CHAPTER V

1860—1870

NOTTINGHAM PLACE SCHOOL. BEGINNING OF HOUSING WORK.

The removal to 14, Nottingham Place was one of the great crises in

Octavia’s life. The housing work, with which her name is specially

connected, was organised in this new home; and here began the regular

co-operation of the sisters in the educational work, which they felt

to be so important in itself, and which, as will be seen from the

letters, linked itself on so happily to the work among the poor

tenants of the Marylebone courts.

On the other hand, this period was marked by special troubles; which,

however, led to the formation of new friendships, and the

strengthening of old. Thus the value of her friendship with Mr.

William Shaen, which had been realised many years earlier, was yet

more fully appreciated, in consequence of the difficulties connected

with the purchase of Ruskin’s houses; and the help, then begun,

continued throughout his life. Her friendship with Mrs. Nassau Senior,

the sister of Mr. Thomas Hughes, was increased by the ability which

she brought to bear in the arrangement of the accounts for the

houses.[47] A time of great despondency and pain, during Octavia’s

first visit to Italy, led her to appreciate the sympathy of her

friend, Miss Mayo; and the rather dreary, commonplace life in the

hydropathic establishment at Ben Rhydding, brought her in contact with

Mr. Cockerell, who became one of her most helpful fellow-workers;

while the need of assistance, caused by the turbulence of the children

in the playground, made specially valuable the staunch fellow-work of

Miss Harriet Harrison and her sister Emily.

[Sidenote: FIRST THOUGHT OF HOUSING-REFORM]

Another friend, who came forward to help, when Octavia was obliged to

go to Italy and Ben Rhydding on account of her health, was Mrs.

Godwin, the sister-in-law of George MacDonald. The management of the

houses had devolved on Emily, who found in Mrs. Godwin’s firm and

gentle influence the greatest assistance in those early difficult days

in Freshwater Place. With regard to the housing problem, my wife gives

the following account of the incident which first fixed Octavia’s mind

on the subject:

“When we went to Nottingham Place, Octavia arranged to have a weekly

gathering in our kitchen, of the poor women whom we knew, to teach

them to cut out and make clothes. One night, one of the women fainted;

and we found out that she had been up all the previous night washing,

while she rocked her baby’s cradle with her foot. Next day, Octavia

went to the woman’s home, and found her living in a damp, unhealthy

kitchen. Octavia was most anxious to help her to move into more

healthy quarters, and spent a long time hunting for rooms; but could

find none where the children would be taken. Then all she had heard as

a child about the experiences of her grandfather, Dr. Southwood Smith,

in East London, and all she had known of the toy-workers’ homes,

rushed back on her mind; and she realised that even at her very doors

there was the same great evil. With this in her mind, she went to take

her drawings to Ruskin, not long after the death of his father. He was

burdened by the responsibility of the fortune that he had just

inherited, and told Octavia how puzzled he was as to the best use to

make of it. She at once suggested the provision of better houses for

the poor. He replied that he had not time to see to such things; but

asked whether, if he supplied the capital for buying a tenement house,

she could undertake the management. He should like to receive five per

cent. on his capital; not that he cared for the money; but that, if

the scheme were placed on a business footing, others might follow the

example. Upon which, Octavia exclaimed, ‘Who will ever hear of what

_I_ do?’ Nevertheless, she admitted the justice of his criticism, and

promised to use her best efforts to make the scheme a paying one; and

so actually began the work which was to spread so far.

“When Octavia was searching for a suitable house to turn into

tenements for the poor,—she was most anxious to find one with a

garden. We spent many days looking at empty houses, and seeing

landlords and agents; but, whenever the purpose for which the house

was required was understood, difficulties were at once raised. At

last, after one of these refusals, Octavia exclaimed, ‘Where _are_ the

poor to live?’ Upon which the agent replied coldly. ‘_I_ don’t know;

but they must keep off the St. John’s Wood Estate.’”

With regard to the school, which was to supply so many zealous and

sympathetic helpers for Octavia’s work, it will be noted that all of

the four sisters had shown an early interest in education; and while

Octavia and Emily carried on the teaching at Nottingham Place, in

which Florence afterwards shared, Miranda was managing a day school

for the children of small tradesmen and artizans. The Nottingham Place

school was originally intended only for a few children of intimate

friends. But the growth of the numbers, and Octavia’s additional work

in the management of the houses, induced Miranda, in 1866, to give up

her separate teaching, and to become the head of the Nottingham Place

school.

[Sidenote: OCTAVIA’S EDUCATIONAL POWER]

As will be seen from one or more of the letters, Octavia was disposed

to emphasise the difference between her stern ideas of discipline, and

Miranda’s gentle persuasiveness; and, though this difference may have

been exaggerated in Octavia’s mind, something of the same feeling

seems to be reflected in the accounts given by early pupils. On the

other hand, that Octavia’s readiness of resource and helpfulness in

emergencies was specially impressed on the memories of the scholars,

seems proved by an amusing story, which I remember hearing from one of

the pupils.

One night, some of the girls suddenly awoke to the impression that

some intruder had come into the room. Whether the newcomer was a ghost

or a burglar, they were, of course, uncertain. (I forget whether a

chest of drawers or a towel-horse was the real offender.) But after

trying all sorts of remedies, one girl cried out triumphantly, “I’ll

tell Miss Octavia”; and this form of defiance seemed to restore the

courage of the most timid.

But one would rather mention as the distinctive part in the management

of the Nottingham Place school, not so much the differences of quality

between any of the sisters as the way in which they all worked into

each other’s hands. Another old pupil, writing since Octavia’s death,

says, “I feel what a privilege I had in being one amongst you all—the

little I do was first put into me in Nottingham Place days. I so

admired you _all_, and the separate work you did.”

Nor was Octavia’s power over the young limited to those who were

officially recognised as her pupils. Dr. Greville MacDonald, who has

since made his mark in such different ways, writes:—“Miss Octavia Hill

had an extraordinary influence upon me in my boyhood, though she could

have known nothing of it. She was the first person who taught me how

to learn, and how to love learning. In my youth, when I began to know

a little of her social power and her personal sacrifice, she had more

to do, I think, than even my father, in giving me a steadfast faith;

which, thanks to her heart and life, became established amidst the

ruins of conflicting questions, and has ever grown in steadfastness.”

But, besides the assistance which the school supplied in the

development of Octavia’s work among the poor, the home at Nottingham

Place was connected in a more material way with the inhabitants of the

Marylebone courts. The stables at the back of the house were turned

into a room for the tenants’ parties; the rooms above were let to a

blind man and his family in whom Octavia was much interested; and, in

order to prepare the place for habitation, Octavia and Miss Cons

whitewashed and painted the rooms, and even glazed the windows. This

practical knowledge of such work was a great help to her in carrying

out the repairs of the houses, and training unskilled men, whom she

wished to employ.

The rest of the development of this period may be gathered from the

letters. There is one to Mrs. Shaen, dwelling on her difficulties with

the playground; and at first they were very great. When the ground was

being enclosed, the wall was twice pulled down. And, when Octavia and

Emily went into the court, they were pelted. At the time of the

opening, to which I and my father went, we were warned by a policeman

that the court was too bad for us to go down. How great a change was

wrought the following letters will show.

14, Nottingham Place, W.

December 13th, 1860.

EMILY TO MIRANDA.

We came here on Saturday; and very delighted we are with our new

quarters. Poor Ockey had such difficulty about getting the house,

because of being a lady without property, and so young; they thought it

mere speculation. Mr. Maurice and Ruskin, who were her references, were

so kind about it. Ruskin saw the landlord at the College about it; and

Ockey received a letter to the effect that Mr. Ruskin had borne

testimony to her “energy and every estimable quality,” and, if he and

Mr. Maurice would, without giving a formal guarantee, say as much in

writing as that they believed Ockey capable of managing the affair, it

would be sufficient. These letters were written; but, before they were

both received, Miss Wodehouse had given a formal guarantee; and O., to

her delight, found that Mr. Shaen had arranged the matter. Was it not

nice of Miss Wodehouse? She heard from Miss J. B. of the difficulty, and

said that she had perfect confidence in O. and perfect confidence in the

plan; and she would give the guarantee in a minute.... We did not know

till nine o’clock that morning that we were to move; so you may think

what a bustle we were in.... Ockey is immensely busy, and quite in her

element, buying things, and reading over schedules of fixtures, and

examining the plans, and carpentering. We have not yet fixed what rooms

we are to keep; it must depend on the lodgers.... We are close to the

park; so the air is very good; and we are about ten minutes’ walk from

Queen’s College. The back of the house is delightfully quiet, because it

looks out on Marylebone church and schools. The rooks in your favourite

tree are so near that we often hear them cawing.

The Pines,

Christmas Day, 1860.

EMILY TO MIRANDA.

... Ockey came from Brighton yesterday. On Monday evening she proposes

to start for Cumberland. She has to go up to town to-morrow, for Ruskin

is going to attend to her work. She is much better than last week; and I

never knew her sweeter. I can hardly bear her to leave the room, I have

seen so little of her for so long, and I feel she is so soon going away.

[Sidenote: MOVE TO 14, NOTTINGHAM PLACE]

14, Nottingham Place,

January 20th, 1861.

You need not be anxious about the house, everyone calculates to lose the

first quarter. Ockey has all the money put aside for her first quarter’s

rent, in case we should not let....

Is it not delightful that Ockey is so happy with Miss Harris? She seems

not able to express half her joy; her letters are full of such

expressions as “Oh, I am so happy!” “Oh, it is so delicious!”—and she

thinks she shall go back there again and again.

Weybridge,

January 1st, 1861.

TO MIRANDA.

... I am just going to Cumberland for three weeks. Think of the glory of

that! To-morrow I am to see Ruskin about my work. We had a very

delightful evening on my birthday; you know he sent me “The Angel in the

House” and “Faithful for Ever.” Ruskin and I had a delightful long talk

on the 5th about all sorts of things.... This bright, beautiful

Christmas, with all its glorious thoughts, makes one hope that next year

we shall all be together. Dearest Andy, you know I would not urge you

lightly to leave a work you had undertaken; but I do feel that we ought

to be all together again. Life is too short and precious for us to spend

much of it separate; and we do want all our strength for work here....

It’s a miserable fact that I never write to you except about business;

but I should have liked to tell you about our new home, with its wide

stone stairs, and large, light, quiet rooms. I am looking forward to

your return with great longing.... It’s striking twelve, so I must not

write more; but, dearest Andy, I do wish you all good birthday wishes,

and that this year may be brighter than any before it. Give darling Flo

a kiss for me; how delicious it will be to see her again!

Hurstpierpoint,

Sussex.

May 18th, 1861.

