MILTON STREET, DORSET SQUARE
DECEMBER, 1858—APRIL, 1861.
When Miranda went to Italy, in 1858, Octavia suggested to her
grandfather that it would be more economical, as well as more
comfortable, if she and her mother and Emily could move into
_un_furnished rooms. Octavia said that, if he would lend the money for
furniture, she would be able to repay him out of what would be saved
on rent. He kindly undertook to lend the required amount; and, after
the rooms had been secured, Octavia made out a list of necessary
furniture, with approximate prices. Then after her day’s work, she
visited various shops, and with Gertrude’s and Emily’s help chose what
was required. If she spent more on one thing, she took the amount off
something else; and she determined that she would keep to the fixed
sum. This was achieved. Then she planned and cut the carpet, and each
evening she and Emily sat on the floor sewing it. One night they
worked till 12 o’clock. All this time Octavia was going each morning
to Dulwich, where she stood drawing for about four hours, then she
went to Great Ormond Street to the Women’s Classes, and walked from
there to Milton Street, Dorset Square. Yet she was as merry as
possible, and sang and repeated poetry while she and Emily were at
work. And in due time she repaid the money that she had borrowed.
103, Milton St., Dorset Sq.,
January 4th, 1859.
MRS. HILL TO HER DAUGHTER MIRANDA.
I only came to this house to-day. It is so very pretty; you and Florence
would be enchanted with it. Dear Ockey and Minnie must have worked so
hard; they would not let me have any trouble, but arranged it all, and
beautiful indeed it looks: the crimson table cover and chair cover and
green carpet and white muslin curtains and white walls with roses, make
such a lovely combination, and I enjoy the nice square high rooms. Miss
Sterling, who called yesterday, exclaimed, “What a dainty room you
have.” It certainly does give one a most pleasant sense of simplicity,
cleanliness, and beautiful colour.
January 25th, 1859.
OCTAVIA TO MIRANDA.
... I think you will like our dear new home; the prettiness of it is a
continual delight to me, and I am most thankful for its order and
cleanliness.... I am so fond of it.... I was amazed to find how much you
had all thought of Ruskin’s statement about my accuracy. Of course I was
disappointed, because I thought the battle was won; but you see it
referred to pencil and colour sketches, in which I had not tried mainly
for accuracy, believing that I need not try, that the amount of
measurement I gave it secured it; and I had other things to aim at. It
was not colour or pencil sketches that he ever praised for accuracy. (Oh
yes, the first coloured one; but then it had so little colour). I never
thought for a moment my eye was accurate about anything, unless it were
matching colours. I only thought that, by some miracle, the things I had
done were as accurate as human work need be; and that all would continue
so, if I worked in the same way. Now that I know where I am, I don’t
doubt I can win the battle in time by steady work; and I have not been
the least cast down about it, since the first hour I knew it. I am very
impatient to get home and see how Minnie is. I didn’t like leaving the
darling all alone.
[Sidenote: CONVALESCENCE]
TO HER SISTERS.
... Don’t let anyone frighten you about my health; I think they none of
them are frightened now; but, whether or no, I am resolved to take the
most immense care; for I think it probable this will be required for a
little time, and that it is very important that I should preserve both
health and strength.... I enjoy Dulwich[34] extremely; you know it is so
nice to see a little country. I only go three days in the week now,
because of fatigue and expense.... I have such lovely walks home past
trees with rooks’ nests, you remember them. Our home is in such
exquisite order; for dear M. has the housekeeping and everything is as
orderly and noiseless and comfortable as can be. I hope she won’t find
it too much for her ... the rooms are very pretty and comfortable. For
my part I greatly fear I’m growing idle, I never seem hard worked now,
and I never seem to do needlework or anything. I take it however very
quietly, and don’t mean to exert myself just now unless I need....
Ruskin was so kind when he heard I had been ill. He wrote to tell me to
write and let him know whether I ought not to stop working for some
time....
February 7th.—We went to a Pre-Raph. Exhib., and saw the loveliest wood
in Spring, full of harebells, a thorn tree casting a shadow over some of
the flowers.
February 27th, 1859.
EMILY TO HER SISTER MIRANDA.
... Ockey has just received another Veronese to copy for her work at
home. She has begun doing it so beautifully. She is distressed at only
working three hours on Dulwich days; so she has begun working in her
spare time at the College, and by that she will manage six hours _every_
day....
We are very regular with our reading three evenings a week from nine to
ten. Mama reads and Ockey and I work.... I think Ockey is becoming
converted to Shakespeare. Dear Mama reads it so beautifully.
February, 1859.
MY DEAR MR. RUSKIN,
I thank you for your letter. “What has been the matter?” you ask.
Physically, only this, I have severe pains in walking distances that I
used to manage easily. But you would quite laugh if you saw me, to hear
me speak of want of strength.
But the truth is that, if enough is as good as a feast, too little must
be as bad as a famine; and I feared that I had just too little for my
work. But everyone agrees that it isn’t fatigue that has made me ill,
but responsibility and worry and want of change. It’s my own fault. I
ought to take things more quietly and not think that so very much
depends on my deciding wisely, and not nearly break my heart if things
go wrong for a time.
I think you’re mistaken about the teaching, which is hopeful and
refreshing. As to sentiment there are few people who have not stronger
feelings than I have. I assure you, I am considered _the_ person in the
family, who is without imagination, poetry, feeling, affection. Good
only to do a sum, carry a weight, go a long walk in the rain, or decide
any difficult question about tangible things. You happen to know the
other side of me. All _that’s_ kept in, that I may do my work; and you
don’t know what a life of calculation and routine and steadiness mine
is. I’m told that the best developed organ that I have is that of
caution.
[Sidenote: ESTIMATE OF HER OWN CHARACTER]
However, thank you, I hope I haven’t “come to a smash.” I’m gloriously
well to-day, and I’ve done my full work; perhaps I may manage five days
at Dulwich after all. I think I wrote too seriously, and I beg your
pardon. You can imagine the horror of being ill, to a person whose whole
heart is in what they do, and who has never been obliged to calculate
strength, but only time.
Never mind, I’m in glorious spirits now. The Salvator is going on well.
I’m not the least afraid of anything. I will conscientiously take care
of my health; and, if I lose it then, I can’t help it. I should like to
leave them all comfortable, and learn to love them, and to live to do
some drawing worth doing and to see the Alps; and then I’d leave the
world in God’s hands who made it. In the meantime I’ll order the
dinners, and try to be quiet and sensible, if you will go on having
patience with me. You’ll see me rational and quiet some day. You mustn’t
expect a great deal of wisdom, in spite of my having begun with hard
experiences so young. You know I’m only a little more than twenty; and
it takes a long time and a great deal to teach me anything. I assure you
I try to be calm and sensible about all things, and if I say foolish
things, I don’t often do them, as our condition here shows. I never, but
for two days in my life, felt so strongly about anything as to prevent
my working and both times I think you would admit that I had sufficient
cause. So neither feelings nor excitement do anyone very much harm.
Most sincere thanks for your letter. You won’t forget the out of the way
ways that I can help you. I will be sure not to overwork myself; and it
would be a great pleasure to me to help you more.
I am,
Yours affectionately,
OCTAVIA HILL.
103, Milton Street, Dorset Square,
March 6th, 1859.
TO MIRANDA.
... Ruskin has written me such a kind letter telling me to take as long
a holiday as I like.... I am to do “such a difficult thing from Turner”
at South Kensington soon. I was much puzzled, knowing _that_ would
prevent my beginning work till ten o’clock any day; so after much
thought I meant to give up the College. I mentioned it to Miss Sterling,
who seemed quite dismayed, said I must know they could not possibly
supply my place; it was impossible; the whole flourishing or decay of
the classes depended on whom they had in my place; my value could not be
calculated in £. s. d., or in any number of mechanical performances. So
after calculating that I could get at the worst thirty or thirty-three
hours’ work weekly, I resolved to remain. I had no idea Miss Sterling
cared so much about it.... To-morrow we have a grand tea-meeting at the
Young Women’s; Lord Shaftesbury will be there.... I draw at the College
daily now. I have such nice expeditions to Dulwich, I go over the
fields, and now the leaves are coming out it is most lovely.
Minnie and I never sing here now at all, we haven’t time.
[Sidenote: HER PUPILS IN DRAWING]
March 27th, 1859.
TO MIRANDA.
I really could not write last Sunday. I am now writing in the lovely
early morning, before setting off to go to the eight o’clock Communion
service at Lincoln’s Inn. We shall think of you both.... I have nearly
finished the cloud I have been copying at Dulwich, and am anxiously
expecting Ruskin’s criticism on it. You know I am going to Normandy on
or about the 16th; fortunately I do not yet realise it, except as a
point before which certain works must be done and preparations made; but
when I am fairly off I suppose I shall believe it; and not until then. I
think you would be very much interested in some of my drawing pupils.
One little boy, James, is my great favourite. He is ten years old, and
tells me he has lived in Worcestershire until last September; but he is
not like a country child, he is so intelligent. He has bright beautiful
eyes, and I like to see his queer little figure in his pretty white
blouse waiting for me at the door. He is so earnest and interested in
his drawing, and works so very hard at it, it is quite delightful to
teach him. Then there is a little girl, Annie, who is now so good and
attentive. I like to see her dear pretty little head, bent down over her
drawing. She has a beautifully fair skin, and when I find fault with
her, all her face colours; and she has large blue eyes with long lashes
and soft fair hair. She hasn’t special talent for drawing like James,
but I like her personally so much. My women are progressing surely and
steadily. They’re getting the right spirit and aims. I take them leaves
and sprays to show them their beauties and teach them their names.... I
am reading the first volume of “Modern Painters.” I thought you would
like to look at these pictures in the light of his words.... I am so
very much wrapped up in my drawing I seem to think of little else; and
yet I do manage somehow to remember and dwell on a great deal besides. I
often think of you both.
103, Milton Street,
April 3rd, 1859.
TO MIRANDA.
I have been suffering with severe pains in my back, but else I am quite
well and I hope Normandy will set me up in health. It will seem very
strange to you, but I dread it. I have been working so long, I don’t
feel as if I knew how to stop. I am afraid I shall be in everyone’s way,
and do everything awkwardly and ill. Mary[35] will forgive me however.
Dear Mary! Mrs. Harrison writes that she is looking forward to my visit
most eagerly; and she thinks it will do her a great deal of good.
