
it would vex my father if I bought it without his leave; so I wrote back
to him. Meanwhile the picture was bought by some one, who utterly
destroyed it. Now if I had bought it, it might have made my father lose
his appetite for a day, but nothing more. And this is only one small
instance. It is always the way when I do right. Miss Edgeworth would
have made the picture go to a round of people, converting them to
Turner, and come back to me crowned with laurel. I was brought up on
Miss Edgeworth’s principles; but I have not found them at all true in my
case.” Mama said there was a truth in them, but that in some respects
they were very false; that she believed that every one had to suffer
very much in doing right; that she had felt it so particularly about
Ruskin himself; that the brave and true things he said were often
misunderstood; but that she always felt her heart warm towards him, and
she thought to herself,—if only people would receive them as they were
meant. “But,” she said, “I think you may be very happy that you do
excite the kind of admiration that you do, in many people; and that you
have the power of exciting the noble and beautiful emotions which your
words and writings do.” Ruskin said that he would wish his word about
art to be taken just in the same way that a physician’s or lawyer’s
would be about medicine or law. O. said she was sure it was so, more
than he thought; and that it was a growing thing. That a lady had said
to her the other day, that a word from him would be enough to ruin her;
and O. added, “At which I felt very proud.” She said that she thought
when people did right, the good they expected very often did _not_ come,
because they were not perfectly wise, as well as perfectly right; but
that, tho’ they had to suffer for want of judgment, in the end they were
always blessed; but in different ways from those they had expected;
that, as long as people calculated results, they could not do right;
they must do right for right’s sake.
Ruskin said, “Do you mean to say that a man, who had been very selfish,
and thought he would make himself happy by going out and giving to all
the beggars he met, would not succeed?” O. said, “No! he might at first,
but he would find afterwards that he had gathered around him many people
who only cared for his money. Whereas, if a man did the same thing from
a sincere love for his fellow creatures, he would not have the pain of
suspecting the motives of all around him, and he would have the sympathy
of those engaged in the same good work.” They were speaking of the
blessing of having the sympathy of people, and R. said he had some
people who understood him. O. said, with a very bright smile, “Oh have
you?” R. said, “Yes. I think you do pretty well.”
Then Mama read Miranda’s letter about her voyage from Marseilles, with
which R. was much pleased, and said it recalled all the scenery to him;
and when she came to the part about the red sail, he told O. to remind
him to show her a small Turner in the National Gallery which showed the
wonderful beauty of a red sail. He asked if there were part of another
letter he might hear, and anything about Florence. I brought Andy’s to
me, and while it was being read I turned my face away for fear of its
telling too much, as I could hardly bear it; but when the thought of you
both changed into joy, I lifted my face and met such a look of
tenderness and sympathy. When the letter was finished, R. said to Mama,
“How happy you must be in them all!” “Thank you. It is very beautiful.”
[Sidenote: RUSKIN’S CONVERSATION]
Then he showed us the sketches. I don’t think I shall ever forget them.
I see them constantly at night when I shut my eyes. They have given me
most beautiful visions of lovely scenery. One of the things which gave
me the most pleasure was to hear R. talk about them with such perfect
humility, condemning or praising them, just as if they had been another
person’s work, no false shame in admiring them, and entering with such
hearty sympathy into our pleasure in them. Then came a quiet talk, which
I think R. quite enjoyed. I felt as if we had come nearer to him than
ever; as if he were opening something of his heart, and asking for help.
He said once, “I do not say any of these things to make you sad, but
because I think you may say something to make me happier.” He was
regretting that the colours of a sunset faded; and I said I thought the
changefulness of nature was one of its greatest beauties. At first he
agreed; and then he said, “No, it reminded him how all things must pass
away.” Then we had a very solemn talk about good being continued in
another world, and the purpose of sorrow. I said that it was most
comforting to me to look back, and see how things which had seemed so
sad turned out as blessings. R. said, “It may be so with you good
people; but if I look back it is to find blunders. To remember the past
is like Purgatory.” O. said that the past interpreted the present, and
made her hopeful for the future. I think some of the things we said
(especially what Mama said) may have made him happier. When he heard
that his carriage had come, he said something about its being sad that
evenings went so fast. Indeed he stayed long after his carriage had
come, and when he was half down stairs, returned to look at O.’s pupils’
drawings of his own accord, and said he was in no hurry if she had
anything else to tell him. When we thanked him for coming, he said that
he ought not to be thanked, as he had so much enjoyed himself.
December 19th, 1858.
EMILY TO MIRANDA.
Dear Ockey has had rather a disappointment lately about her work,—that
is to say she has been awakened to the sense of its not being as
accurate as she had hoped it was. She wrote to Ruskin to ask about his
employing a young artist. He wrote back very kindly saying he could
employ two or three girls, supposing they could copy accurately; but
accuracy meant so much. “Even you are nothing near the mark yet, tho’
the Claude foreground is a step in advance.” Of course O. knew that the
things she had done in water colour were very far from right; but she
had thought that her pencil and pen work was very nearly so. In the same
letter he said that he always had a chivalrous desire to help women, but
he began to think his old lady friends were right when they cautioned
him against it, as he had found all his girl protegés, with the
exception of Ockey, “very sufficiently troublesome.” She met him the
same day at Dulwich, and he was very kind; and if she can have a little
bright weather, so as to get on with her Dulwich work, she will be in
good spirits again, I think.
[Sidenote: RUSKIN’S SKETCHES]
4, Russell Place,
December 19th, 1858.
TO MIRANDA.
Now for Ruskin. Minnie has told you something about the evening; but
nothing about the sketches. The first we saw was one of an old walled
and fortified town in Switzerland, with little arched gateway guarded by
towers and wall; the moat is dried up and filled up; long grass and
buttercups grow there. Then he showed us a view of the cliffs which form
the banks of Lake Lucerne; their tops are for the most part
inaccessible, quite lonely, haunted only by the eagle. “Fancy, Octavia,”
Ruskin said, “walking up there, where one can get among chestnut glades,
along winding paths, bringing you suddenly to the edge, and looking down
on the blue water.” He showed us two sketches of Morgarten. Then he
showed us exquisite sketches of Bellinzona, where the three Forest
Cantons had each a castle built on a high rock. He has done the whole
thing in the loveliest way, making a kind of plan of the whole, and
sketching large and carefully in colour each bit of it, even the little
rows of leaves on a bank. But nothing can explain to you the sense of
size and space and grandeur conveyed by the drawing of hundreds of
pines, chestnuts and poplars, yet each seen as part of an enormous
whole. The sketch of Bellinzona Ruskin had drawn from the priest’s
garden, a lovely spot on a rock near the chapel and house, on the side
of a steep craggy cliff, the little posts carefully bricked up to
support a patch of mould here and there, on one of which was planted
corn. Among it grew white lilies seen against a further piece of
brightest green grass; beyond lay the ravine of the Ticino, and beyond
again the mountains.... Miss B. has been offered the Secretaryship of
the Children’s Hospital; but her father and mother say that no daughter
ought to leave home except to be married, or to earn her own living,
witness Florence Nightingale, who has returned a mere wreck. Why if ever
there was an example fitted to stir up heroism it might be hers! I
wonder if her mother were asked whether she was prouder and fonder of
her before her work or after? or whether she grudged the health which
she herself has sacrificed so willingly? I am going daily to Dulwich. It
is a long walk even if I take omnibus between Charing Cross and
Camberwell Gate.