TO MIRANDA.[48]

[Sidenote: MRS. HILL’S HOLIDAY]

... I wish, dear Mir., that you were having a holiday; it seems really

hard for you alone to be working. I wonder when you will get some change

and refreshment.... I am grieved that Mama refused to go to Cromer; I am

really anxious about her getting away somehow this summer; she seems to

me to be living too monotonous a life; so if you see anything she would

like to do, pray encourage it, regardless of expense, and write and tell

me about it at once. I don’t consider it an open question whether, if it

is in our power, we should send her anywhere she fancies going. And will

you remember that often the only way to do this is to enter heart and

soul into some pleasure with her?

Written from Derwent Bank (undated, 1861).

TO MIRANDA.

.... How well I remember coming suddenly in upon you that last dreadful

night, and finding you hard at work on my skirt (which, by the way, has

met with unqualified admiration, darling), and how good you were in

never opposing my coming. Well, I’ve had such a summer as I never shall

forget. The unbroken peace of it, like one long unclouded day! The merry

home life, and exquisite redundance of the perpetual beauty. If I raise

my eyes I see the mountains, perhaps crowned and veiled in lighted

cloud; if I walk round the garden, the long sprays of rose, or delicate

green ferns, delight me; if, in the night, or rather early dawn, I come

into this room which adjoins mine, I see the moonlight lying over the

river, field and hills, or the long cold level lake of mist lying in the

valley, breaking under the first ray of the sun, and rising in wreathed

pillars, covering the lowest end of the village of Broughton, as it

rises, but never, I understand, rising as high as this house. Then we’ve

read so; the ignorant old thing is getting some glimmerings about

history. I’ve left off walking again; after the first fortnight I got

more and more tired with it, but I persevered till the fever came, and

have never resumed it; but the terrace here is my continual haunt.

Ambleside,

June 10th, 1861.

TO FLORENCE.

I want to tell you something of all I have seen and felt, because ... I

fear you have had a sad house. I have been to Keswick. We spent several

delicious days there, sitting up on lovely hills overlooking Derwent

Water, with all its wooded islands, and the blue valleys that part ridge

beyond ridge of mountains; and rowing in the evening on the smooth water

watching the sun set, and mists gathering on the mountains, gathering in

intensity of colour, minute by minute; or driving far over the mountain

passes to Buttermere, and Crummock, and learning about ferns and

flowers. Then we drove to a lovely little village called Eamont Bridge;

it is rich in historic memories.... We saw a large Druid circle called

Mayborough (of which Turner has made a lovely picture). Then we went to

Lord Brougham’s place, Brougham Hall. It is an old building which

belonged to his ancestors generations back. It is kept in the best

possible taste; there are fine old Norman rooms, with a well under one

bed for supplying the castle in times of siege. There are beautiful

pictures by Gainsborough, Reynolds, Holbein,—a most interesting

collection of portraits. Then we saw a grand old ruined castle. Then the

village where the rebels were taken in the rebellion against George, in

favour of Charles Edward. Mary’s aunt, a dear old lady who lived at

Eamont Bridge, was the child of a man whose father has written a most

interesting letter giving an account of their capture. The Duke of

Cumberland came to his house; and Mrs. Mason’s father, then a youth, was

sent out to him to give him notice of an ambush. His mother hid in a

wardrobe for fear.

We drove to the foot of Ullswater, and then rowed up it—nine miles; but

it poured, which we thought fun.

[Sidenote: TIME WITH MISS HARRIS]

Flimby, Maryport,

July 15, 1861.

TO EMILY.

I wrote a few words to you to All Saints, as I didn’t like your birthday

to pass without one word from me; but now I write in answer to your dear

little letter....

We are so happy here, sitting out on the beach. Bathing, reading, and

going to church are, I believe, our only employments, for I am often

very very weary. The children[49] are running wild, as they always do

here, it seems; so Mary and I sit in the sunlight in great peace. The

children heard it was your birthday to-morrow; and, dear little things,

they have come running in with their little treasures of seaweed and

flowers begging me to send them; several offers have been made of

various things which it was impossible to send by post; so I enclose

lavender and heartsease, and some seaweed from them all, and my best

love to you, darling. Shall I send the balance sheets to you in future,

or will it be useless? Does A. understand them? I speak of returning in

September, because A. cannot do my work and hers too; also because I

thought I’d like to see you quietly before Sophy’s return; but I don’t

want the report spread; besides, it’s quite uncertain whether I shall be

well enough to return. Do tell me whether it could be anyhow easily

arranged about the double work without me till October.

Derwent Bank,

August 15, 1861.

TO MIRANDA.

I went all over a coal pit yesterday. It was very impressive. Of course

the depth and darkness and lowness one expected; but I had not realised

the entire absence of all _native_ life; no rats or mice, or even

insects. Of course there was no place for them to be; but, were the pit

forsaken, there would be none at all. At present there are a few weak

flies seen; and the rats are terrifically fierce, having so little food.

When caught in a trap they are usually found with great pieces eaten out

of them by their fellows. They are brought down sometimes in the bags

brought with food for the horses, who live in darkness, but in such an

equable temperature, and free from exposure to weather that they look

quite thriving. Wood down there soon rots, and is soon covered with

white lichen like wool, but exquisitely feathered. The large furnace,

kept continually burning near the second shaft, to cause a perpetual

draught, looked so living and bright, after the damp low dimly lighted

passages. The height of these depends on the depth of the coal strata.

They call the earth above it the roof. The safety of a mine, and the

ease with which it is worked, much depends on the material of the roof.

Here it is stone, which is nice and firm. The main roads are first cut

out, from which five yards apart are the cuttings. When these are

sufficiently worked, the spaces left between (called pillars) are taken

out, and the roof supported with props, which soon give way, and the

passages gradually are closed.

[Sidenote: VISITS FROM RUSKIN]

April 27th, 1862.

TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.

Ruskin is coming to us on Wednesday.... There is something almost solemn

in the intense joy ... I can remember when he came to us when we were so

very very poor, and home was like a little raft in a dark storm; where

the wonder every day was whether we could live thro’ it; and now the sea

looks calm, even if there are waves; and we have leisure to look at the

little boat in which we sail, and wonder if it will ever be painted with

bright colours.... I remember too how once Ruskin’s coming was like some

strange joy; any little accident might have removed him for ever from

all connection with us. Now the silent work of years has bound us

together in a sort of friendship, which, whether it leads to outward

communication or not, years, and separation, and silences will not

touch; and this visit comes like the expression of a friendship

naturally, and like a bit of a whole.

14, Nottingham Place,

August 31st, 1862.

TO MRS. SHAEN.

I am in town now to take care of the young friends, who are to live with

us. The work is extremely interesting to me; all the girls have some

special interest to me. Annie and Edith Harris from their relationship

to my best friend; I. from her position; M. from her position, and for

the sake of her family. Minnie’s pupils, who are coming daily to be

taught with the others, are the children of a widow who is working hard

to educate them well to support themselves. They are dear, earnest,

thoughtful, gentle, well-trained girls; so that the work will be very

nice, and supplies an object now that the home is rather broken up.

1862.

TO GERTRUDE (ABOUT STARTING THE SCHOOL).

As to needlework, it is one of my great desires to teach it to those

children thoroughly, as well as all habits of neatness, punctuality,

self-reliance, and such practical power and forethought as will make

them helpful in their homes. I think they may be taught to delight in

them. When lessons are over, I hope to read to them, while they work; or

we will sing or talk together. If the children have time for study,

work, walking, and play, I so much hope some of the elder ones will

manage to spare some time for teaching quiet little children, either on

Sunday or some other day. I think it would deepen their interest in

their own studies so much; but I do mean to be so very careful not to

overwork them. I may find that one cannot set them to teach without

overstraining them.

14, Nottingham Place,

(undated). Probably August 1862.

TO HER MOTHER.

I believe that I really have not written to you since you left us, which

certainly is very shameful behaviour on my part.... A. is certainly

infinitely better than she was, in mind and spirits, but just as foolish

about overwork. It seems impossible to influence her about it. Annie and

Edith are _very_ fond of her; and this is good, I think. She will often

sing to them in the evening, and read aloud to us all. I hope gradually,

by these sort of things, to get her interested in finishing work early,

and undertaking no more; but it is slow and difficult work. Her school

is increasing, and her hope and delight in it too. You will easily

imagine what a busy and merry household we are, with these young things

laughing and playing like kittens....

[Sidenote: THE NOTTINGHAM PLACE SCHOOL]

I take Annie and Edith to the Swimming Bath every week.... They are to

join a gymnasium too, and always walk in the park. I hope we shall

manage to keep, or rather make them well. I don’t think they have strong

constitutions....

I am _very_ glad that you are seeing so much that is beautiful and

grand. It must be a great delight.... Now that teaching has fallen to my

share, I regret very much my great ignorance. I want to work very hard

at Latin. Minnie and I are thinking of trying whether Miss S., or some

other good Christian, will read it with us. At present I work at it a

little alone.... The Sintram is packed to go now. We miss it very much;

but I have had the St. Michael framed, and think of putting it there. I

often reproach myself so much, dear Mama, now that you are gone, with

the way I never entered into your plans for joy. I tried latterly to do

it, even then feeling my mistakes, which I suppose will all come more

clearly before me as years go on; and perhaps it is no good dwelling too

much on what is past recall. I wish this letter, or anything else I

could do, would make you feel how entirely I rejoice with you in all you

are seeing; but perhaps you do know it partly. I am trying now to make

the household bright and sociable for all the children; and I feel more

every day that every right healthy joy is a little bit of true

riches—the end for which really all work is done.... Tell dear Flo. I

will write next time, and assure her I remember all her directions about

half hours after dinner very seriously and very tenderly, because they

remind me of her. I hope she’ll find my education improved on her

return. Give her a kiss for me.

January 18th, 1863.

TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.

[Sidenote: RUSKIN’S APPEAL TO OCTAVIA]

We are all reassembled for work after Xmas dispersion; and my little

troop occupy much of my time. We are all well, and busy. I am succeeding

capitally. Ruskin, you know, perhaps, has gone, giving me the grandest

drawing lesson, an hour and a half quite alone,—thorough teaching; and

then it is so nice; I do feel we are such thorough friends. He talks so

quietly, so trustfully, so (I had almost written) reverently; and then

the thought made me laugh. But I think you’ll know what I mean. He saw

me again the next day at Burne-Jones’s, introducing me to him and his

wife; and after a little time, asking to speak with me on business. We

went into a quiet little room; and, after business was over, had the

most delicious talk. He asked me to write to him in Switzerland, saying

that I was “the one” (and then with his accustomed accuracy correcting

the statement to), “one of the few” people from whom he wished to hear;

and then once more he qualified it by saying, “You tell me just the

things I wish to hear.” All this, however, this quiet acknowledged

friendship can hardly be described even in words, to me so precious,

which expressed it, because it depended on the way, and slight accents

and actions impossible to describe. So to come to more important things;

Ruskin was so delighted with the trumpet Fra Angelico, that I am to

leave Turners and all else and devote myself to Fra Angelico and

Orcagna, wherever I can find them; also a little water-colour drawing

won the remark that now I had “delicacy” of touch for _anything_.