You will know how thankful I am that we shall stay in this dear little
home. I need not tell you how kind everyone is, you know they always
were, but it seems to me as if people even increased in kindness
wherever I go, from the old man who takes care of the pictures at
Dulwich, and brings me his first wallflowers and spray of sweet-briar,
to Mr. Maurice’s ready advice; poor and rich, learned and unlearned, old
foe and new friend seem to help us; when I am good and humble and walk
home watching the sunset or rooks’ nests against the night sky, I often
repeat the Magnificat and think thankfully of all people’s kindness.
Sometimes I look back thro’ the strange long years and trace the growth
of things and people. Then, dears, I think of you both.
[Sidenote: ITALIAN WAR OF LIBERATION]
Via della Scala,
April 5th, 1859.
FLORENCE TO OCTAVIA.
You ask me if there is any danger for English at Florence. Everyone says
that as long as the English minister is here, we are perfectly safe;
but, if England takes any decided part in the war, if the minister goes,
and it is not safe for the English to remain, they will be ordered to
go, and a certain time allowed them; but people seem to think it very
unlikely.... There is a great deal of excitement among the Italians, and
a great deal of fine feeling. I heard an anecdote the other day which
pleased me very much, particularly as it was about a Leghorn boatman,
which I had always thought to be the most horrid class possible. There
were two young men volunteers, who had to cross in a boat to go
somewhere; on landing, they gave the boatman 5 pauls; he still held out
his hand; they thought he was not contented, and gave him a Napoleon; he
continued to hold out his hand, “What is it?” they said.—“Take your
money back,” he replied. “I never have taken any from volunteers, and
hope never to do so; but if you would shake hands with me, I _should_
like to shake hands with any one who is going to fight for Italy.”
45, Great Ormond St.
April 16th, 1859.
EMILY TO HER SISTER MIRANDA.
You will be glad to hear that Ockey has really gone to Dieppe ... It
seemed a great pity to shorten her holiday by two days, because of her
college work this afternoon, which I was fortunately able to take....
She saw Ruskin yesterday. She went to Dulwich and took her work from
there to Denmark Hill. Ruskin had said in his letter that he had only a
quarter of an hour to spare; so of course she was careful to go away
after a quarter of an hour; but altho’ her visit was so very short, it
seems to have been very nice. Ruskin was very pleased with all her work.
The cloud is to be left till his return in the autumn; and O. is to draw
other things at Dulwich, which Ruskin wants for the “Modern Painters.”
She is also to copy Turners at South Kensington, directly the pictures
go there from Marlborough House; so this summer she will have three days
at Dulwich and three at Kensington.
In speaking of the cloud, O. said that it was all wrong; why did Ruskin
praise it? And he said he knew it was wrong, but that it was very
difficult indeed. Salvator had a great deal of power, and what he blamed
him for was for misdirecting it.
The Veronese which O. had been doing at home, Ruskin was delighted with.
He said he wanted to keep it, to show some people what girls could do.
You may think what a state of excitement dear Ockey was in yesterday
with seeing Ruskin and with the thought of her journey.... Her costume
looked so pretty and suitable. Gertrude made her a present of such a
beautiful black silk dress, so nicely made that it has disclosed to me,
what I did not know before, that Ockey has an extremely pretty figure.
[Sidenote: EXPERIENCES OF TRAVEL]
27, Faubourg de la Barre, Dieppe.
April 18th, 1859.
TO HER MOTHER.
I am quietly, splendidly happy; everyone is kindness itself. I had a
very rough passage indeed, but the wind was favourable and never shall I
forget the vanishing of the cliffs of England in a deep intense blue
mist of cloud, as the storms came on. I stayed on deck all the six hours
we were on board, standing on a bench looking over the changing space of
waters; the fresh free wind blowing delightfully. The old look of all
things is enchanting; high flint walls are built up the hills, out of
which grow hundreds of wallflowers. The large old church, with its
time-eaten stones and boldly carved gargoyles, delights me more than
anything; its pinnacles rise up in the sunny air; and its lovely flying
buttresses against the blue sky, all crested and crowned with
wallflowers and ferns; and all the grey stone mellowed and toned by
thousands of gold and silver lichens.
I hope you are all comfortable and have all that you want. Tell Minnie
that, though I gave her directions about what she was to do, she is not
to think that I mean to bind her to do these things if circumstances
alter. She will use her own judgment.
I took a vehement determination to have nothing to do with a short stout
repulsive foreigner, who sat in the railway carriage opposite to me, and
who, to my consternation, was most polite and attentive.
Tell Minnie this, it will amuse her. He was a man of immense curiosity;
and, I must in justice allow, he gave me no cause whatever for my
aversion to him unless it were that, though he was willing enough to
discourse about France, Switzerland, etc., or open and shut windows when
he had nothing else to do, he took good care to keep all his energies
for himself at any time of bustle; and, after chattering nearly three
hours to me, directly we reached Dieppe he never even looked round to
see if I’d met my friends, or told or showed me anything, though he knew
the regulations of the city well—which would have surprised me if I’d
trusted his nasty eye, and would have made me feel desolate, if I hadn’t
been who I am, and in a state of happy and independent resolution
(which, perhaps, I ought to give him credit for perceiving). I was
really glad of his chatter at last, for I thought the voyage long.
April 24th, 1859.
TO EMILY.
It has seemed to me so wonderful really to see large spaces of almost
uninhabited country; they give me a sense of loneliness and quiet, quite
unequalled and delightful. We came to a large lonely château, surrounded
with firs, just as the sun sank behind a low hill, towards which it
looked. The hill, the firs, the birches opposite stood up dark against
the sunset. Oh! it was so lovely! That night (Thursday) we slept at
Houden in a room with great whitewashed beams, looking out over the
yard. We didn’t sleep, we were so cold; and we got up only just in time
for the diligence to Rambouillet. The country was flattish, and very
like Weybridge in soil and trees and plants; only the poplars were
exquisitely graceful. I never knew what avenues were till now. They are
lovely, and seem to me to be particularly interesting in being so
orderly; yet the order was only discerned, the beauty only felt, from
one spot....
We could hardly bear the suspense of climbing the hill, on which it[36]
stood. We wanted to see the carving, and could hardly have borne the
time, but that we saw its spires. At last we stood at its foot, and saw
the great thing towering in the sunlighted blue vault. We could not tear
ourselves away from the rich old porches at the north end; tho’ we were
sinking with hunger;—one exclaiming, “Oh this is St. Peter—his key!
look!” Another discovering, with delight, that there was the Virgin, or
there was the Righteous Judgment. At last we went and had dinner, and on
returning, entered.
I think you will be greatly amused to hear of our adventures, and all
the people we have seen. I have to do all the talking to people, I’m
getting quite ready to ask questions, and it increases the fun very
much.[37] We have been in the most complete country and among quite
rustic things; and I have laughed more since I came to France, than I
have done for years, I think. I can’t say that I think the people very
nice; they are extremely polite, except the soldiers, but are wretched
beggars.... I hope, dear people, that all goes on well with you, and
that all is comfortable. Pray tell me if it is not.
Via della Scala,
Tuesday, April 24th, 1859.
FLORENCE TO OCTAVIA.
There is great excitement in the town; a great many people about, and a
great many gens d’armes. It seems the troops here want to go off to the
war; and the Grand Duke does not know what to do; the soldiers are in
great excitement, and it was said if he did not let them go there would
be a revolution, or something or other to-day.
The poor old Hyena does not know what to do, he has too many keepers. _I
believe_ the end will be he will abdicate, and leave the management of
affairs to his sons. Many people are going: and still more are talking
about it, because of the war and the unsettled state of affairs. I
cannot say I feel at all afraid, I feel so perfectly safe. I am in the
hands of One who knows what is best. In case of a revolution, everyone
seems to think there would be no danger for private individuals. The
Italians, especially the Florentines, are a good people, passionate, but
not bloodthirsty and savage like the French. It would certainly be very
shocking to be among scenes of violence; and I do hope the _French_ will
not come here, on any excuse. Of course there is no knowing.
Wednesday, April 25th, 1859.
Well here we are without a government! Old Hyena has decamped, and all
the family. The accounts at present are rather confused; but it seems
the troops said they _would_ go to the war, and it would be the worse
for the Grand Duke if he did not let them; so he was obliged to consent:
but then the people wanted a constitution, and he was to tell them his
decision at the Pitti Palace this afternoon; I do not know if he
appeared; but at six he was gone. To-morrow General something or other
from the King of Sardinia comes. You have no idea of the happy wild
excitement the town has been in all day; everywhere the Italian colours,
troops of men, with bright coloured flags, going about the streets,
crying “Viva l’Italia!” “Viva il re Vittorio Emanuele!” “Viva
l’independenza Italiana!”; at the cafés and hotels great flags up, and
hardly a man without a bow or feather or something of Italian colours.
It is very impressive and exciting; there is something so beautiful in
_unity_, in men forgetting for a time their petty cares and dislikes,
enmities, passions, interests, uniting in the great common feeling.
_Coachmen_ seem especially patriotic. I have not seen _one_ without the
Italian colours; perhaps it may be that, being mezza festa, and many
people wanting carriages, in the present state of feeling a coachman who
had the colours would be preferred. M. would call it very wrong of me to
be suspicious, and attribute bad motives to people.
[Sidenote: THE TUSCAN REVOLUTION]
I cannot help pitying poor old Hyena; I hope he is pretty comfortable.
No doubt he has been sending his things off for a long time. He would
not have been bad, if he had been a private gentleman, poor fellow; he
was out of his place, like a poor old dog having to draw a great cart.
There were great placards up saying that the Grand Duke had gone, and
that General —— from Piedmont would come, and in the meanwhile begging
of the people to behave properly, and not to make any disturbance. But
they were as peaceable as possible; seemed as if they would like to
shake hands with everyone. I never saw such a happy expression on the
Florentine faces; it was quite pleasant; even the little dust-heap boys
had the colours on their ragged hats. I wonder how it will all end. What
a terrible thing war is. A thing for the ninth and not the nineteenth
century....
B.[38] told me to say we have had a most peaceable revolution; and there
is no danger. It seems the Grand Duke first refused _everything_ that
was demanded; but afterwards said he would do _anything_; but the people
would not accept then.
Milton Street,
May 12th, 1859.
OCTAVIA TO GERTRUDE.
I’ve enjoyed all. It is right to let people hear of joy in this world.