Nevertheless Ruskin’s heart is with social things; and I was earnestly

charged to leave any drawing, if I saw what of help I could give

anywhere, believing (which is not difficult) that in doing any good, I

was fulfilling Ruskin’s wish and will as much as in drawing. “Never

argue that it is not my work,” he said; “I believe you have power among

people, which I ought not to monopolise. I’m going away myself too; so

just look upon it that I leave you charged to do anything you may see

good to be done; only mind, Octavia! one way there is in which you may

both grieve and vex me, namely by hurting yourself. Don’t be proud and

foolish; remember your strength is worth keeping. Rest for months or

years, if you ought, but don’t lose it.” Rather a strange, rather a

proud, a very thankful and glorious position,—isn’t it, Emma? It doesn’t

make much practical change. The social work is best done by the way. He

didn’t mean “help people with money,” for he didn’t leave me any. I

meant to rest a good deal; but the confidence and the freedom, if it is

wanted,—_these_ make a difference.

14, Nottingham Place, W.,

February 4th, 1863.

TO FLORENCE.

... I only began my physiology yesterday, but have done a great deal

since, and if Mrs. M. has the sense not to object to the children’s

learning it, I shall go on with it steadily, preparing a lesson for them

each week, and so shall learn much myself.—I think you would think all

our little flock very much improved, if you could see them....

... You will have heard, I suppose, of our magnificent concert for the

blind. It was one of the most splendid evenings of my life.... M.E. is

so delightful a child to me. I can’t tell you how I enjoy her. I often

long for you, dear, with all your sympathy with people in general, and

power of making children happy. You know I’ve a damping cool sort of way

that just stabs all their enjoyment. I don’t think I’ve any child nature

left in me. However, it will injure them less, that what they all want

is to grow up. I mean S. and I. and M.E. want qualities, that will fit

them for early usefulness, developed.

July 25th, 1863.

MRS. HILL TO MIRANDA.

... I think neither M. nor O. can have found time to tell you about

their visit to Ruskin. He entertained them grandly at luncheon. They

stayed two hours talking on all kinds of high subjects. It seems M. said

some very pithy things, which delighted him extremely, and which he

afterwards quoted. He spoke of O.’s painting powers _very_ highly—he was

all kindness. M. says he seems so impressed with O.’s greatness, and he

told someone she was the best person he knew.... He said to O., “I don’t

like to blame people for what they do, when they are mad with grief or

terror; but I must say it was _cruel_ of you to tell me about A.’s

illness; I was very ill at the time; and it threw me back.” She

answered, “I didn’t think——” “You didn’t think I should care. I care

very much for her sake, and very much for yours.” He asked a great deal

about it, and when they spoke of how we nursed you, the tears came into

his eyes.

[Sidenote: MIRANDA’S ILLNESS]

July, 1863.

TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.

Miranda’s life has been in imminent danger; in fact, for some days the

doctors gave us no hope.... You may imagine what the watching and

nursing were. I can never tell; so awfully is every incident of those

long days and nights burnt into my memory. But there is one thing you

can’t know. The infinite, the wonderful, the universal sympathy and

desire to help; it was something triumphantly beautiful; one felt it

even at the worst, only it felt so very far away, so helpless. Mr.

Maurice was here daily, often twice or thrice. He used to come, like a

great tender angel of strength, so infinitely pitiful, saying and

reading to us things never to be forgotten, answering Miranda’s

questions unconsciously asked, so that they answered those deep down in

us, thinking no service too small for him to render, none too arduous,

startling me to a sense of my own existence by some tender bit of

thought for me. And Miss Sterling, I don’t know what we should have done

without her. When danger was gone but anxiety remained, I sank down to a

state of miserable weakness and low spirits; and she would come and take

me out for drives. I couldn’t stand or walk, so terribly fatiguing had

the nursing been; why, the simple feeding was enough. Miranda was fed

every half hour, and Mama and I did _very_ nearly everything. Ruskin

sent most kindly. And then the little children, who stole about the

house and spoke in whispers; and my children, who did their work quite

self-reliantly, and waited with gentlest service on us; and poor old

women who sent daily to ask, and teachers who offered all service to set

us free, and friends who drove in to bring flowers and grapes, and

servants who were like rocks of strength: there wasn’t one person, who

didn’t show love and helpfulness far above what one could have dreamed

or hoped.

July 25th, 1863.

TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.

Minnie and I had been at Ruskin’s, talking for two hours about faith. It

has left upon us both an impression of the deepest solemnity. Minnie

says joy. Well yes, I say joy too....

I am sitting in the hush of an examination; the children each at a

separate table are deep in sums; so strangely do the little things of

this world blend themselves with the great, all these strange duties

leading one on to the great thoughts and facts that lie below.

14, Nottingham Place,

September 1st, 1863.

TO EMILY FROM HER MOTHER.

Dear Octa has just arrived. She has been so happy at Leicester. She says

she never had such a fight to get away from any place. They were so

happy together, those girls. Octa spirited them up to all kinds of

things, made designs for L.’s carvings, inspired one of them to come up

to town and go in for a Latin certificate at Queen’s; gave A. hints

about village schools, etc.

[Sidenote: RICH AND POOR]

November 29th, 1863.

TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.

We have all felt some time or other how much we owe to those who have

consented to be served by us; and I sometimes dream about the time that

shall come when we shall try “to keep up the spirit of our poor,” not by

shutting up their hearts in cold dignified independence, but by giving

them others to help, and thus rousing the deepest of all motives for

self help, that which is the only foundation on which to build our

services to others. How strangely then, when all confess mutual

dependence, and glory in mutual service, will all our strange words

sound about admiration for those who starve in silence; as if that

silent starvation were not the most awful protest against all who might

have been near friends, who might have been noble Christian

ministers.... I have been thinking very much of the past, because of the

sad news from Australia of my dear old playfellow Charlton Howitt. They

sent me a copy of the _Govt. Provincial Engineer_, saying it should be

sent to me as “one of dear Charlton’s old old friends”; and they all

seem to bear it as calmly and faithfully as they were sure to do.

Offley Cottage, Luton, Beds.,

December 22nd, 1863.

TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.

It happens that Andy’s school has moved to the very room which, in the

first old days of London work, Mama took as a workroom, now twelve years

ago.

I had not been to the room till the day of this party, and Andy had not

remembered it.

And there I stood again after twelve years, with a deep sense of mighty

love on all sides, to help me to do whatever I willed; friends and

sisters, pupils and servants watched and waited for sign and look that

they might know what I wanted done; and there was not one among the

little pale faces lit up with unwonted joy, that I might not have

committed to some strong friend to be cherished, if my own strength

failed.

On the Sunday following I had eight young servants from different

places, whom I have long known and watched, to go with me to receive the

Communion, as we hope to do together each year.

As I came out, Mr. Hughes was waiting for me, asking, almost entreating,

that one of us would teach his children. Finding that we really

couldn’t, he asked me to come to breakfast next day, and see Mrs.

Hughes, to advise her about a governess.

They were extremely cordial and earnest,—said that for years they had

been longing to get us, but that Miss Sterling had always told them that

we were too busy, which indeed is true. I was much touched by Mr.

Hughes’ grief about the children’s hatred of lessons; and finding that

they wanted someone to take the children into the country for a month,

till they could find a governess, I thought that I might take the work,

and perhaps might get the little things thro’ some difficulties, and so

might make lessons pleasanter hereafter.

I gave my own pupils[50] three days’ lessons. Minnie took the last

three, after which they went in to the Cambridge Local Examinations.

I came down here at three days’ notice, and have succeeded beyond my

brightest hopes.

[Sidenote: VISIT TO MR. HUGHES]

Offley Cottage, Luton,

Christmas, 1863.

TO MIRANDA.

Last night Mr. Hughes read some splendid Christmas thoughts about “Vie

de Jésus” of Mr. Maurice’s from “Macmillan.” It was glorious. Mr. Hughes

is cordiality and politeness itself, and does so like to talk about

Co-operation. He speaks of Mr. Neale, but has not seen him lately.

December 31st, 1863.

I am _very_ happy here, getting on capitally, especially with Mrs.

Hughes, whom I like extremely. Mr. Hughes and I have very nice talks;

and he is so entirely kind and considerate. The children are most

delighted with the history poems.[51] Will you tell Mama I kept the

“Education” because Mrs. Hughes was so interested in it; and I have read

a bit to her each night after dinner, before Mr. Hughes joined us.

14, Nottingham Place,

February 18th, 1864.

TO MISS DAVIES.

_Re_ a petition to ask for the extension of University Exams. to girls.

I am really ashamed to have troubled you to write twice about the

signatures, which we are heartily glad to forward.

I meant to write and ask whether signatures of private governesses in

private families were needed. I gather from your last note that they

are. I will obtain any that I can on the other paper, and forward them

to you, if I am not suddenly called from London. We are very anxious to

learn the girls’ fate; though we feel sure none of our pupils have

passed. I suppose, in that case, we shall receive no notice. If there is

any chance of a formal or informal examination next term, we should like

to know; and every pupil _shall_ pass. We shall know the standard, and

have time to prepare, and shall send in those girls only who are just of

the right age.

P.S.—I see you ask how I think the examinations told. I was _extremely_

pleased with the effect on our pupils. I thought they were much

invigorated by the examination; it interested them much; the intercourse

with other students gave them a feeling of working with a large body of

learners all over England, which was very good; and I think the

examination tended to raise their standard somewhat—which, I regret to

say, I think is not high.

These like all other examinations require careful and noble use; people

must look beyond them, or they cannot look at them rightly. There are

better things to be learnt than ever can come out in an examination. And

to work for one is dangerous; learning, for the sake of learning and

knowing, is the only legitimate course; but a standard, that will test

our knowledge at last, is almost invaluable.

[Sidenote: THE USE OF EXAMINATIONS]

I hope to find these examinations quite consistent with real education

of body, soul, and spirit. I would not give up an hour’s rowing weekly,

nor a single bit of reading to a blind old woman, nor any deeper study

than would be tested in the examination, for the privilege of attending

and passing; but I believe the intellectual stimulus will be most

valuable, and need interfere with nothing; and I quite expect to send up

our pupils regularly, if you are able to obtain the privilege for us.

But there is a still greater value in these examinations. Some such plan

_must_ be adopted before the education of our girls will improve. It is

next to impossible for ladies to know what their governesses know; there

is no recognised system of examining pupils. I am sure the want is a

very great one, and very generally felt. I have had very much to do with

finding governesses for people; and I feel the difficulty myself keenly,

so keenly that I would not myself undertake pupils here, until I had

organised a plan by which their parents might see something of their

progress. I provided each girl with a book, in which her answers to the

examination questions, each half-year, might be written; and then her

parents can see her progress. But of course this plan is clumsy. The

questions are given by the teachers, who must necessarily know where the

pupils are likely to fail, and who examine, in fact, on their own course

of instruction; and we want just such a standard as this offers. I write

in haste, but hope you will be able to understand, though I have

expressed myself so badly.

April 17th, 1864.

TO MRS. SHAEN.

As to myself, I can only say that every year adds more and more to the

number of blessings I have to be thankful for,—friends, and knowledge,

or rather sight, and power, and hope, all increasing steadily; rich and

poor, young and old, teachers and taught, forming so bright a band of

friends round us here. I don’t think anyone can be richer, and all our

work opens before us calling for fresh energy and hope, while as I look

back over the past years of those I love, as well as of mine, I see ever

fresh proofs of a guiding love and wisdom. I am so happy!

March 11th, 1864.

TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.

Florence is coming back to us after the Easter holidays. Will you be

interested to know that I have got to know Holman Hunt very well,

through the Hughes’s, to whom I often go now? Two of their children come

to us to learn drawing, arithmetic, and Latin. I like Mr. Hughes more

and more.

We heard Kingsley the other day, such a splendid sermon.

Mary Eliza passed the Cambridge Local Examination, though two years

under the age, and with six weeks’ preparation. I have my certificate

(_i.e._ from Queen’s College) signed, amongst others, by Stanley.

14, Nottingham Place,

Sunday, April 19th, 1864.

TO MRS. SHAEN.

I have long been wanting to gather near us my friends among the poor, in

some house arranged for their health and convenience, in fact a small

private model lodging-house, where I may know everyone, and do something

towards making their lives healthier and happier; and to my intense joy

Ruskin has promised to help me to work the plan. You see he feels his

father’s property implies an additional duty to help to alleviate the

misery around him; and he seems to trust us about this work. He writes,

“Believe me, you will give me one of the greatest pleasures yet possible

to me, by enabling me to be of use in this particular manner, and to

these ends.” So we are to collect materials, and form our plans more

definitely; and tho’ we shall begin very quietly, and I never wish the

house to be very large, yet I see no end to what may grow out of it. Our

present singing and work will, of course, be open to any of our tenants

who like to come. We shall take the children out, and teach the girls;

and many bright friendships, I hope, will grow up amongst us. The

servants and children here are trained for the work and longing to

co-operate. I saw Ruskin on Monday, and felt that the suggestion might

be a blessing to him; so I wrote on Wednesday, and received the grand

promise of help by return of post, showing how entirely it met his own

wishes. So now we are deep in studying details of model lodging-houses,

and are so very happy.

[Sidenote: BEGINNING OF HOUSING SCHEME]

May 19th, 1864.

FROM RUSKIN TO OCTAVIA.[52]

MY DEAR OCTAVIA,

Yes, it will delight me to help you in this; but I should like to begin

very quietly and temperately, and to go on gradually. My father’s

executors are old friends, and I don’t want to discomfort them by

lashing out suddenly into a number of plans,—in about three months from

this time I shall know more precisely what I am about: meantime, get

your ideas clear—and, believe me, you will give me one of the greatest

pleasures yet possible to me, by enabling me to be of use in this

particular manner, and to these ends.

Affectionately yours,

J. Ruskin.

Thank you for notes upon different people. I’ve got the plates for Miss

B.

Received May 24th, 1864.

TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.

I write expecting your warm sympathy in a much beloved plan that now

Ruskin promises to help me to carry out. We are to have a house near

here (with a little ground to make a playground and drying ground), and

this house is to be put to rights, for letting to my poor friends among

the working-class women. We are to begin very quietly, and go on

gradually; but I see such bright things that may (that almost must) grow

out of it. I hope much from the power the association of several

families will give us of teaching and help. The large circle of helpful

friends around us will be invaluable. I am so happy that I can hardly

walk on the ground.

Egerton House,

Beckenham, July 11th, 1864.

TO HER MOTHER.

I think you will be interested to hear that we went to West Wickham

church yesterday. It is the loveliest village church I ever saw, I

think, standing near an old castle-like house, and far from the village.

Evidently, at some time the chaplain of the lord of the manor has been

the clergyman; and the chapel has been an appendage to the great

house.... We had not long sat down, when I saw Mr. Neale very near. His

wife and two daughters were with him. He does not look one bit changed

to me.... The service was very beautiful and set me thinking much about

him, and his life, and its apparent failures and real successes. There

was something very touching in the sight and thought of him. I had such

a sense of his being looked upon by many people, if not as foolish, at

least as having utterly failed. As if that unbounded, because entirely

unselfish, generosity could fail to leave its impression on the world!

His own retreat from all the people who would have reverenced his spirit

seems, too, as if he himself had a sense of utter failure. I would give

a great deal, if I could know what may, indirectly, or rather untraced,

grow out of such work as his.

[Sidenote: STUDY OF A PORTRAIT]

14, Nottingham Place,

December 11th, 1864.

TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.

The purchase of the house has been delayed by legal difficulties; but,

at last, Ruskin has placed the whole affair in my hands; and when I am

satisfied about the house, he will at once send me a cheque for the

whole amount required. This enables me to employ our own lawyer,[53] who

is, heart and soul, in the plan; but, since I saw Ruskin, I could not

attend to the matter at all; for every moment of light time has been

occupied by a drawing for the Society of Antiquaries; and the dark has

been little enough for teaching, accounts, and all my various extra

work. This drawing I should like you to see; it is a copy of the

earliest dated portrait of an Englishman,—1446. It is of an ancestor of

Lord Verulam; one of the Grimstones; such a quiet, stedfast face,

looking out from under a perfectly black hat, with quiet thoughtful

eyes, like a person who went slowly and steadily on his way, without

either hurry or doubt. I should never have done, were I to tell you of

all the importance attached to his shield and chain and necklace, and

all the accessories of the picture; how the antiquaries glory in each

detail, and understand from them each, who and what he was. To me his

quiet face comments in its silence on our hurry and uncertainty; and, as

I sit drawing him, I hope to gather reproach enough from his still eyes

to teach me to live quietly. It is rather a grand piece of work; and is

to be kept in the gallery of the Society, after being sent to Germany,

to be chromo-lithographed for publication in their “Archæologia.” The

Secretary of the National Gallery had noticed my work, and recommended

me to the Secretary of the National Portrait Gallery, to do the work. It

is expected by them, and by the Director of Antiquaries, to lead to much

more, and would really make me rich, in spite of myself; but there is

small chance of time to do it in. I have also two portraits waiting to

be done, miniatures; but happily I do them at home at odd half-hours.

I am also much interested in my large drawing class at the Working

women’s College. Eighteen hard-working, intelligent women attend

regularly. Our daily pupils have increased to six, which, with six

residents, are as much as we can manage well, and we have refused any

more, daily or resident. When we once get the tone up, the new pupils

will fall into it naturally; but, after increasing our number and

parting from some, we have had hard work this term to battle with the

schoolgirl element, which was strong in new-comers, and gained strength

from numbers. Our old pupils have come out finely; but the experience

has made it a difficult term.

And now for another side of our lives. We are every moment expecting Mr.

Maurice. He comes in now we are such near neighbours, and sits and talks

so very delightfully. We hope he will spend an evening here, while Mrs.

Maurice is at Bath, and we should not be robbing her of him. MacDonald

is so kind and nice. I am going there on Tuesday, when he gives a

lecture on Sacred Poetry. Mr. Maurice is to be there. I have twice

lately heard MacDonald read Chaucer and lecture on it.

Ruskin, whose lecture at Manchester you will probably hear, is coming to

us on his return. He wrote such a delightful little note about it, and I

had such a grand talk with him, quietly, just before he went.

[Sidenote: FIRST PURCHASE OF HOUSES]

April 2nd, 1865.

TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.

Our great event of the term has been the actual purchase for fifty-six

years of three houses in a court close to us, which Ruskin has really

achieved for us. We buy them full of tenants; but there is in each house

at present a landlord, who comes between us and the weekly lodgers, and

of whom we cannot get rid till Midsummer. All we can do, therefore, is

to throw our classes open to the tenants, and to do much small personal

work among them, so that we may get to know them. But all repairing, and

preventing of over-crowding, and authority to exclude thoroughly

disreputable lodgers, must wait till Midsummer. At that time we are to

begin the alteration of our stables into one large room, which will

enable us to get the tenants together for all sorts of purposes, much

more easily than at present. I am taking my holidays now, that I may do

with short ones after this additional work begins.... I feel that the

work will be invaluable to my own girls here. They have each chosen one

little child to work for. We are hoping to improve all the children’s

health by taking them to row, when we go into the park, and we are to

try to get a playground for them. The plan promises to pay; but of this

I say very little; so very much depends on management, and the

possibility of avoiding bad debts. Did I tell you of the purchase of a

chest of tea for selling to the women? They save much, and get very good

tea. My hope is, however, not in this, nor any other outward

arrangement; but in these as a means of knowing and training the people

to work and to trust. It is with me entirely a question of education. My

whole hope is in that. I do care immensely, however, for just sufficient

material power to be able to meet any efforts of theirs to manage

better; and for the children to secure their health in some degree; but

_this_, so much having been given, I confidently expect to receive, if

there be a real need. My conscience smites me for calling the possession

of these houses the event of the term for us. I ought to have spoken of

Gertrude’s marriage.[54] They are now in Florence, very bright and

happy. We were all at the wedding; and very solemn and beautiful and

bright it was.

Denmark Hill,

April 14th, 1866.

MY DEAR OCTAVIA,

I am much obliged by, and interested in, your letter. That Friar’s Crag!

I was thankful to hear it is still there with its roots. Did I ever tell

you my first memory of all life is looking down into the water there,

holding my nurse’s hand?

All that about the quiet children liking old things is delightful to me.

Is any part of the lakes likely to be left in any human quiet? and do

you think there might be any possible chance of finding a purchaseable

fragment of earth and ripple of stream anywhere? Sometimes I feel horror

at calling _this_, or any place like it among these accursed suburbs,

“home”—for ever.

[Sidenote: RELATIONS WITH RUSKIN]

My mother was saying—just before your letter came, “I wish you would ask

Miss Hill if she has time to come out and sit with me for an hour—and

talk to me.”

So I said I thought you would when you came back. It will be nice—for

I’m not well and I’m going away for a few weeks, to try if I can get

just one more glance at Venice and Verona—before I am utterly old; but I

haven’t yet left my mother for any time since my father’s death, and I

shall be grateful to you if you can come to see her sometimes.

That is very lovely about your friend; it rejoices me to hear of your

being so happy and having this utter peace, after your utter toil. But

it is too soon over.

Ever affectionately yours,

J. Ruskin.

The Crag, Maenporth, Falmouth,

April 15th, 1865.

TO MRS. SHAEN.

The money part is very regular and simple, just so much paid into

Ruskin’s bank each quarter; but to me the work is of engrossing

interest. We have three houses, each with six rooms; and we have managed

gradually to get the people to take two rooms, in many cases.... When it

was well started, we looked round for some opportunity to complete the

original plan, by getting a playground, which we had failed to do with

any available houses. I was so very happy at finding a bit of freehold

ground, covered with old stables, to be sold with five cottages, in a

very populous district near us, and a large house and pretty garden

besides. Ruskin has bought it, and it is this which just now is taking

every thought and power that is available, to plan and bring into order.