We were so delighted with Mortain, where there are immense grey granite
rocks, and soft green dells of richest grass, bright with millions of
flowers.... I saw showers of rain in the distance changed to bright
mist, as they were between me and the sun, and the mist swept over the
waves of blue hills, and from higher still among wastes of moor desolate
with wind, tho’ bright with furze and cranberry, to which I climbed with
hands and feet. I saw the sea, nine miles away, one golden blaze, on
which the motionless grey rock of Mt. St. Michel stood faint and clear
and firm. I delighted in the diligences. We always took the coupé, and
there we were almost always alone.... The view from the top of the
castle of Mt. St. Michel was magnificent, rising suddenly 300 feet out
of the flat sand. This granite rock is very impressive; it had a
wonderful tendency to become deep purple and has a look of solemn
solitude which is rather increased than diminished by its one neighbour
Tombe-lame.... Light and shadow passed quickly over the immense space
now turning the grey sand to dazzling yellow white, now lighting a
silver thread of some far-off, before unnoticed, stream; now leaving
some space of water the brightest green, or purest blue; while far in
the distance a long white line tells of the approach of the tide of
dashing waves and rushing waters, and of the deep unfathomed ocean.
[Sidenote: HOW TO CHOOSE BOOKS FOR A LIBRARY]
1859.
TO MISS STERLING.
My own impression about the Library is that all books may be read
rightly or idly; that, if the pupils are inclined to choose the latter
course, they will not read “instructive books” and will get no good from
wise ones. I should choose books by great authors, whether fiction,
poetry or science; because they will repay earnest and careful reading;
and any which seem to me likely to be delightful, because they treat
truthfully anything that ought to interest people. I would suggest a few
books; but they will probably be those which have taught me much, and
which other people have been interested in, more because they knew them
better than other books than because they were naturally suited to them.
Longfellow, Wordsworth, Scott, George Herbert (too difficult?),
Tennyson, Mrs. Gaskell’s “Moorland Cottage,” “Lizzie Leigh and other
Tales” (cutting out “Lizzie Leigh”) and “Mary Barton” (perhaps). For the
girls “Moral Courage” and “Steadfast Gabriel,” published by Chambers.
The “Ocean Child,” “Birds and Flowers,” and some of Miss Martineau’s
books are full of right and interesting thoughts. Miss Bremer’s “Strife
and Peace” and “The Home” always seemed to me very beautiful books. If
we might add one copy of the “Lectures on Great Men” to the Library and
one of the “Feats on the Fiord” I think it would be well; the former
would be a most valuable addition, and the more often it was read the
better. I don’t know the price of Kingsley’s “Good News” nor whether it
be much read, or if not whether or no it would be worth while to get it
for Mary Moore’s benefit. I know very well the harm that would be done
by any one reading these books only; and I would give you a far more
serious list if I were able, provided always that they were great books
of their kind. None of the books that I have read of a more studious
kind seem to me the least suited to them; and of course you will
remember that, where study is voluntary, it is begun because something
has become living and interesting to us, as poets and writers of fiction
often can make things, and people who love actual fact, like Ruskin and
Carlyle, so seldom do. I don’t mean to exclude the two last from amongst
the poets; but there is a great deal of simple fact and logic, untouched
by feeling, in both. It often seems to me that, if we all had more of
the poet nature, we should get people much more interested in all things
near and far; and then, if we loved truth more, they would go thro’ much
otherwise dry hard work to know facts. And one thing more, we mustn’t
forget that reading forms but a small portion of a working woman’s life.
103, Milton St., Dorset Sq.,
May 29th, 1859.
TO MIRANDA.
I have Ruskin’s notes ready to send you by the next opportunity; and
they will tell you far more about the exhibition than I can. I saw him
on Monday week; and he told me that he saw from all I had done that I
had the power to become all he wanted of me, namely a thoroughly good
copyist. He wants me to learn to copy in water-colours the great
Venetian masters. He asked me if I could be quite happy to do this, and
told me he could be quite happy to spend his life thus, if he were in
circumstances to do it. He then said to me that he had thought of
setting me this summer to copy things for Mod. Paint.; but that, as that
would not teach me much, it would be better for him, if I could be happy
not to do any work which was to be used by him at once; to get a greater
power. “In the one case,” he said, “at the end of six or eight months I
should have several useful drawings, but _you_ would be of little more
use than now; whereas, in the other, you would have attained
considerable power.” ...
[Sidenote: MORE WORK FOR RUSKIN]
I believe it will be a real comfort to Ruskin, to feel that I am going
to copy the pictures that he feels to be so precious, and that are being
so destroyed. You see no one is taught to be humble enough to give up
setting down their own fancies, that they may set down facts; and they
deify these fancies and notions and imaginations of their own hearts,
till they really think it a mean thing to represent nature, or other
men’s works simply and faithfully: people hate copying because they do
not copy simply, I believe. One tells me that when she copies, she is
striving to appropriate the excellence of the picture; another that she
is not wanting to copy the picture, but to sketch nature; she therefore
will go so far off that she cannot see it clearly.... One lady assures
me she should despise a person who paints exactly from nature, as she
should a person who copies pictures: that Art has a higher function than
either to delight or to teach; it has to remind us of our glory before
the fall. Mr. D. informs me that in the time I take to copy a
foreground, he would get the essence of every picture in the Dulwich
collection. It sets me wondering what the essence of a picture is, that
it can be got at so rapidly; and whether, if it is worth much, it may
not also be worth much labour to gain it, and require much of the much
talked of thought and spirit of man; whether faithful and earnest work
may not be the only fit preparation for perception of truth in picture
or in life; whether before we can understand, much less embody, noble
truth, it may not be necessary firmly to believe day after day, when it
is inconvenient, and when it is agreeable, that there really is a truth
and a God of Truth, distinct from the imaginations of men’s hearts;
whether simplicity is not much more necessary than excitement, even in
art. So that I think one has reason to be very thankful to have been
taught to look at real lines and colours and sizes, which one may not
misrepresent; which don’t change when we change, nor depend for their
power or beauty on our thoughts about them.
Milton Street,
June 26th, 1859.
TO FLORENCE.
[Sidenote: INFLUENCE OF MRS. BROWNING ON OCTAVIA]
... I quite trust Ruskin about his plans for me; only I wonder why he
should speak _so_ despisingly of all copies, and yet set me to do them;
but some day I shall understand it. I haven’t any doubt that Mrs.
Browning feels passionately and intensely; but probably her passion is
both controlled and concealed. I think her turning away, when you spoke
of England, simply showed she saw you were feeling a great deal, and she
meant to help you to conceal it. Ruskin says of her that she is the only
entirely perfect example of womanhood he knows. You will see her again?
I wish it were possible, or would be of any use, to thank her thro’ you
for all she has taught me. You know sometimes as I walk to Dulwich in
the scorching sun and am doubtful, or as tiredly I return up the New
Road, the sunset or moonlight speaking less to me than haunting
uncertain fears about those I love, I begin repeating “Isabel’s Child”
to myself. The wonderful power of contrast of wild storm without, and
dream within, the glory of the child’s vision, the almost awful infinity
of thought in every verse, the perfect reality of the whole, are fresh
delights to me, and yet I forget them all in the perfect rest of the
last verse.
“Oh you
Earth’s tender and impassioned few!
Take courage to entrust your love
To Him so named, Who guards above
Its ends, and shall fulfil,
Breaking the narrow prayers that may
Befit your narrow hearts, away
In His broad loving will.”
And numbers of other lines and verses and poems teach me day by day.
Well! you ask what I mean about not singing. Simply that I sing out of
tune and haven’t time to learn not to do so, having a bad ear; and so I
think I’d better make up my mind to the fact.
Thanks, dearest, for all your sympathy; but don’t be unhappy about me
for any reason. I am so happy; and more so day by day. Miss Rogers
returns this week. Mrs. Yarnall[39] has a little daughter.
103, Milton Street,
July 24th, 1859.
TO MIRANDA.
I want to ensure giving you some account of a speech of Kingsley’s. An
Association of ladies has been formed to help sanitary reform; they have
published tracts, etc. Their first public meeting was held on Thursday
at Willis’s Rooms. Lord Shaftesbury made a speech as chairman, and urged
ladies to attend to all the details of the question, as men could not.
The legislative and theoretical was to be done only by them; the minute
and much of the practical by ladies. Mr. Kingsley said: “After the
excellent _résumé_ of your intentions which we have just heard in your
report, there seems nothing left for me to say, except to ask you to
consider what will be the result, if you succeed in accomplishing your
aims. Now just consider! very great aims, very important aims—very
dangerous aims some people would tell you that they are; nothing less
than saving alive of some four out of every five (?) children that die
annually. If you believe the teaching of many great political
economists, who think that England is in great danger of being
over-populated, and who advocate preventive checks on the increase of
population, you had better pause and think whether it wouldn’t be better
on the whole, just to let the children die; whether we mayn’t have
difficulty in finding work and food for them. But if you hold, as I
confess I do, that a human being is precisely the most precious thing
the earth can have; if you think that the English race is the very
noblest race the world contains; that it has, moreover, a greater power
of adapting itself to every kind of climate and mode of life than any
other, except the old Roman, ever had; that, besides all this, it is, on
the whole, a young race, showing no signs of decay; you will see that it
is worth while for political economists to look on the map, and see that
at least four-fifths of the world is uninhabited, and not cultivated
even in the most ordinary way.”
[Sidenote: KINGSLEY ON SANITARY REFORM]
I ought to tell you that, before this he had shown us how he expected
women principally to be of use, by saying that he looked upon this
Association most thankfully because, for reasons which he wasn’t going
to explain here, he looked upon the legislative part of sanitary reform
with something more like despair than ever. They were not reasons
connected with this Government, or with any possible Government, but
resulted from his consideration of the character of the individuals,
into whose possession small houses were passing more and more. He was
not going into the question here; it would have to be attended to, but
it seemed a great way off. Therefore he hoped women would go, not only
to the occupiers, but to the possessors of the house, and influence
people of “our own class.” “And it’s so easy,” he said; “there isn’t a
woman in this room who couldn’t save the lives of four or five children
within the next six months; and this, without giving up one of your
daily duties, one of your pleasures, one even of your frivolities, if
you choose.