I dare not tell anyone the difficulty of this. When it is over, I may

venture to speak of it; _now_ I should lose hope and courage if I dwelt

on it much.... We have made eighteen additional rooms available for the

poor, and have given orders for four cottages, which are Ruskin’s, but

still in the hands of the middlemen, to be thoroughly repaired.... The

children seen to have so few joys, and to spring to meet any suggestion

of employment with such eagerness, instead of fighting and sitting in

the gutter, with dirty faces and listless vacant expression. I found an

eager little crowd threading beads, last time I was in the playground.

We hope to get some tiny gardens there; and Ruskin has promised some

seats. I hope to teach them to draw a little; singing we have already

introduced. On the whole, I am so thankful, so glad, so hopeful in it

all; and, when I remember the old days when I seemed so powerless, I am

almost awed.

Everything is so lovely here. Dear Miss Sterling! is it not like her to

give us all the opportunity for such a rest?

About 1865.

TO MR. RUSKIN.

This place may be considered as fairly started on a remunerative plan. I

daresay you will be as pleased as I that this is so.

I told the tenants how difficult I found it to pay for all the use of

the money,—an expense that they never realise; and explained how the

less they broke the more they would have. I told them what sum I set

apart for repairs; and that they were freely welcome to the whole, and

might have safes and washing-stools and copper-lids, if the money would

buy them—since which time not one thing has been broken in any house.

[Sidenote: OPENING OF THE PLAYGROUND]

May 19th, 1866.

TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.

My work grows daily more interesting. Ruskin has bought six more houses,

and in a densely populated neighbourhood. Some houses in the court were

reported unfit for human habitation, and have been converted into

warehouses; the rest are inhabited by a desperate and forlorn set of

people, wild, dirty, violent, ignorant as ever I have seen. Here,

pulling down a few stables, we have cleared a bit of ground, fenced it

and gravelled it; and on Tuesday last, opened it as a playground for

quite poor girls. I worked on quite alone about it, preferring power and

responsibility and work, to committees and their slow, dull movements;

and when nearly ready I mentioned the undertaking, and was quite amazed

at the interest and sympathy that it met with. Mr. Maurice and Mr. L.

Davies came to the meeting; and numbers of ladies and gentlemen; and the

whole plan seems to meet with such approval that subscriptions are

offered, and I hope to make the place really very efficient. My girls

are of course very helpful....

My dear old houses contribute the aristocracy to all our entertainments.

We took twenty of the children from them, to make a leaven among the

wilder ones on Tuesday; and I hope much from them hereafter....

Often it grieves me to find how much they preserve peace because they

know I feel their disputes so sadly; but I try to console myself, and to

hope that beginning from this, they may at last learn how bitterly all

their sin pains God who loves them better than I do, and works for them

so much more wisely. I never speak to them of Him. I think too much, not

too little, is said about Him, to the poor especially; but sometimes I

do break through my rule, when I am urging them to _do_ better, to live

a little more nearly in accordance with the teaching of their hearts....

Ruskin has lent me a Rossetti and two William Butts and a John Lewis for

some weeks; the colour of the first is a perpetual joy.

August, 1866.

My work promises to lead to some drawing again now. I have commissions

to make four large pictures from the old Masters to be fixed on the

walls of a room like frescoes; and Lady Ducie, to whose daughter I gave

a few lessons, wants me to go down there some weeks in the autumn, to

teach her again. As I should be living in their house, I should give all

my time to drawing.

Perhaps Harriet will have told you that Andy is coming back to help us

instead of teaching her own school; and we are to take additional

pupils. Until they come, Andy’s return gives me time to draw.

I hope that, for the children, Andy’s return may be an unmitigated gain;

for I hope much from her gentleness and tenderness, and her great power

of interesting them in study; and all the strong stern rule may be in my

hands still; and, whatever else I feel I can do best for them, I shall

continue to do. I should like to write to you of each of them, for the

thought of them all haunts me continually; they seem such a bright,

strong, dear band of young things, better knit to me just now, on the

whole, than ever they were before.

[Sidenote: CONCERT FOR THE BLIND]

December 9th, 1865.

EMILY TO MRS. SHAEN.

Last week we gave a concert to upwards of a hundred poor people, eighty

of whom were blind. It was a very pathetic sight; but their great

delight in the music, and the beautiful expressions of many of their

faces, redeemed it. Some of the faces were continually turned upwards,

and seemed as if they were drinking in every sound. One of the blind

people, in speaking of music, said: “Why you know it is like meat and

drink to us blind.” Some of them had never had such an evening; and did

not even know what the word concert meant. We admitted a great number of

guides this time, which we had not done before. The blind people seemed

to care so much about having them, that we thought it better to let them

come, even tho’ it excluded more of the blind. One man spoke so nicely

about it; and said, “You see we feel so grateful to our guides; they are

like eyes to us, and we don’t half enjoy it if they are shut out.”

One of the blind men we know is teaching a poor crippled boy

chair-mending; and, when we asked how the boy was getting on, the man

answered “Why he ought to learn to do it by feeling; for it stands to

reason his sight don’t help him much. I don’t think much of sight.” The

boy enjoys his work so much, and he says he dreams of it; and if he had

a chair at home he would practise all day.

The Crag, Maenporth,

July 29th, 1866.

FLORENCE TO EMILY.

There are great signs of cholera coming to London. I have been

administering Battey right and left with great efficiency. I was _very_

sorry to leave at such a time, for one really was of use. I compiled a

beautiful thing for Ruth, with Gertrude, from the cholera reports, and

sent her the lecture on epidemics. What a good thing it is that they

have the house to house visitation!... Mama, A. and O. all seem to me

gloomy; they declare they are not. Ockey is rather like a _man_ taking a

holiday; she thinks it her duty to be idle, and does not quite know what

to do with herself; but I am going to worry her down to the rocks to

hunt for zoophites; and she has promised to read “Modern Painters.”

The Crag.[55]

August 2nd, 1866.

MRS. HILL TO EMILY.

... We are all very happy here. A. and Octa bathe every day, and read

Virgil together after breakfast.... After early dinner we all sit out of

doors, and the others work while I read Spenser.... Octa paints the

sunset every night from the field above the house.... at 9.30 we sing a

hymn and read prayers and then separate, some to bed. F. and I perhaps

walk by starlight;—some read in their own room till bedtime. They all go

out at low tide to find things which have “suffered a sea change into

something rich and strange” on the rocks; and have been very successful,

to F.’s great delight.... We are very merry. O. thinks she has laughed

more this week than in a year at home; but I don’t think she knows what

a frequent occurrence that is.... A. has written such a beautiful essay

on contentment for the Essay Meeting, and Octa a very good one on

tact.... Did you know Hugh[56] had fought at Waterloo and in four

battles in the Peninsular War. He has medals for them.... Mr. Maurice

took away twenty-four photographs of him, so I suppose he liked him—but

Kattern[57] is _my_ favourite. Hugh told us “there was a very pretty

chapter—Titus—it gave advice to old men and young people—and was very

solemn at the end.” He groans at prayers—but poor fellow, I suppose he

feels, and does not know how to express that feeling.

[Sidenote: A VISIT TO CORNWALL]

Sarsden, Chipping Norton,

November 11th, 1866.

TO MRS. SHAEN.

To-morrow I return home, after a most happy visit.

I go to take possession of the four very worst houses of any I have ever

had to deal with.

My dear pupils become more and more to me. I cannot even express what

their love and helpfulness is to me.

January 4th, 1867.

TO MRS. SHAEN.

I return home on the 12th, to a very interesting meeting at Mr.

Maurice’s, about forming an Industrial School.[58]

January 14th, 1867.

TO MRS. SHAEN.

Gardening is to me a great joy. I hate the trouble of going out, but

when I _am_ once there, I am as happy as it is possible to be. What a

quantity one learns when one tries to do nothing.

14, Nottingham Place, W.

February 17th, 1867.

TO MISS FLORENCE DAVENPORT HILL.

I am very sorry indeed to hear such a bad account of Mr. Hill. I hope,

if this bright warm weather continues, it may do him good. It is sad for

the Clifton time to have been spent in nursing instead of nice society.

About the reader, or about anything else, you need never think that I

should ever suspect you or your sister of shrinking from effort, or of

being anything but brave and generous; but one has to be brave in

refusing as well as in accepting; and considerate towards those whose

whole lives God has bound up with our own most nearly; as well as to the

many pathetically forlorn of the great world family who cross our path.

Each case can but be decided on its own merits. I quite see how in this

one there may be many difficulties. If I did not, as I say, I should

feel quite sure you had decided it as rightly as you could, and quite

unselfishly. Do you not often feel (I do) as if people were often

selfish in yielding to feeling instead of ruling it?

This brings me to the most interesting question about gifts, to which

you allude. It is to me a puzzling one, not so much as regards the poor

(there I can see my way some distance, I think, and have written a few

words on the subject, which I hope some day to print). I think that when

gifts are given and received by the same person, they are ennobling. It

is the greediness of the recipient that is the awful result at present;

and the helpless indolence of expectant selfishness. Call the man out of

himself by letting him know the joy of receiving and giving, and you may

pour your gifts upon him, even lavishly, and not corrupt him. Besides

this, let us give better things; sympathy, friendship, intercourse; let

us be friends, and then we can give with comparative impunity. For the

hearts of people always feel the spiritual gift to be the greater if it

be genuine at all. Where a material gift comes as a witness of real

love, it is the love that is the all-absorbing thought, not the gift, be

it ever so much needed. All presents, too, should depend to some degree

on character; we do not to one another select those calculated to deepen

any tendency we disapprove, rather to awake fresh admiration of what is

noble.

[Sidenote: THE RIGHT WAYS OF GIVING]

I cry out to myself in the courts every day, “What a frightful confusion

of chances we have here as to how or whether there is to be food or

not!” A man accepts underpaid work; a little is scraped up by one child,

a little begged by another; a gigantic machinery of complicated

charities relieves a man of half his responsibilities, not once and for

all clearly and definitely, but—probably or possibly—he gets help here

or there. There is no certainty, no quiet, no order in his way of

subsisting. And he has an innate sense that his most natural wants ought

to be supplied if he works; so he takes our gifts thanklessly; and then

we blame him or despise him for his alternate servility and ingratitude;

and we dare not use his large desires to urge him to effort; and, if he

will make none, let him suffer; but please God one day we shall arrange

to be ready with work for every man, and give him nothing if he will not

work; we cannot do the latter without the former, I believe.

Then, at last, will come the day when we shall be able to give at least

to our friends among them as we give to one another, and not confuse

still more hopelessly the complication of chances about the means of

support,—nor have any doubt the giver is more than the gift, and be sure

that he who gladly receives to-day will to-morrow give more gladly.

It is not often that I turn away from the very engrossing detail of work

here, to think much about general questions; and I am afraid I have

expressed myself very badly, and that you will hardly make out what I

mean. It is with me here almost as with the poor themselves, a kind of

fight for mere existence;—references, notices, rents, repairs, the dry

necessary matters of business, take up almost all time and thought; only

as, after all, we are human beings, and not machines, the people round,

and all we see and hear, leave a kind of mark on us, an impression of

awe, or pity and wonder, or sometimes love; and when we do pause, the

manifold impressions start into life, and teach us so much, and all the

business has to be arranged in reference to these various people; and

how hard it is to do justly and love mercy, and walk humbly.

March 8th, 1867.

TO FLORENCE.

They’ve just announced that there is space for half a sheet in this

letter, but that it must be written now or never; and indeed I am not

fit to write to a Christian. Here I am, head and ears deep in notices

about dustmen, requests for lawyers to send accounts, etc., etc.; and

yet I am so glad to say a few words to you, even if they’re not of the

brightest; and _that_ they can’t be, for I’ve just come in from a round

of visits to the nine houses; and somehow it’s been a day of small

worries about all sorts of repairs, and things of that kind. I was

thinking when I came in that really it would be a small cost in real

_value_ to pay any sum, however tremendous, to get rid of this annoying

small perpetual care, if the work could be done as well; but then it

couldn’t: it is only when the detail is really managed on as great

principles as the whole plan, that a work becomes really good. And so, I

suppose, being really the school of training the tenants most

effectually, I must still keep it, and hope that it will not finally

make one either mean, or small or bitter.... I think the playground is

going very well now. Did I tell you we have opened it during school

hours as a drying ground? Oh, Florence, the court is so improved! I

think you would be so pleased. We have broken out windows on all the

staircases, and cleaned all the rooms, and put in a large clean cistern;

and oh! it is so fresh and neat compared with what it was. Do you hear

about our Girls’ Home? I hope it will soon be started. God bless you,

dear child!

[Sidenote: IMPROVEMENT IN THE COURTS]

Derwent Bank, Broughton, Carlisle.

June 14th, 1867.

TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.

... I have asked Miranda to send you a copy of “All the Year Round” in

which there is a short article on the Playground. It seems Ruskin read

an extract from it at the lecture, of which I am not a little proud. It

is however sadly cut up by the editor, which I am the more sorry for as

there were parts with which I had taken the greatest pains, in order to

express as clearly and concisely as possible my principles and

experience about gifts. I cannot readily do the thing again; and they

have only printed a sentence here and there! That they have made the

construction most awkward does not really matter.... I enjoy reading

very much, and tho’ I would rather read on the old subjects, and the

dear old authors over again, I try to choose those newer ones, and get a

little general information, to know a little about matters in which my

whole heart is not bound up.

Sunday, June 16th, 1867.

EMILY TO OCTAVIA.

On Florence’s birthday we are going to have a concert and reading for

the tenants, and I thought that it would be so nice if you would write a

letter to them which we could read aloud. I think it so important that

they should feel your sympathy and influence near them as much as

possible.

The little Martins are going to school to-morrow. We have been very busy

making their clothes. Isabel and Eliza (two of the Nottingham Place

pupils) have been most helpful about it; I sent for Mrs. Martin to speak

to her about it; and Mrs. Simeon said she set off to come and then

turned back, saying that she could not go; it seemed so much was being

done for her that she felt like a regular cadger. She is a woman with a

strong love of independence.

Then follows Octavia’s letter to the tenants mentioned in the

preceding letter.

[Sidenote: LETTER READ AT GATHERING OF TENANTS]

June 23rd, 1867.

MY DEAR FRIENDS.

As you will be all together I take the opportunity of writing a few

words to tell you how much I am thinking of you. I remember the many

times we have met on such occasions before, and I long to be amongst

you. I should so like to have a little chat with each of you, to hear

how all the little ones are, and how you have been getting on all this

long time. My sisters write and tell me how you are, more than once a

week; but you know this is never quite the same as talking to you. Those

are, however, my happiest days when I hear good news of you; and the

best news I could hear is that you are trying to do what is right. You

and I, my friends, each know how difficult this is; we have each our

different temptations, but we will strive to do better than we have

done. You will all know how I look for good news of you, how I have

wished to see you make your homes better and happier, how I have felt

that the places I possessed were given me to make them better; how I

have loved my work, and now that I have only left it in the full hope of

going back to it far better able to do it than I was. So you will

understand that I hope we have a great deal to do together, in the glad

time to come, when I shall be among you again.

I am in such a beautiful place, among such very kind people; and it is

all so quiet and restful; how often I wish each of you could have a long

complete rest.

And now I can only once more wish you God speed! thanking you for all

the many kind things you did for me while I was with you, and asking you

to help all those who are so very kindly doing my work for me, and to

make their work easy, as you so often did mine.

There is little or nothing I can do for you now; the old days of work

are over for the present; but I have a home for which I worked long ago,

almost as hard as some of you have worked for yours, and which I love

more than I could ever tell anyone; and now I cannot help my sisters any

more. Will you try, for my sake, to make their work happy and easy? This

you can do; and you know, as well as I do, how happy helping people is.

I do not desire for myself, or you, or my sisters, pupils, servants, or

any of the dear circle I have left, any better blessing than to have the

joy of helping others. Oh! my dear people, pray and hope for me that I

may have it again soon amongst you all.

I am,

Always faithfully yours,

OCTAVIA HILL.

June 27th, 1867.

EMILY TO MRS. SHAEN.

Octavia is starting on a three days’ tour among the lakes with Miss

Harris. On Monday evening we had a concert and reading for the tenants;

and a letter from Octavia was read to them, which they all responded to

most beautifully; one of the men made a most touching little speech in

reply. Many of them said they had never enjoyed an evening so much in

their lives; and I have been so much touched and delighted at several

little acts of kindness and consideration towards me; their silent

answer to Octavia’s appeal that they would try to make the work easier

for those who are carrying it on for her.

[Sidenote: HOME-SICKNESS]

Heatherside, Wellington College,

Woking,

September 28th, 1867.

TO MRS. NASSAU SENIOR.

Thank you so much for the accounts; how beautifully you have managed

them....

It is dreadfully tempting to be so near you all. I long to be amongst

you, if it were only just to feel myself with you for an hour or two.

You seem to me such a blessed company gathered round that dear old home

of ours. But the time will not now seem long before I really see you,

and am once more at work. Remember me to all the tenants. Tell Mrs.

Moirey she must remember I don’t mean to lose sight of her and hers....

My love to Mrs. Hughes and the children. It is such a comfort to think

of your being back to help them at home, and I like to think of your

cheering them by your uniform brightness as you used to cheer me.

October 6th, 1867.

EMILY TO OCTAVIA.

We had a very nice work class. Andy reads while I attend to the people.

They were anxious to hear about you, and were touched at your sending

the little presents to the children.... I think I have got a much better

set of tenants. M. is very anxious to pay; still I feel it so uncertain

with his health in that state. You know he was a year without work; and

when he got it, he was too weak and gave himself an internal strain....

It was so nice to see how the pupils had thought of the poor children,

and had brought little presents. Mary had brought an ivy root and fern

roots, and clothes for the work class. Louisa had cut out and made

entirely a lovely dress and jacket for Alice P., and had dressed some

very pretty dolls, and brought some splendid flowers. Harriet had

gathered blackberries and made them into jam. It is so nice that they

remembered and cared for these things in their holidays.

20, Via dei Serragli, Florence,

October 10th, 1867.

TO EMILY.

[Sidenote: EXPERIENCES ON THE JOURNEY TO ITALY]

Here I am safe and sound at last, and very cheery and bright. Dear Aunt

Emily is so kind; and there is something genial and homelike about being

here. The journey from Chambery was very interesting, the Mt. Cenis was

so impressive; it was too dark for me really to see it, and perhaps I a

good deal misunderstood the things I did see; but it was very quiet and

awful and solemn, sitting up in the banquette, so wholly alone as I

felt, in the near presence of the great peaks and gulfs and winds and

snow; sometimes foaming streams glittered for a few minutes far below;

sometimes a great cloud of mist came slowly down and wrapped us round;

the horses were many of them grey, and looked very ghostly and unreal

under the lamp-light; but their shadows looked like real black horses

tearing along. Altogether, it was weird and wild, and I liked it. I had

a very stupid companion; but happily he relapsed into perfect silence

during the whole time. He was such a forlorn and stupid young Irishman

whom I had picked up. He had been travelling with two companions, had

got out of the train, and it had gone on without him. He could not speak

one word of either French or Italian, and was going to Rome; they had

his luggage and his passport. He was very tall, and very miserable, and

I had to take pity on him, and do everything for him; but he certainly

was very cowardly. At Turin I was weary, and did not want to have any

breakfast; and I asked an energetic Prussian lady, who spoke English and

Italian, to take him, and see to him, but he wouldn’t go for a long

time; and then, just as all the time was over, he returned and said he

thought he’d better stay by me; so, to my no small disgust, I had to

rouse myself and take him to his breakfast at Alessandria. However, the

best of him was he didn’t speak at all, but only clung piteously to my

heels. By the way, writing of travelling companions, Aunt Emily just

suggests you would be amused to hear that at Turin I fell in with such a

polite and attentive Italian officer, who travelled with me all the way.

He surprised me so much by his penetration about everything. You know it

is rather troublesome to have an expressive kind of face; and yet it is,

I suppose, helpful too. He was extremely kind about the window, tho’ he

was very cold; and I didn’t say a word, for I knew it was unreasonable

to have it open; but he saw in a moment what I wished, and wouldn’t let

me even half shut it. Then we had a great deal of talk about cities and

countries; and I asked him if he knew London. Long afterwards he said to

me, “You asked me if I knew London; and it was with an accent which told

me you love it much, tho’ you do call it an ugly and dirty city.” I told

him that the worse it was, the more one was bound to help it; and the

more one tried to help it, the more one loved it. He said, “We soldiers

have to leave our country to serve it.” And I said, “Yes, it did not

matter how, but we must all do it.” I kept catching glimpses of the

mountains in the distance, and presently he said, “There is something

out there which pleases you from time to time.” So I told him what it

was; and after that he was so kind in warning me to look here or there,

for the mountains would be in sight.... He behaved extremely well, and I

think he thought I was the queerest creature he ever saw.... He was

rather sneering at the Prussian lady for being _une savante_ and for

travelling alone. I was, looking out of the window and thinking. He

said, “You smile continually; one sees that you think of what is dear to

you. Are you thinking of your country?” So I just told him I was

thinking one could travel alone or do this or that or anything when one

was really sure that God was with one; and that one often knew it best

when one was alone. Then I said all things, all people, help one. “But,”

he persisted, “those who really are brave because they know this, they

do all things with a different manner, such a manner that all who meet

them feel too that they are in His presence and under His protection.”

Well, I was very thankful for the dear home letters.... I have seen

literally nothing of the city as yet. I am to do the picture for Lady

Abercrombie. Was it not fortunate I did not go on Saturday from

Chambery? A portion of the Mt. Cenis fell and blocked up the road; the

diligences had all to be unloaded, and people and luggage carried across

a torrent and past the blocked portion of the road to other vehicles

beyond.