“You ask me what is more terrible than a field of battle, and I tell you
outraged nature. Nature issues no protocols, nor warning notes to bid
you be on your guard. Silently, and without stepping out of her way, by
the same laws by which she makes the grass grow, she will kill and kill
and kill and kill. And more than this, we have our courtesies of war and
our chivalries of war; a soldier will not kill an unarmed man, a woman
or a child; but nature has no pity. By an awful law, but for some
blessed purpose, she is allowed to have none; and she will strike alike
the child in its cradle, the strong man or woman. I wish to God someone
had pictorial power to set before the mothers of England what that
means—100,000 (?) preventable deaths! Oh be in earnest. Remember that,
as a live dog is better than a dead lion, so one of those little
children in the kennel out there is worth saving. Try to remember that
it is not the will of our Father that one of these little ones should
perish.”
103, Milton St., Dorset Sq.,
August 14th, 1859.
TO EMILY.
I hope you haven’t thought me unkind, which indeed I haven’t meant to
be, but only very busy, as assuredly I do mean to be all my life long,
if I can contrive it. Thanks for your sweet and welcome letters. You
will have received the French lines, without accents. I will neither
vouch for spelling nor grammar, but you must treat them as if they were
exercises in Chapsall.
[Sidenote: FURNIVALL’S SUNDAY WALKS]
The event of my life since I last saw you has been, as you know, an
expedition last Sunday of which I would wish to speak reasonably and
calmly if I can succeed. Indeed it was glorious! I never saw a better
friendship than that between the men and him (Mr. Furnivall). I’m a
little weary of thinking over the Sunday question, and yet—lest you cast
me off utterly, and Mr. Durrant ceases to send me kind messages, and
Mary be shocked indeed—I must tell you a little how we stand here about
it. Of course I told Mr. F. that I should never dream of entering into a
plan involving habitual absence from church; tho’ I didn’t tell him how
much I can sympathise with the spirit of some people who do. He goes
with the men every Sunday; they, some of them at least, remain at home
to go to church each alternate Sunday; but that is no part of his plan.
His own faith is just as deep and living as ever; but he has evidently
been disappointed with the amount or kind of union the church gives.
They go regularly and very happily all together; he is ever ready to
sympathise and enter into all kinds of happiness from the greatest to
the least. He showed me where they walked, he told me when we were
coming to the loveliest groups of trees, when to the creek where they
bathe, how the park looked at moonlight, and how they all enjoyed it. He
wants us to join them in an excursion to Leith Hill or Box Hill in
September. I asked if it must be a Sunday, and he thought much about it,
but says the men can’t get holidays. He talked about Rossiter, told me
he heard one of my sisters was down with Durrant. He amused me vastly by
saying, “Hoets, whom you saw at Cambridge, wants people to go and see
his wife and children, as he’s thinking of going to Australia.” As if
one could go and call on Mrs. Hoets without introduction, on such a
plea! Oh, Minnie, but it was so glorious! As we walked through the park
at Richmond at night, we sang hymns, “No! never part again,” “There is a
happy land,” “Here we suffer grief and pain.” In the chorus of the last,
a number of working, or rather loitering, men in Richmond joined very
earnestly. We saw the pictures at Hampton Court with which I was much
pleased. The men were very nice; they are so learned about flowers,
etc., so respectful, so thoroughly happy. Several of our own pupils were
there; everyone behaved well.
103, Milton Street, Dorset Square,
August 20th, 1859.
TO REV. F. D. MAURICE.
I hope that you will, in your great kindness, forgive my troubling you
by asking whether you can give me a few words of advice on questions
that are troubling me practically very much indeed.
1st. I have been very much impressed by the good and joy Mr. Furnivall’s
Sunday excursions seem to be giving to the men and to their wives,
sisters, and friends, who from time to time accompany them. I have
rarely seen a more respectful, intelligent, and happy party than they.
Of course I shouldn’t approve of members of the Church missing service
habitually; but that doesn’t seem to me to be at all necessary to the
plan. I know some people, to whom such a refreshment after their week’s
work would be an inestimable good. It would give me a great delight to
accept invitations for them; and have this opportunity of seeing them,
and helping them; nor can I see any rule which can make it right for me
to go and see my friends on Sunday, or go into the country, and yet
makes it wrong for _them_ to go all together. Ought I to give up my only
day for seeing relations and friends? I shouldn’t have hesitated about
it, but that I imagine, perhaps incorrectly, that you disapprove of
those excursions. May I ask if it is so? I have been trying to enter
into the full purpose of Sunday, as you told me, quite giving up work,
and, as you told me, everything that was an effort (except writing to my
sisters, which ought to be none), and I do at last understand Sunday as
a duty as well as privilege; but is not refreshment by seeing friends
and change of scene right?
[Sidenote: THE SUNDAY QUESTION]
I wanted to ask two still more difficult questions but really ought not
to trouble you more. Oh that you were in London that I might ask you!
No! I am glad you are resting. And truly too, I don’t depend on your
advice, but I know our Father has thousands of ways to teach me, if only
my stubborn will and foolish fancies don’t blind me.
God bless you all. I hope Mrs. Maurice is better. Please don’t answer if
you are busy or tired. Is it really difficult to tell what is right? Or
is it only that one will not see the truth? Or does one not pray
trustfully enough?
The classes are going on steadily and well. I am very well too; and dear
Mama and Minnie are having happy holidays. I am all alone.
OCTAVIA TO REV. F. D. MAURICE.
I cannot attempt to express the thankfulness I feel for your kindness in
answering my letter, perhaps most of all for the first words, “You
should never apologise for asking my opinion,” because it seems as if it
might be understood to have reference to our baptism; and although I
quite feel the help you would give to everyone to be the most precious,
and don’t want any special right to more than you would give to others,
yet I often feel as if I very much wanted to be sure that I was not
wrong in asking you questions about our own life, which I do not feel
wise enough, or old enough, to decide myself, and which I cannot trust,
though I sometimes do leave, to the decision of others. It is not about
questions referring to faith that I feel this most. I know always about
this to Whom I can go, and thank God! for some years (until this
question of Sunday) have felt His help all sufficient; and it has been,
except for my own sin and weakness, but one long blessed revelation of
His love, of the meaning of prayer and sacraments. It was not about them
that I feel as if I wanted any more help than I have; seldom now (tho’
most deeply when I feel it at all) about home life; for we have learnt a
good deal now about where we have been wrong about it; it is principally
about the application of principles to other social questions; it is all
very well for people to tell me not to trouble myself about them, but
they are involved in every action of daily life. Earnest thought, life
itself, and some words of your own and others, for whom I have a great
respect, have led me to convictions which, as I say, would lead me to
actions differing widely from yours, and, I suppose, proceeding from
some difference in principle. Sometimes I act for a little while on my
own convictions, and am very happy, till the recollection of how wrong I
was, and how sure I was about other things which you have taught me,
principally by advising my giving up a course of action and adopting
another, or some partial failure, make me think I am arrogant and
self-willed; and yet when I take the other course I am oppressed with a
sense of neglected duties, fear of my own honesty, and confusion about
how far I ought to trust people, and you specially. This produces
inconsistency in action; tho’, on the whole, I adopt the latter course
for the questions relating principally to work at the College; I feel my
position there implies very complete obedience. When I can see you (but
that is so seldom now), I so try (indeed I try always) to understand the
grounds on which you act; and I own myself fairly puzzled. It was to
this I referred.
Your letter has shown me a much deeper meaning in Sunday than I had ever
perceived in it; and I see the difficulty about the excursions very
clearly, as not speaking to people as spiritual beings, called to full
rest in trust in God: I am not sure that I do not think that, after the
Church service has done this, the rest of the day would not be better
passed among God’s works in the country, and in friendly intercourse;
but I am less sure of having entered into the teaching of the Bible on
the subject, than of setting a sufficient value on mere cessation from
toil and recreation; and so I shall decidedly give up these excursions,
till I have thought more about them. And even then I hope I am not wrong
in feeling that I do not think, especially as College people are
concerned, I could feel it right to go to them, when you feel as you do
about it.
I am afraid this letter will give you the impression that I am trusting
far too much to you, far too little in God; tho’ I have stated very
frankly (it reads to me almost unkindly), how fears that you may be
wrong about some things mingle with my sure knowledge how wonderfully
you have been proved right about others. I accept both reproaches. I am
often tempted to trust too much to you; not, I think, to believe your
wisdom, and gentleness, and patience, and faith to be greater than they
are, but to think too much that I was to trust to them in you, instead
of in God, because I have not felt Him to be an ever-present guide, not
only into the mysteries of His own Love, not only into the meaning of
past wants, but into the grounds of all right and all wise action. This
and this only has confused me; all has been ordered to teach me, all to
strengthen me; and I alone am wrong. Only with these thoughts others
mingle; I must not, in order to recover faith in a Director, give up the
direction He places in my way; I must not mistake self-will for
conscience, nor impatience for honesty. No one on earth can distinguish
them for me; but He will. It so often seems to me as if two different
courses of action were right or might be right; and this is what puzzles
me, even tho’ it is a blessing as binding me to people of widely
different opinions. Thank you once more, dear Sir, for all teaching,
given now and before.
(Undated, probably August, 1859.)
TO MIRANDA.
Thanks for your sweet letter received yesterday. What have I been
thinking and feeling about? Dear me, that is a question. Well, dear, of
extra things, first and foremost of a delightful dance Mr. Furnivall
gave to his friends among the men and their friends, and to which he
invited me. I went with Louisa[40] and Henrietta;[41] and a glorious
evening we had! Before that, I had been one of their Sunday excursions
with them.... I received, however, a letter from Mr. Maurice in answer
to my enquiries (oh such a beautiful letter!), which makes me feel I
have much to learn about Sunday, and at any rate I could not go with
College people, his feeling being so strong on the subject, I think.
This has been, as you may imagine, a great effort to me; for really my
day refreshed me so entirely; and I was so happy. Do you know perhaps
I’m going down to Godmanchester (where Cromwell was born) to visit a new
friend, Miss Baumgartner, during my next holidays.
[Sidenote: MORE ART WORK]
103, Milton Street,
September 11th, 1859.
TO MIRANDA.
... I have just begun the most wonderful piece of drapery, black and
gold, copied from a Rubens at Dulwich. Neither Jupiter, nor any of my
other Dulwich work, is finished; they are waiting for Ruskin.... Last
night I had the glorious delight of looking over a sketch book of his,
which Mr. Ward brought to Margy’s. It was called “Notes by the Wayside,
1845–46.” The things were exquisite; some of Florence specially
interested me of course. The original coloured sketches of the two
engravings of sunset clouds behind mountains, and St. George of the
Seaweed at Venice, which are published in the “Modern Painters,” were
there too. Oh so lovely!—Miss Sterling is now in Ireland. I begin to
long dreadfully for their return.... While Gertrude is in Scotland, I
have the use of her Library subscription. I have been revelling in
Oliver Cromwell, and Ludlow’s “India,” and look forward to several
delightful books, if only I can get a little time.... My drawing class
for the Portman Hall children is going on so very well. I have had it
all alone since July. Oh! and they begin to draw so well! T. is I think
very pleased. I am teaching Mrs. W. and a new lady, illumination; that
is to say they come and draw here, while I am at work, two hours weekly.