[Sidenote: EXPERIENCES IN FLORENCE]

October 18th, 1867.

MIRANDA TO OCTAVIA.

The houses in Freshwater Place seem getting into much better order now

that Minnie is in town again. The P.’s are _so_ energetic about the

playground, so anxious to make it succeed. P. has been painting the

swings (for which he would only take a trifle). He says a ground like

that is a Godsend to the neighbourhood; and he proposes putting up a

little direction board outside the court that people may find the

way.... Minnie wants to know if she may admit P.’s children on Sunday.

He longs so much for quiet to read his newspaper. I suppose the

playground would be like a garden to the cottage.

Florence,

November 2nd, 1867.

TO EMILY.

The galleries were closed yesterday, as it was All Saints’ Day; so I

wanted to have a long bright day at Fiesole, or somewhere in the

country, which is my great joy. But it was not to be; we did not get off

till about three, and went to Certosa. Ask F. to tell you what a lovely

place it is; and it looked so lovely in the autumn afternoon and evening

light. A convent on a hill, the approach almost like that to a castle,

so straight and steep, and bounded by such high walls. But the loveliest

view was when we ascended a steep road to the south of it, and looked

beyond it to the setting sun, the great couchant hills purple and grey

beyond its own battlemented wall,—campanile, and cypresses all dark

against the sky; but Florence and the mountains beyond Florence were

bathed in rose mist. Gradually as the light left the valley it became

pale misty blue, the shadow creeping up till it veiled even the

snow-covered peaks themselves. Tell dear A. I am not, and never have

been, disappointed with anything, except a little perhaps with having to

work, after all; but this is very unreasonable. I have no anxiety, and

possibly I am after all better for a little compulsory action; or I

might go to sleep altogether, or take to thinking too much. As to the

country, it might grow upon me; but it hardly seems to me as if it

could, it is so supremely perfectly beautiful. I have not even missed my

beloved grass; for first it would not fit in with the rest; and second

there seems to me to be a kind of uncultivation or perhaps rather of

mountain character given to the landscape by its absence which has a

peculiar charm. I daresay this is an unreasonable fancy, based on my

northern associations of grass with richness of soil; but it is

involuntary and to me specially delightful, partly as being different,

and _so not_ touching me too much, partly as giving a sense of freedom

and air for which I pant. Then it is quite delicious to an eye that

glories so in colour, to see the great masses of earth, ready to turn to

gold or purple or red, or all these in infinite combinations with brown,

and over all the silver network of the weird olive trees. I fancy I

should rather miss the grass increasingly than decreasingly....

Remember me affectionately to Mrs. P.[59]; dear, good, bright little

George! to think I shall not see him again, and that he is to do no more

service here below;—all young lives that go out so, hint so distinctly

of the life that is to be—I do think of you all so. Has anyone thanked

dear Mrs. Nassau Senior for her letter? and told her of the pleasure it

gave and brought me?... I take the opportunity of writing when B. is

out. I like to be ready to chat and walk with her when she is here....

[Sidenote: HOME-SICKNESS]

Florence.

TO EMILY.

I joined the Cherubini Choral Society here; we are singing some lovely

things of Bach’s and one of Mozart’s. I believe we are to give our first

concert on the 18th.... The anemones are quite wonderful. I gathered on

Sunday every imaginable shade of purple, from blue to crimson; such a

bunch they made, so soft and deep in their gradations.

I hardly dare, even now, to write of home. I think of it as little as I

can; the abiding sense of it in all its preciousness, and the

heart-hunger for it never leaves me for a moment, but I try to pretend

to myself that the things here are very engrossing and sufficient; and

in a way they are. I have put aside the question of possible wants of

one and another which I might satisfy, sure that I shall some day have a

richer store of help to pour out for them, if I am (as I now believe I

am) gathering strength. Every word mentioning the dear English people is

precious. I glance down the letters for proper names very eagerly; you

are all too good about writing, but there are necessarily so many you

never mention ... and oh so many of the tenants and playground

children ... and I always want more and more about the people you

mention. Do you not mean to send me Ruskin’s letters to you? I should

like to see them. I fancied perhaps you did not send them, because you

thought they would make me gloomy; if they are gloomy—or might somehow

pain me;—but they would not. I know him too well for that, and I should

like to see them.

I have been reading Browning’s “Rabbi Ben Ezra.” I think it one of the

truest things he, or anyone else, has ever written.

Miranda’s letters are so delightful. Her fun always touches me somehow,

and never too much.... So my pride is to be broken every way, and even

those proudly triumphant P. P. accounts are to get into a mess.

I am much honoured by dear Mr. Maurice’s interest about my return; I see

S. Ursula[60] never got back; but I think I must give up all claim to

the name, if it depended on the 11,000 virgins; tho’ the number swells

now even here.

Via de Serragli,

January 24th, 1868.

TO EMILY.

[Sidenote: WALK WITH CHILDREN NEAR FLORENCE]

I seize the time when I am bright and hopeful to write to you dear ones

at home; and for once will tell you facts not feelings. I have just

returned from my visit to the S.’s. It has been very delightful.... M.

is full of will and temper, and, not understanding any English, would be

wholly unmanageable by me; and I keep a good deal away from her. But the

others, strangely enough, have attached themselves warmly to me; and

there seems no end to the amusements I can think of for them; and I have

so enjoyed it. They are not the least tiring children, partly because

they are quiet; partly, I fancy, because I have not to try to do other

things too, but give my whole thought to them. It is so soothing to feel

the dear little hands in mine, and see the sweet upturned faces.

Besides, it is nice to get on with children. I don’t like the things I

can’t do. We three wandered out into the quiet _poderes_ which are all

round. We turned even away from the view of Florence over to the quiet

distances. I set the children gathering daisies to make chains to

decorate the dolls’ house for a doll’s birthday which I proposed; and

suddenly we came upon a large purple wild anemone. The view was English

in colouring, for it has been grey and rainy, but all so wholly

different on earth that no sameness of sky or light made it speak to one

even in the same language, of which I am always glad. The children were

full of delight with their walk. It was so nice going with me, they

said.

Now good-bye, dearest sister.

March 1st, 1868.

EMILY TO OCTAVIA.

It is wonderful how smoothly things go on, and I am able to do the most

important part of the work. The thing I have most to neglect is going to

see the people; but I spent nearly two hours with them; and they all

welcomed me. Poor Alice[61] had scalded her hand and was very suffering;

but, after I had talked to her a little she said, with tears in her

eyes, “Somehow before you came in I was so down-hearted, but telling you

my troubles eases my heart, it does indeed.”

20, Via de Serragli,

March 1st, 1868.

TO EMILY.

... As to me I am thriving in the most unaccountable way.... This week I

really _have_ had dissipation, and it has done me all the good in the

world....

There was some masquerading at Mrs. Taylor’s, and we were asked to come

in costume. I was gloomy and unwilling; but, seeing “B” “in for a

spree,” entered into it. I wrote to Mrs. Ross for an Eastern dress; she

sent such a magnificent one. It was the admiration of the whole company;

in fact, I am never to hear the last of it, I think. It was pronounced

very becoming.... Then we went to the Corso. It has been very grand this

year; for there is a Society which has offered large prizes, and done a

great deal to promote the matter. It was very silly, you know; but I

tried to forget _that_, and managed pretty well. The Turkish Ambassador

sent Mrs. Ross his carriage. She did not know he was going to send it,

and it came too late for her to send to ask me to go with her; so I went

with Mrs. Taylor; but we saw Mrs. Ross looking so lovely and queenly,

and child-like, with little Alick by her. I am to dine with her some day

soon, and go to the French play afterwards. On Friday I fancy we (Miss

Mayo and I) start for Pisa; next week I shall probably spend at Bello

Sguardo with the Starks. They have kept asking me to go; but I have

deferred it till the Orcagna is finished.

14, Nottingham Place,

April 5th, 1868.

TO MISS MAYO.

After mentioning a failure to see Ruskin, and George Macdonald (the

latter failure partly due to her painting and partly to her ill-health),

she adds, “But you will know that I am prouder and more thankful for the

special place amongst (and love of) the many who have few to love them

and few to help them, than even for the friendship of the greatly good;

and of these among all classes I have found so many. Monday, I collected

rents, and had such happy talks with the people.... When people are kind

now, it is a great pleasure, but when, my power of physical effort being

all gone, they seem to feel as if I might yet help them by presence and

care, it makes me thankful to God who has left me some small work to do

for Him; it is almost too much. This I had half hoped to feel in

returning. I have far more than realised the hope that I had.” ...

[Sidenote: ENJOYMENT OF HOME LIFE]

(Speaking warmly of Mr. Watson of the Society of Antiquaries and his

wife she says) They are very High Church, but not foolishly so. I fancy

it is the refinement and beauty which attract them.

My sisters have asked me so earnestly to leave the main work for the

pupils in their hands that I have done so. All is going on so

beautifully that I have little temptation to meddle either. It seems a

little strange, most so in the mornings, when I no longer read; but the

sense of perfect harmony with them all takes away any kind of regret

from the change.

... (Speaking of the houses she says), “I have now drifted past the

triumphant meeting into full work there, and all its tiresome details;

but with the refreshment of seeing people I love, and the stimulus of

other minds occupied with other thoughts, I meet these details with less

intensity of thought than of old. My sisters are such a rest and joy to

me; I could never tell anyone what they are.” ...

... “I have drifted into the old state of intense interest and joy in

all the little world I love and work in; it seems like native air to me;

and it seems to me, in what Matthew Arnold would call my provincialism,

much more interesting (if not important) to see whether a few words will

obtain a holiday for the over-worked teacher whom I love, and who is

wearing herself out for her family, than to know what Louis Napoleon is

doing.”

Probably May, 1868.

TO OCTAVIA FROM HER MOTHER.

Altho’ I was not there I have volunteered (like many other reporters) to

describe yesterday’s gala. It was a complete success; the prettiest fête

that has yet been given; and your sisters were delighted with the

improvement in the children compared with last year. On Monday evening

Minnie and most of the pupils went up to 207[62] to make wreaths. They

found Mr. Ruskin’s and Mrs. Gillum’s flowers there—both most beautiful

in their way. Eliza said the gardener had asked to deposit them himself

in the kitchen, and had laid them down so carefully, and as if he were

so fond of them—worthy servant of his master! Andy spent the whole day

there, and the pupils went up, as they finished work, to help. The

result was splendid; numbers of lovely wreaths, and a throne made of a

chair shape with three steps. The blind fiddler _non est inventus_; so

they got an organ man, which did quite as well. Your sisters were

delighted with Mr. and Mrs. Howard ... their sympathy was so

genuine—they left with tears in their eyes. Well, the ceremony began by

drawing lots for the queen, and it fell on Nelly Kinaly. The child took

out the wreaths from the basket; and Florence called the child whom she

thought they would suit, and one of our girls in turn crowned them. Andy

says the children looked so pretty—their untidiness only went for

picturesqueness. They had cakes, biscuits and oranges; but except one or

two boys, the flowers interested them more than the cake. Florence

played at trap with the boys and Mr. Smale.