I’ve been writing an article for the College Magazine, at Mr.
Litchfield’s request.
103, Milton Street,
September 25th, 1859.
TO MIRANDA.
Decidedly take lessons from Kraus.... As to sending money home, dearest,
don’t think of it; we have ample, as my balance sheet next week will
show you; spend it in any way that will be most useful to you in
promoting health, rest, and knowledge; we are getting, one way, or
another, an immense amount of change and rest here, and I earnestly hope
you will do the same to the best of your power.... I do indeed
sympathise with you about church; it is a quite inexpressible blessing,
and must be specially so to you.... I have read Tennyson’s “Idylls of
the King.” I consider the whole book glorified by Arthur’s last speech
to Guenevere. Tennyson takes the view that, if she had been pure and
worked with Arthur, his noble efforts and reforms would have lived and
triumphed. He goes away to fight his best knight, all his hopes and
successes blighted. I always did like Launcelot, in spite of everything;
and I do still. There is a lovely character too, called Enid. But the
whole book is painfully impressed on my mind, as written by a man, so
vividly and perpetually conscious of sensuality, tho’ of so much that is
noble; but I should love to possess the book. Oh it is so real! I am
reading, too, Carlyle’s “Cromwell” with intensest interest. Mama[42] is
so very very happy in her life, it is quite delightful. I have answered
your question briefly, because I’m so sure of the answer.... We want to
see that we and our work are not essential to the world; that, if we do
our work imperfectly, so that we love Him, that is what He asks. He can
save and teach people without us.... My own dearest, God will lead us
all, will He not? We know how our blunders of judgment, and want of
power can never hinder His work; that He asks us, not for great works,
but self-forgetting peaceful hearts; that our wisdom at best can fathom
little of His purposes; but that He reigns and sends His spirit to us. I
fancy, if we saw God working and resting, instead of our own working,
our faces would shine like that of Moses; and we should care very little
that we could not speak, but would trust Him to fill us with such love
that it would breathe in all we did.
[Sidenote: WORK FOR RUSKIN]
October 10th, 1859.
TO MIRANDA.
I have a good deal to tell you to-day. On Saturday I saw Ruskin. I think
he was very well satisfied with my work, tho’ it was none of it
finished, and none of it right; still it was very satisfactory to me to
find that it had none of the faults my work had last year, i.e., not
being dark enough, nor massed enough. I returned, in spite of all this,
in a horrid state of wretchedness; but this I have got over now, as I
will tell you....
I believe what made me so wretched was the sudden vivid thought of how
very little pleasure I could ever give Ruskin, even by the most
conscientious work; that one stanza of Tennyson’s was better to him,
would teach more that he wanted to teach, than all my life’s work. I had
thought that, by earnestness and humility, and sacrifice of other works
and thoughts, I might really help him considerably. I have no doubt that
an immense deal of thought of self is mixed with this notion; but it has
its root deeper than that; and now I come to think over all Ruskin said,
I see no reason to alter my conviction that I can do this work. The fact
is, if one sits down to make a plan, it is often foolish and
impracticable; but the plans life reveals to us, which are unfolded to
us, and which we are hardly conscious of,—these, I think, are usually
God’s plans, and He helps us to carry them out. If this is not what He
means me to do, may He, for He alone can, help me to give it up; but if,
as now I think, He has been preparing me by multitudes of things,
childhood in the country, girlhood in town, hard work, most precious and
direct teaching of drawing, sympathy with people round, affection for
and gratitude to Ruskin, and an ever deepening admiration for him, and
knowledge of his plans,—if, I say, God has been preparing me by this,
and much more, first to love Nature and Art, second, to care that all
should love Nature and Art, and third to see how to help them to do so;
will He not too give me humility to take the place He ordains for me in
this great work, tho’ it be the lowest of all,—faith to believe I can
help, and oh such energy and earnestness? I am very happy indeed now....
Ruskin was particularly pleased with the bull’s head.... I believe one
of the things that made me so unhappy on Saturday was that I had been
reading the “Political Economy of Art”; and I could not help thinking of
the passage about the great man, beginning, “He can be kind to you, but
you can never more be kind to him.” And then too I had wanted to take
home a very good account to dearest Mama and Minnie; and he did not
criticise it altogether; and in spite of all the praise he gave it, I
felt how miserably incomplete it was. But I am sure I have progressed;
and perhaps the dissatisfaction is also a gain. But this they could not
feel, and all the way home, and even now, I can’t help crying at the
thought of it; and the less they show they’re disappointed, the more I
feel it; and sometimes Mama seems to think Ruskin capricious; and I am
certain he is not. Well it is all over now.
[Sidenote: POSSIBILITIES IN ALL POSITIONS]
Chivery, near Tring,
October 10th, 1859.
TO HARRIET, A FORMER TOY-WORKER.
I had been thinking a good deal of our conversation about teaching.... I
will just tell you a very little what I think of it,—I believe most
people render their position a blessing, or otherwise, themselves good
or wretched; and that the post becomes one of interest and usefulness,
according to the estimate of it held by her who occupies it; in fact
that all work done as routine without love, whether it be a queen’s or a
chimney-sweep’s, is quite despicable, and _all_ done with love most
honourable. I know some works have greater responsibilities, and call
for higher, or rather more, powers; some works (writing poems for
instance) are in themselves greater; but I believe the noblest faculties
of every human being are called for in her work. Conscientiousness—for
instance—is wanted everywhere. Much intellect is not. But that which
equalises the dignity of various works is, that all, or all that I can
think of, are exercised either with people or for people. And people,
being God’s children, may be taught and influenced, unconsciously often
to themselves, by every part of those round them. I believe this
teaching to be the _most_ precious part of all our lives. Those of us
who are called to be teachers may, I believe, thank God that it is so
with them so clearly, so definitely; but I often think that the
influence over us by those who are not definitely set to teach us is the
most powerful. Love and mercy and gentleness and humility and
thoughtfulness each of us needs equally in her work. And, as I said at
first, people give us the work they find we can do. A nurse may wash and
dress children for many years in love and faithfulness; but she can do
more besides, sometimes. She can tell them stories and teach them, and
in a thousand ways call out their powers. No one expects this in a
nurse, because they cannot get it; but once give it them, and you raise
your position, probably in their eyes, at any rate in our Father’s. We
are not half ambitious enough; we struggle for little honours, seldom
for the far more difficult and far nobler ones....
With most affectionate wishes for your future, dear, and love to Sarah
and yourself, and in remembrance of old days, I am
Ever your loving friend,
OCTAVIA HILL.
I don’t know when I felt so proudly pleased as when I gathered that you
were trying to be cheerful and useful in your present work.
Godmanchester,
October 15th, 1859.
TO EMILY.
Here I am, all safe and well. This is the loveliest, dearest old house.
I never was in such a one before. Miss Baumgartner met me at the
station, and we walked here. The house stands in a long old street,
almost opposite the church. It is (the house is) old red brick, not very
pretty, but quite old. The dining-room is like a grand old hall; the
staircase, which is in the centre of the house, faces it, and is
separated from it by three Gothic doors; low steps, broad banisters, and
a kind of gallery landing make it feel quite ancient; the hall is hung
with old pictures. The garden is not large, it consists of a glorious
lawn of smooth bright green grass, a few brilliant flower borders, and a
long bright old brick wall, a small cedar on the lawn; but it is bounded
at the bottom by the Ouse, a deep clear stream, across which is a pretty
bridge leading to an embowered island, belonging to this house; a water
mill is above; below the view of Hinchinbrook where Cromwell’s uncle
lived. The boathouse contains several boats; one Miss B. pointed out to
me as hers. She will teach me to row. She is very kind and interesting;
her mother, a nice old lady of whom I am rather afraid and rather fond.
Her father very old. Her brother very fond of flowers, very nice, I
think. They have lived here for years. It is very nice.
[Sidenote: MISS BAUMGARTNER’S HOUSE]
103, Milton Street, Dorset Square,
October 23rd, 1859.
TO MIRANDA.
Your letter of delight about the music lessons gives me great pleasure.
I received it one morning in a large wood-panelled dining-room, looking
out to a smooth field set with large elms. I had just entered the room
thro’ one of three Gothic doors, after descending a low-stepped
staircase with massive oaken banisters, into a large wood-panelled hall
hung with old pictures. Just as I had finished your note, an old lady
entered by another door, whom you would not at all have known, if you
had been watching in a magic mirror; a tall stately old lady dressed all
in black, with a quick step and very kind face, holding in one hand a
basket of keys, and in the other some scented-leaved verbena and
heliotrope, some of which she gave to me; and some was laid on the
bright breakfast table for someone who had not yet arrived. The door
opened, and there came in with springing step, and upright carriage,
someone whom you would have felt inclined now to call girl—now woman.
Her cheerfulness, and the air of one who has long been the youngest of
the house, and the darling of many brothers, as well as of father and
mother,—her slight figure,—all seemed to give her the first name; but
when you looked at her, there were older lines about her face that made
you say “30”; and, as you knew the face better, you would trace, under
all that glad manner, lines of deeply felt suffering; and certain looks
in the deep softness of her grey eyes,—a certain calmness, even in her
enthusiasm, would have made you feel that the best of womanhood and of
girlhood were combined in her. I suppose you have guessed long ago that
I am describing Emma Baumgartner, my new and very dear friend. As I went
down there a perfect stranger, having only seen her twice, and her
mother once, knowing nothing about who they were, and we had no mutual
friends, we had to be specially communicative; and so, I suppose, our
friendship sprang up more quickly than otherwise it could have done.
Then, except at meals, we were quite alone, drawing, walking, rowing or
resting. But the principal thing that drew us together was my delight in
finding in her a great nobleness of judgment and of sympathy, right
views about work, and all religious and social questions; and I think
she found a great pleasure in my companionship. We taught her
night-school for men and boys together. We attended her men’s
reading-room. We taught in the Sunday school. We drew. We talked of
Ruskin and Mr. Maurice, as well as of her brothers, my sisters,
architecture, and all kinds of things. I have had a delightful visit;
and she says she does not know when she has enjoyed a week so much. She
has no friends in London now, and greatly longs to come up in the
spring, to see the exhibitions, or earlier in order to see Ruskin.
When you can, will you look carefully at the tracery of the head window
of the Campanile of Giotto at Florence, if you have an opportunity. I
have the most splendid engraving by me in the “Seven Lamps.” Also an
arch from the façade of the Church of San Michele at Lucca. How you
would delight in the book! I have not yet read it. He says the Gothic of
Verona is far nobler than that of Venice, and that of Florence nobler
than that of Verona. He says, that, in Italian traceries the whole
proportion and power of the design is made to depend upon the dark
forms.
[Sidenote: WORK FOR RUSKIN]
November 20th, 1859.
TO MIRANDA.
Thanks for your sweet sympathetic letter. I think Ruskin is right.
First, about work in general, I think he wishes us to perceive the wide
difference between that which shows moral rightness in the worker, and
that which shows peculiar intellectual and other greatness. Then as to
_my_ work, Ruskin has set me to one which he believes to be the right
training for an artist; and he would be glad that at present I did not
look beyond it; first, because one must be contented to do a work before
one can do it, and secondly, because he would then be sure I loved art,
not only my own ambitious notions; in addition to which he really longs
to have things well copied. This is what I think on the subject; but
your letter was very delightful, dearest....
Dearest Andy, how heartily I wish you all success in your work. It is
just a year to-day since that terrible parting at London Bridge—a year
not lost to any of us. I think we can feel something at least has been
done, since then. We feel a little stronger, surer, better, fuller of
hope, more able to bear patiently any shock or storm that may come....
My love to little Florence, for whose dear sake I am kind to every dog
and cat I see, and even love them a little. I protected a little cat
from some teasing children on Tuesday, by nursing her for an hour!
November 21st, 1859.
TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.
You must not (in charity please, you must not) contrast your letters
with mine. Depend on it, those whose minds are most healthily toned
write, more often, true and sympathetic accounts of facts than about
faiths, principles and theories. It is so invigorating to be brought in
contact rather with God’s facts than with men’s fancies; and, though the
question “What do all these things mean?” “What should they teach us?”
is indeed a deeper one than “What are they?” yet one is too apt, if one
asks the question too often, to lose sight of the facts in their simple
existence; to see only their relation to men, at last only to oneself.
[Sidenote: VISIT TO A PUPIL’S HOME]
I spent an hour last Tuesday evening at the house of one of my pupils
(W.M. College pupils). Her mother had begged that I would go. They live
at the very top of a house near one of the London markets, rather a
wretched neighbourhood. Sarah, my pupil, a quiet girl of fourteen,
walked with me. Her mother, prettily dressed, opened the door, carrying
in her arms the baby, dressed in its little white frock, and coral
fastening its little shoes. I had never been there before; and I was
conducted up the dark staircase to the attics. Here I saw by the
furniture that they had seen “better days.” One tiny room was their
sitting-room, comfortably furnished; a bright clean fire, tea set, and
the children’s grandmother sitting primly attired to receive me. All
this I saw, and it made me understand something more of the people at
once. It would have done anyone’s heart good to see the
self-forgetfulness of these people; the five tiny little girls, the
eldest only seven, each delighted to give place to one another; and as
to Sarah, who is their half-sister, it was lovely to see how quietly she
served everyone. They are earnest High-Church people; the baby is called
Amy Herbert, after Miss Sewell’s heroine, and also because Mrs. —— is so
fond of George Herbert’s poems. The tiny children all sang some hymns,
“O let us be joyful,” and others.
Sarah comes to my drawing class, and we had much talk about her lessons.
Her mother means to read aloud to her these winter evenings, while she
draws; and then she will read while her mother works. It is a brave
faithful little home, and such as one loves to come upon; and I was much
touched by their hospitable cordial reception of me. I thought you would
like to hear thus much.
103, Milton Street, Dorset Square,
November 27th, 1859.
TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.
Mrs. Browning has taught me so very much, or rather has been such a
friend to me, saying precisely what I wanted to hear (first expressing
my own feelings so completely, and then carrying me on to the only hopes
and thoughts that can satisfy one at such times), that it seems to me as
if I knew her, and that she really had suffered and thought with me....
Why is entering into other people’s feelings, even sad, so restful? Is
it not because we are meant to bear one another’s burdens? So I’ve been
reading authors who don’t echo my own feelings so much, and trying more
than ever to understand all kinds of people....
I always feel so solemnly about my own birthday; ... Your way of
spending yours makes me ashamed, for ... in the evening we shall have
friends, who are far from being among the sad and poor.... I never have
seen any but specially nice people on my birthday.
On the 5th, I shall take my drawing class to South Kensington which I
shall consider also a kind of celebration of my birthday. About Arthur,
I believe that the duty of a wife, even of a friend, is, with regard to
a man’s work, so terribly misunderstood. Mr. Ludlow says, “He sacrificed
his wife to his Round Table,” not seeing that, as he loved her, had she
been anything worthy of the name of wife, her highest joy and duty
should have been to work for it with him; and that it was his great
glory that he expected this of her.... And this is true, in part, of all
relations and friends, the glory of each is not in demanding attention,
but in love, sympathetic fellow-work, ready sympathy....
Tried by the precious test of facts near home, I say my theory is right;
and I think you, of all people, believe it.
December 5th, 1859.
TO MARGARET HOWITT.
Dear Miranda is deeply interested in her little Italian pupils, and
longs much for nice English stories for them. She just wrote to beg us
to send her all that remained of our childhood’s stock. I never read
them now; they would be of real use there; and I conquered my
selfishness at last; but I couldn’t help a great pain in packing the
dear books which Mrs. Howitt had given me so long ago. I remember well
the night she gave me “Fireside Verses,” and the many many happy hours
it gave us as children. And now the books are gone, to do a little more
blessed work; but I have instructed Miranda to bring them carefully back
with her.
[Sidenote: BIRTHDAYS]
Milton Street,
December 5th, 1859.
TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.
I am glad you have redeemed your birthday from melancholy, and
consecrated it to charity, which, after all, is one of the most surely
joyous things. I must read the St. Andrew’s Day carefully; but now I
must give you an account of _my_ birthday. It was a cold, bright day. I
woke late; it was post time as I left my room, no letters; time went on,
no letters. I was fairly disappointed; but, half an hour too late, owing
to frost, your letter and one from Miss Harris arrived. I was leaving
the house for Dulwich, and so read them in the omnibus with thankful
delight. I enjoyed my walk much; the snow lay white on the long
finger-like boughs of Ruskin’s cedar, as I passed, and prayed God’s
blessing might rest on the house. I worked well, and then went to the
College and did the same, thinking of many things. Dear Miss Sterling
was most kind, and allowed me to leave early. When I reached home thro’
long damp-aired gas-lighted windy streets, all looked bright and warm.
Gertrude had arrived bringing presents,—one a pair of quaint,
delightful, old silver bracelets from an old lady, a friend of
grandpapa’s, whom I had never seen, but who has heard of me. When I
entered the room I was amazed. It was brightly lighted, and decorated
with ivy a friend had sent; another dear old lady had herself gathered
me the last roses and lauristinus, myrtle leaves and chrysanthemums from
her garden. One long table was set for tea, but the other was covered
with presents. Mary Harris had sent me the “Idylls” and the “Two Paths.”
One dear lady, whom I have never seen but often written to (Mrs.
Robins), had sent eleven volumes of poems—Scott (who will be very
valuable to me) and Crabbe whom I don’t yet know. I tell you of the
books, because they are such very precious things to possess.... Miss
Rogers read us the loveliest Arab story. Gertrude, Minnie, and I sang;
and all my best available friends were here, and were delighted to make
one another’s acquaintance. I was proudly delighted with them all, and
most humbly delighted by all their kindness which I felt I had so very
little deserved. It was almost too much to bear. Once or twice I dwelt
thankfully on the thought that, except Mr. Maurice, who was ill, I had
seen or heard from everyone I cared for specially, except Ruskin. When
nearly everyone had left, Gertrude rushed upstairs, handed me a parcel
saying, “Someone thinks it’s from Mr. Ruskin.” “No,” I said quietly,
looking at the unformed handwriting. “Then what made the servant say
so?” I sat down on the stairs and tore it open. It was! I enclose his
letter, which specially pleased me, for its sympathy with my work among
people. The books are by Souvestre, an author whom I love already, from
the little I know of him. It was very sweetly thoughtful of Ruskin to
remember me.... Do you know the old Spanish proverb, “To him that
watches, everything is revealed.” It certainly is true; and how glorious
it is to gaze backward upon the past, which, be it ever so dark, is fact
and therefore God-permitted. And as one gazes one sees gradually the
unbroken way in which our Father leads us towards Him, unbroken save by
our own rebellious wills and by many sharp rocks which seemed
hindrances; but now we see that they bridged for us many a dark gulf.
[Sidenote: BIBLE WOMEN]
I have been reading the most beautiful book called “The Missing Link.”
It is an account of the Bible women of whom you may have heard. They are
quite poor women, sent by ladies to sell Bibles, to teach and help and
cheer the very poorest people. It is wonderful what they have done, and
what lovely things they have seen. They have reached the very lowest
class, seen and helped them in their homes. They give nothing away, but
get people to buy beds and clothes, for which they pay gradually. They
encourage women to take a pride in keeping their children and homes
neat; and, living among them, can do so much. Mr. and Mrs. Maurice are
so deeply interested in the plan, that they have lent me the book, to
see if we cannot help at all.
December 10th, 1859.
EMILY TO MIRANDA.
You cannot think how affectionately everyone at the Shaws[43] took leave
of Mama, and how sorry Emily and Willy were to lose their lessons.
Willie said, “Well, Baby, what _shall_ we do without lessings? It’s
horrid!”
103, Milton Street,
December 18th, 1859.
TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.
... Last night we had the second practice of our men’s and women’s
advanced singing class at the College. It was very delightful; the mere
singing was _that_; and then it was nearly the first united thing we
have had, and so full of promise. When I contrasted the nervous
shamefaced way our ladies behaved, seeming to think it would kill them
if they happened to open the door of a room where there were only men,
etc., etc., with the natural, free noble way in which you work among
them, I was proud of you, and thankful too....
We go down to Grandpapa’s at Weybridge. But many other things are
Christmas celebrations too. On the 28th, I am to be at a “Musical
Evening” at the Boys’ Home, where are about 50 destitute boys. The
singing will delight them, I’ve no doubt. Then on the 5th we shall have
a social party at the College; Mr. Maurice and Mr. Hughes will be there
and many other good and great people. Have you ever read Crabbe’s life?
I think nothing can be nobler than Burke’s behaviour; and how fine
Crabbe’s letter to him is!
The Pines, Weybridge,
Christmas Day, 1859.
TO MIRANDA.
... I am particularly happy about my work. Ruskin is _so_ pleased with
it all. My four Dulwich drawings are now right and ready for use; in
fact he wants them at once that they may be put into the hands of the
engraver. I am to do four more, small, but, Ruskin says, difficult
examples of inferior work—and one bit from Turner.... I had a quite
delicious hour and a quarter at Ruskin’s on Friday. We talked on many
interesting subjects....
[Illustration:
DR. SOUTHWOOD SMITH.
Grandfather of Octavia Hill.
_From a Chalk Drawing by Margaret Gillies._
]
Snowball fell down yesterday when I was riding him. Mama and Minnie were
being driven by Gertrude just behind. If anyone else had been driving, I
must have been run over; but G., with her grand calmness and power,
stopped Ariel at once, turning her to one side. I am only shaken, not
hurt at all. I was not thrown, but fell with Snowball.
[Sidenote: A VISIT TO RUSKIN]
Christmas, 1859.
TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.
On Friday I was shown into Ruskin’s study. One window had the shutters
shut; the table was covered with books and papers; the fire burned
brightly; at one window Ruskin sat drawing from a Turner, all squared
over that it might be reduced. With his own exquisite elegance and ease,
which enables him to do the oddest things in a way that one can’t feel
rude, instead of rising, he threw himself back in his chair and shook
hands with me, as I stood behind; then he rose and giving me his chair
walked to the fire—and then, Emma, he produced the loveliest drawings of
boughs of oak to show me, one beautifully foreshortened, and explained
the growth of it to me; how every leaf sends down a little rib that
thickens the stems—how the leaves grow in spirals of five. He got a bit,
and showed me the section. They were lovely. Then he told me that he
wanted me to do an example of _good_ work for “Modern Painters,” one he
had meant to do himself but for which he will not now have time—a bit of
the fir boughs in Turner’s “Crossing the Brook,” now at South
Kensington.
I told him about you, about my visit, about your work among the men—how
lovely I thought it, and how fresh. He was very much pleased, and told
me about the daughter of a friend of his, who does much the same—to whom
it seems he has sent several of my drawings for her men to use.
We got at last upon the subject of the education of working women; and
he asked much about it, seemed greatly interested. I told him many
anecdotes, and something of what I said in my article on the subject. He
was much interested about the question of fiction. He hopes to publish
the fifth volume in the spring. I was with him an hour and a quarter.
When I came away he said, “We’d quite a nice chat”; he “wasn’t so
horridly busy as usual.”
January 8th, 1860.
TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.
In a description of a gathering at the Working Men’s College she says:
“I was much interested in an earnest young countryman of the name of
Cooke, who had presented a collection of butterflies and moths, etc., to
the College. As every scrap of natural history is eagerly learnt by me,
to be repeated wherever I go, and lovingly remembered, I got him to tell
me some of their names and habits....
“I was delighted to hear Mr. Dickinson (whose portrait of Mr. Maurice
you may remember) praising Mr. Ward’s drawings.... It was very nice to
see old faces back again and to feel as if I never should have done
shaking hands ... its joy consisted so much in the momentary grasp of a
hand, in the sudden sight of a face which owed all its preciousness to
the thought of natures I had learnt to know in sad moments or
hard-working days.... Does it not seem to you one of the main things we
long for in heaven that every strong affection for visible things will
have some answer?... I often feel so sure that the love of places,
employments, books, as well as people, is not to perish, but to be
justified.”
[Sidenote: RUSKIN AND MR. BUNNEY]
January 29th, 1860.
TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.
Yesterday I saw Ruskin. “Do you come by appointment?” the servant asked
me, “because Mr. Ruskin said he would see no one.” “Mr. Ruskin fixed the
day, I named the hour; but if he is busy——.” The servant, however,
seemed sure that I was to be admitted, and I was shown into the study,
where Ruskin greeted me with the words, “I’m very glad to see you.” I
saw he was ill, and found he had been suffering from toothache, and
awake all night. I begged him, therefore, not to attend to my work.
However he would do it. I shall not readily forget the afternoon. He was
not busy, and showed me the loveliest things, exquisite copies of
illuminations, wonderful sketches by Mr. Bunney (one of his College
pupils), sketches which Ruskin said he had seen nothing like them except
Turner.... And then Ruskin showed me two of Turner’s loveliest small
drawings, one of Solomon’s pools, and beyond their square basins, and
the battlements, amidst which the light gleamed, the sun was setting;
and clouds gathered about him, because, Ruskin said, the clouds gathered
about Solomon’s wisdom. Oh that sky palpitating with colour, changing on
every thousandth inch!
Ruskin asked me if I’d been reading anything lately; and we talked about
Tennyson. I said he was so very sad. He said, “You see far more to make
you sad than I do; but I don’t think Tennyson a bit too sad. I haven’t
found that he sees far enough.” “He knows, however,” Ruskin said, “how
far he does see, and that is more than other people do.” I told him how
years ago Tennyson’s words had distressed me, because I believed that
good was then and always, and that we it is who mar it all; I forgot
that what had distressed me most of all was Tennyson’s apparent
uncertainty about the fact at all. “So runs my dream,” etc.
Ruskin said, “Do you think that good is coming now to bad people?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and that their greatest sin is in refusing it.” “But
how much more _that_ is than most people see,” he went on. “Oh, yes, I
see _that_ now,” I agreed, smiling; “I am amused now that I did not know
that then.”
We spoke about the wickedness of rich and poor people. Ruskin spoke of
the little children like angels he saw running about the dirty streets,
and thought how they were to be made wicked. I spoke about the frightful
want of feeling in all classes; but added that I thought rich people
were now waking up to a sense of their duties. “Yes,” he said, “I’m glad
that you and I have probably a good deal of life still to come. I think
we may live to see some great changes in society.” “I hope at least,” I
said, “to see some great changes in individuals before I die.” “Oh, no,”
he said, “that’s quite hopeless; people are always the same. You can’t
alter natures.”
We talked a good deal about it; but not quite decisively. I see we quite
agree that you can only call out and make living that which is in a
nature. Ruskin meant a great truth when he said, “I can never alter
myself. I think I had better make the best of myself as I am.” When I
said, “I am very much altered during the last few years,” he laughed
very kindly, saying, “Oh, no, you’re not; you’re just the same as ever;
only you know more.”
But it does make all the difference in the world whether we are fully
developing all that we are meant to be, conquering all bad passions, or
not.
[Sidenote: MISS JEX BLAKE]
103, Milton Street,
February 5th, 1860.
TO HER SISTERS MIRANDA AND FLORENCE.
I am afraid that it is long since I wrote to you; but of course I am
always thinking of you both, dears, and longing to have you home again,
that you may really know all our doings and lives. Mine lately you would
assuredly consider rather of the dissipated kind. I’ve been giving some
book-keeping lessons to Miss J. B. She is a bright, spirited, brave,
generous young lady living alone in true bachelor style. It took me
three nights to teach her, and she begged me to come to dinner each
time.... She has a friend, who is killing herself by hard work to
support her younger sisters.... I gather she would gladly give her
friend help, for she speaks most sadly of the “modern fallacy” “that the
money must be earned.” She thinks it might be given when people are dear
friends; she says they’ve given the most precious thing; and what
difference can a little money make? I am so very happy about my work,
now that I’ve finished nine drawings altogether for the “Modern
Painters.” Oh, you old Mirry, what a person you are for a joke! I’ve
found you out! How came you to write that I’d received 6d. from Lord
Palmerston, and spent 6d. in seven birds’ nests! Impertinent old thing!
I came upon the entries in looking thro’ my cash book; and I think Mama
will never forget it.
February 26th, 1860.
MRS. HILL TO MIRANDA.
Gertrude, Octavia and Minnie went to a party at Mrs. Shaw’s. Gertrude
and Minnie say Octavia looked “perfectly lovely.” She had a high white
dress, a grand scarlet sash and scarlet net.... Ockey, tho’ looking so
ill, is unusually nice, genial and merry. She has met with some amusing
people lately, and it is as good as a play to hear her relate her
dealings with them. She attracts an unusual share of confidence. Even
strangers go to her for advice. Ladies at S. Kensington[44] read their
letters to her—tell her their history. She could not help laughing one
day; she said a lady, a perfect stranger, told her all about herself,
even to the time she went to bed.
April 1st, 1860.
TO MISS HOWITT,
MY DEAREST MAGGIE,
As to those old days—I owe more to those visits than I can ever express.
I remember now that strange imagination of yours that peopled the world
for us with wonderful and beautiful beings, and I am sure we always went
on happily together.
(She also speaks of the impression of Mrs. Howitt’s loving, cheerful
look.)
[Sidenote: RUSKIN ON LOUIS NAPOLEON]
April 15th, 1860.
EMILY TO MIRANDA.
Yesterday we took Miss Baumgartner to see Ruskin’s Turners.... Ruskin
says he does not mean to write any more for ten years, but to teach
more.... He said he did not want to write any letters to people. He
wanted Ockey’s advice, as to what excuse he should make. She said he
should think what was the truth, and try if he could not say that. Then
he began talking about truth, saying it was difficult to speak the
truth; but to convey a truthful impression was almost impossible. That
those who speak the truth are often the most misunderstood. O. asked him
if he had read Mrs. Browning’s new poems. He called them beautiful but
absurd. O. said, “Why absurd? Because she trusts Louis Napoleon?” “No,”
he said; “I hold it is right to trust a man till he does something which
proves him wrong. But mind, you’re not to say I’m wrong if he turns out
treacherous.” Ruskin said that the taking of Savoy did not implicate
Napoleon’s character, because it was no pecuniary advantage to him, “not
much larger than my garden and very poor.” Do you think an ambitious man
would spend thousands of men and money for that? He takes it just to
pacify the French, who want some substantial proof that they were
conquerors. To me personally it was a great blow, because it was so nice
and dirty and tumble-down, and those wretched French will go and put it
all to rights. It will be much better for the people, but I shall get no
more sketching.
103, Milton Street,
April 29th, 1860.
TO MIRANDA.
At last I’ve returned to my old proper habit of writing once a fortnight
to you, I hope. I’ve been gadding about in the idlest way possible, and
yet with my time quite full. You ask me about Good Friday. My dear
sister, I’m far more afraid of your plaguing and torturing your
conscience than of your doing wrong.
Mr. Maurice and Mr. Davies seem to me decidedly to think it a mistake to
treat going to church as always a duty; of course you must do whatever
you think right. I shouldn’t hesitate to give up going to church on one
day, or even fifty, for one of you. You dear old thing, I wish I had you
here to give you a thorough good rest, and rousing, and refreshing. How
I should enjoy it! I’m as merry as a grig. I greatly enjoyed Miss
Baumgartner’s visit. Miss J. B. and I are great companions. I’m always
doing things with her. You know she’s teaching me Euclid. We went to see
Holman Hunt’s picture. It is very wonderful, in some respects extremely
beautiful, exquisitely beautiful as to colour. But I don’t feel as if
the picture had thrown much light on the subject for me. I have taken a
class in the night-school for girls here for three weeks, during the
absence of Miss C. S. I am so glad at last to get into parish work. Miss
Sterling and Miss J. B. give me almost unlimited money help for poor
people; the only question is how to use it wisely....
We have been twice to Spitalfields and seen much poverty there among the
weavers, besides making the acquaintance of a most nice Ragged School
master there. He went round with us to the people’s houses quite gladly,
after his hard day’s work; and it was so very nice to see the welcome
all the people gave him, but especially the children. He told us such an
interesting story about a pupil of his, a very desperate bad character,
about 16, who gambled in school, and only came with the avowed intention
of having “a lark,” _i.e._, pouring out the ink, and upsetting the
forms. At last this schoolmaster spoke to him, told him he had no
children of his own, and that he should be one to him, if he would. The
boy was deeply touched. He always sat by the master and studied hard. To
quote Mr. S., “I assure you, and I’m not ashamed to own it, he distanced
me out and out. He was a first-rate mathematician; he solved some of the
greatest problems of the age (?). ‘There, old ’un,’ he used to say,
showing me his slate in triumph, ‘do you know anything about that?’”
[Sidenote: A RAGGED SCHOOL MASTER]
“And what became of him at last?” we asked. “He died at twenty-one,” Mr.
S. answered, his eyes filling with tears as he went on. “He died a
peaceful and triumphant Christian. My wife and I never left his bed for
three days and nights. That’s his portrait; he’d long promised it to me,
and on the Thursday (he died on Tuesday) he said, ‘Old fellow, if you
don’t have it now, you’ll never have it.’ I never could break him of his
rough way of speaking. He’d come in here to the last and say, ‘Well, old
’un, have you got anything to eat?’ He wanted to come over from his
father’s house, and die in my easy chair; and the little wife and I
would have given him his wish. But the doctor forbade it. Yes, I do miss
him.”
Maggie Yarnall is now on her voyage to England, which gives me the
faintest most precious hope that Mary Harris may possibly come to
London.
103, Milton Street, Dorset Square,
August 16th, 1860.
TO MIRANDA.
[Sidenote: SUGGESTIONS TO MIRANDA]
Your sweet and kind letter gave me a great deal of pleasure. I have
written to Florence, as you will probably see. I am glad that you asked
me to do so. I have a great deal to tell you. I do not know how you
think or feel about Portman Hall school. You know that I do not think
the omission of all religious teaching a sufficient reason, for
disapproval to counterbalance the immense good which I consider they are
doing there, especially as the teacher and three of the monitors are
earnest believers in our Lord; and I do believe more is taught
indirectly than directly. I teach my drawing class there, and heartily
wish the school success; tho’ I confess I look to a day when we shall
have as liberal views about education carried out by members of the
Church. I would not give my whole or main strength to the school unless
I were obliged; but I would and do very willingly help. You will wonder
why I write all this. It is because they are trying to find a lady to
help there; and I have mentioned you to them. They could not meet with
what they wanted, and had just made arrangements for extra lessons
instead until spring, when my note proposing your taking the work next
spring arrived. I mentioned Mrs. Malleson as able to say what she
thought of your fitness for the post; and, since communicating with her,
Mme. Bodichon is very anxious to arrange it in the spring when she again
returns from Algiers. They first wanted a person’s entire time for £100;
but now they have resolved to divide their fund, and would probably like
to have you for about two or three hours daily except Saturday. I do
think that a permanent work of this sort, and among that class of
children, would be deeply interesting; that it would make a nice change
from private pupils; that you would find Mme. Bodichon and Mrs. Malleson
delightful people to work under; you would have such power to carry out
what you thought best;—and, dearest Andy, it is not the least part of
the pleasure of the thought to me that it does seem to me it would make
it so safe for you both to return, so certain that you would, if you had
the prospect of this daily work. I must tell you that Miss Sterling
appears, from the short talk we have had, to think that it is not a good
thing to do, only a nice thing to have a certainty; but she herself
confesses, and I am sure it is true, she does not know about it. Nothing
has to be, or can be, settled yet, but I should like to know how you
feel about it. I mean to learn what Mr. Maurice thinks. Oh, darling, you
must come home in spring somehow. We are on Mr. Davies’ side of the
street, two doors nearer to the New Road. I am doing such a glorious
illumination round a photograph of Raphael’s Madonna della Seggiola,
with the words, “For unto us a child is born, etc.” It reminds me of the
glorious chorus.
Milton Street,
August 19th, 1860.
TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.
Yes, I am really back again, and so hard at work that our glorious
tour[45] only comes to me at moments as a precious bright possession
that nothing can take away, and interpreting splendidly one passage
after another in this glorious volume of Ruskin (which I have at last
obtained to read)....
If you had any notion of my state of mind just now! Everything I want to
do seems delayed. One girl, a darling _protegée_ of mine, says her
mistress starves her, will not try another place, insists upon going
home. Oh such a home! irreligious, dirty, cruel, impoverished; and the
girl has just had two years’ training. Well! she must just try her home,
and God bring her safe out of it.... We hope to have my dearest sisters
home next spring. I have been offered some delicious teaching for Andy,
in a school near here, just the kind of work, and among the class of
children that she would enjoy; and the supporters of the school are
earnest generous people. There is, however, no religious teaching given
in the school; wherefore, say many wise people to me, you as a Christian
should not accept it at all. So I have _not_ thought; but I suppose I
hardly feel sure enough about whether I ought to give my sister advice,
however strong my conviction may be, when wise good people think
differently.... I never have stopped, I hope I never shall stop, to
consider what set or sect of people are at work, if I thoroughly and
entirely approve of the work. I may think the work incomplete; but, if
it comes in my way, and I think it good, as far as it goes, I do help it
with the little power I have. Above all I would not, in this age, refuse
help to a society because it did not state that it was working in
Christ’s cause. I do believe we want all generous and good work
recognised as Christ’s, whether conscious or unconscious. I think the
tendency is very much for doubters to think the best work is done by
benevolent unbelievers; to think our faith cramps our labours and
narrows our hearts. I would like, so far as in me lies, to show them we
care for men as men, we care for good as good. I never would deny faith.
I care very little to express it anywhere but in life.... How much these
people lose by their omission I believe they will one day know. I think
the time will come when all this round world will seem to them mainly
precious, because it was made by a Father and redeemed by His Son.
[Sidenote: ON JOINING A NEW SOCIETY]
October 30th, 1860.
TO MISS M. HOWITT.
In these days, when so many conscientious people seem to be seeking over
the whole world for some new good work, and cannot see the holiness of
that which lies near them, it is very delicious to find people owning
their home work as first and most blessed. At the same time, I cannot
feel that I should join your Society further than I have joined it
already. It feels to me that all people who are obeying the best part of
the nature that has been given them, do, more or less, belong to
it;—that those, who know from Whom the light proceeds “that lighteth
every man that cometh into the world,” know themselves to be bound into
a society by that gift, by being children of God and heirs of Christ.
Do, dear Maggie, believe that I feel it the greatest honour to have been
asked to join your Society, and have great sympathy with you about it.
TO MARY HARRIS.
How the real bond of family re-asserts itself, dominant over fancy,
attraction, yes even perhaps, in a measure, over friendship itself! as
tho’ it would teach us how tremendous is the bond of duty. Certainly we
have duties to our friends too; but they seem to have more relation to
what we feel instinctive longing to do, innate capacity for doing,—to
stand more by virtue of relations we have chosen for ourselves, than
solely, wholly on the command of God. I suppose it must be because He is
our Father.
November 15th, 1860.
TO MIRANDA.
I have spoken to Mr. Maurice about Portman Hall; and he decidedly thinks
you ought _not_ to undertake it. He says, what one sees at once, that
you could not bind yourself not to speak to the children in any way that
seemed best to you. He said that he believes those who are acting up to
all they know will learn more; but those who habitually ignore what they
know, lose it. He was so good, and took a great interest in all our
plans.
November, 1860.
TO GERTRUDE.
I begin not to wonder that men of business look forward to leaving off
work, when they get old. I think it would be very delicious to have done
with the bustle, and be able to see people one loves, and think a little
in peace. However, I daresay it’s all right; and it certainly is a
glorious life; but lists of things one has to do, and machinery to keep
things going, never can be as interesting as writing to my darling
sister.
December 17th, 1860.
TO MISS BAUMGARTNER,
Account of the taking of the lease of 14, Nottingham Place.
MY OWN DEAREST EMMA,
All has been arranged about the house at last. I am very thankful indeed
about it; and we are all thoroughly pleased with the house.... Ruskin
was very kind indeed about it.
[Sidenote: TAKING 14, NOTTINGHAM PLACE]
We had a delicious talk afterwards about my life and life in general,
and cultivated affection, its duties, practicability; whether or not the
cultivation of it deteriorated natures and how.
Ruskin spoke of his own father and mother. He quite willingly wrote what
he imagined would satisfy Mr. Harlowe,[46] and so did Mr. Maurice; but
in the meantime Miss Wodehouse had most kindly offered a guarantee. She
was perfectly convinced of the success of the plan, and was anxious that
Miss Jex Blake should have her rooms.
I had such a glorious talk with Ruskin, stayed till 2.20; had to take a
cab, and to drive furiously to College, where I was ten minutes late,
and recovered from shame and remorse for it, by finding everyone in a
state of alarm about me; only so thankful I was safe, my unpunctuality
being unprecedented. I was a little proud, and vastly amused.