[Sidenote: VISIT TO MISS HARRIS]

Derwent Bank,

July 22nd, 1868.

OCTAVIA TO MISS MAYO.

The time of my leaving here draws sadly near and I have done so

little—mostly weeding I think, and that is so interesting, it keeps me

out of doors, not standing or walking and yet gives me something to do.

It is quiet and nice and I like the smell of the earth and the soothing

monotony of the movement and thought. We have not been reading anything

of any depth or weight; usually we do here, but somehow this time we

have read scraps of things, and what I should call decidedly light

reading. “Scenes in Clerical Life,” part of Chaucer, the “Story of Doom”

(I am _delighted_ with Laurence), a good deal of Browning, and a little

of Thackeray.

Ben Rhydding, Leeds,

August 3rd, 1868.

TO MISS MAYO.

I want Dr. Macleod to let me leave, as I am so without definite illness

now; and it hardly seems right to stay here merely to gain strength; but

they won’t even let me speak on the subject yet; and nothing is so

provoking as to leave things half done; so I must let the matter be

finally decided by them.

(Very warm expressions of admiration and gratitude for Dr. Macleod.)

2, Ashfield House, Harrogate,

September 20th, 1868.

I came here on Wednesday to see Miss Harris, who has been seriously ill

but is now rapidly gaining strength....

I should like to have seen you while I am still in overflowing health

and so merry; it seems too bad to go to one’s best friends always when

one is broken.

(Description of Turner’s Norham and Melrose.)

We are reading the Spanish Gipsy aloud. I wonder what you think of it.

To me it seems full of wonderful passages expressive of fresh fact, and

so exquisitely expressed that one longs to remember the exact words; but

the whole thing is disjointed; the story improbable. I always find it

impossible to believe people would have acted as she makes them. I

suppose I am mistaken; but I can never feel the things the least

natural; and yet I should find it hard to say on what ground I

disbelieved them. To me the power of looking all round questions, and

seeing how all view them, is not specially delightful, unless at the end

there comes some deliberate or distinctive sense of reverence or

sympathy with the most right. The perpetual suspense is painful to me. I

feel as if I would say, “See as much, judge as mercifully, as you can;

but show just so much enthusiasm on one side or another, as would lead

to action in real life.” The other temperament seems always either weak

and irresolute, or likely to lead to wrong action.

Now Browning, with all his dramatic power, and turning it upon such

various (and often such low) people, has yet distinct love or scorn, has

definite grasp of some positive good.

[Sidenote: MORRIS’S “JASON”]

14, Nottingham Place,

October 4th, 1868.

TO A FRIEND.

We three sisters have had a jolly meeting; and we are anticipating the

arrival of our dear pupils, Mama and Florence, to-morrow.

Dear Alice Collingwood[63] has done wonders; I never knew the business

half so well managed when my sisters were away; and she has been so

happy in the work, and has learnt to know and care for the people so

much.

Have you read Morris’s “Jason”? I have been reading it for the second

time. I am increasingly impressed by it. It is marvellous to me how any

one can so throw himself into so noble a time without Christianity; the

hint of deeper meaning is so telling, and goes so home, because it is

only suggested and kept subservient to the intense realism of the scenes

and incidents. It is a book one believes from first to last. The

accessories are described so beautifully; it is true poetry.

I know it is very forlorn to depend for intellectual intercourse on

books and absent people. But for you who have so many resources, I hope

it is not quite so bad. At any rate, how you must be feeling yourself

useful. Still I am sorry for you; you seem somehow (all sensitive people

do) to get so much more pain than pleasure out of your feeling. I wonder

whether you are ill-balanced, and your bodies ought to be more vigorous

to match your organisations; or whether you are, as it were, martyrs,

for us to love and look up to, and learn from and delight in; but

appointed, for some inscrutable reason, to bear a large share of the

pain of the world—to be purified to a higher point than we, until the

last sorrow shall be put under your feet.

Any way and every way, God bless and keep you.

14, Nottingham Place,

November 29th, 1868.

TO MISS BAUMGARTNER.

We are all assembled again, and very happy.

We have a _very_ large number of pupils, as many as we could take in;

but these are mainly under my sisters’ care, who enjoy the work, and

thrive in it. I only teach the girls a few things, and rejoice in their

bright young life. I give a few drawing lessons, and am managing my dear

houses, which are getting into such excellent order as to be a great

joy, and but little painful care. I am drawing again at last, too, to my

great delight, and am able to see a good deal of my friends, and to bind

up all the links of knowledge of the details of their lives, broken by

my illness and absence. So it is a quiet, beautiful, thankful, busy, but

not oppressed, life.

14, Nottingham Place,

March 7th, 1869.

TO MISS HARRIS.

My DEAREST MARY,

I have had a most delightful week. The crowning day was last Sunday,

when I dined at Ruskin’s. It was exceedingly interesting. I had been

determined to ask him a little about Greek mythology, literature and

art; and how, without knowledge of Greek, one might enter into some

comprehension of all these; for I have lived long enough to remember the

passionate revolt of our then young thinkers against the dead formal

worship of all that had its origin in Greece; and now I am interested to

notice the men, leading from weight of earnestness, tho’ educated in all

the Gothic and Teuton sympathies, turning back to Greek thought, and

even imagery, as if it contained nobler symbols of abiding truth than

our northern legends. Yes, even to feel the influence of the Grecian

wave myself. So we got into interesting talk. He told me that there was

little translation of Greek which he knew or cared for; that he had done

a little himself, which will be published with next Tuesday’s lecture;

that Homer, even translated by Pope, taught one a good deal; that some

tales by Cox (do you know them?) were intensely good; but (as I was

pleased to know that I had instinctively felt), Morris’s Jason was the

most helpful almost of all. He sketched for me most beautifully, a kind

of plan of Greek mythology, saying that the deities who governed the

elements were the primary ones; the earth the sustainer of man; the

water governing the ebb and flow of his fortunes, the two fiery deities

earthly and heavenly; and the goddess of the air the inspirer. He quoted

curious parallel thoughts from the Bible; “the wind bloweth where it

listeth.” He told me some strange things, too, about Minerva giving men

strength from winged beings, and once, when enduing Menelaus with

courage to fight Paris, giving it from a mosquito; whereas most gods

give them strength from quadrupeds that are strong. Round these central

deities are grouped many minor ones; Mercury, the cloud-compeller, often

represented as a shepherd, guides the footsteps of men in life and

death.

[Sidenote: RUSKIN ON GREEK MYTHOLOGY]

I asked him how far Virgil was too Roman to be trusted. He seemed very

much pleased to find that I could read Virgil, and was fond of him; it

seems that he is very fond. He said moreover that Latin was

untranslateable—being so magnificent a language; whereas Greek, mainly

depending for its interest on thought, could be perfectly well

translated. I found that he and I agreed in liking the 2nd and 7th books

best, he rather inclining to the Infernal Regions and the Fall of Troy.

He told me that the exquisite tenderness between fathers and sons

delighted him above all things in Virgil, and led one to the root of the

main source of Roman greatness in its noblest time.

You will be sorry to hear that Miss Cons can only, at present, give one

day and a half weekly to the work; and that Miss Sterling is so much

interested in what she calls “linking my little affairs to whatever has

life,” that she will not work except near us—nor of course could Miss

Cons do more than this in so short a time.

On Wednesday we are to have our play.[64] We are actually to have an

audience of 200 poor people. Everyone is very kind about it; we have a

splendid room, and all promises well.

Oh, Mary! life and its many interests is a great and blessed possession.

I love it so much.... And yet it seems such a simple, quiet thing to

slip out of it presently; and for other and better people to take up

their work, and carry it on for their day too.

May 9th, 1869.

TO MISS F. DAVENPORT HILL.

... The trees are of course very small; but the creepers helped us, and

the playground never looked so pretty. Our new swings were put up; and

three people were entirely occupied with superintending them the whole

time. Each child had a definite time allowed; and all others were kept

out of the way; no easy matter with children so eager and so

unaccustomed to control. The little band acquitted itself admirably,

considering how young it is yet; it is an acquisition. We had numbers of

games of course. The see-saw was crowded all the time. Two people took

charge of it; and it seemed about as much as they could manage. It was

very touching to see the children, when they first saw me open the gate.

Our tenants were to come in first; and I had to pick them out from the

dense mass of eager faces. Such impatience! as if a few minutes were

hours! Such a break of light came over the face as I caught the eye of a

tenant; the “Mary, you may come,” or “Dickey, you next,” was entirely

unnecessary to the child addressed, but was the signal for others to

make way; and thro’ such tiny avenues, or from under bigger girls’

skirts, the tiny creatures emerged to the wonderful place of flowers and

the many welcoming friends. I was rather proud to see that I was usually

guided by a neater dress or cleaner face to a tenant. Then followed the

admission of a few children coming to classes, or members of the band or

drill classes, but not tenants. And then the mass of children from the

neighbourhood. Oh such a troop! The grown up people crowded on any place

from which they could see. I wished our wall had been moved, and the

rails up, both for the extra space, and that more people might have

seen. All children had flowers, cake, and an orange on leaving. My

conclusion is, the place is really getting into order.

I had the report from a surveyor on the houses for which we are in

treaty. He says very naïvely, “It seems to me the houses are much out of

repair, tho’ considered by the landlord in excellent condition for the

class of inmates.” He says, too, the property in the neighbourhood is in

excellent condition, and will let well.... Will you send me a copy of

papers respecting boarding out? I should much like to send them to Mrs.

N. Senior. I believe the chances are better in the country, and the plan

more likely to be tried there.

I am glad you think it is best to wait and see the June list for

Macmillan. It will be very odd if the thing ever is published. I am

looking forward so eagerly to throwing the burden of the playground

expenses, at least partially, on our new buildings; they are such a

perpetual worry to me, and for so small a sum it seems a pity to be

annoyed. If the surplus profit of the rooms will, as I hope, pay for the

superintendence, it will make a great difference to me. We hope to

finish the building this week. I feel so ungrateful when I complain of

anything, when all has prospered in this wonderful way. Perhaps I am a

little tired to-night.

14, Nottingham Place,

April 13th, 1869.

TO MRS. W. SHAEN.

I cannot tell you what my people are to me. We are such thorough

friends. Sometimes small actions of theirs go straight to one’s heart,

making me feel how nice our relation to one another is. The other day I

went down the court, once so savage and desolate. I saw two or three of

the worst boys in the neighbourhood looking very happy and smiling.

“Have you seen Mrs. Mayne?” they clamoured eagerly. Mrs. Mayne is our

superintendent there. “She’s got something taking care of for you.” I

found that the boys had walked twelve miles, doubtless delighted with

the expedition, but specially to bring me back a great quantity of

“palm.” And, as I came out carrying it, “Will you have some more?” “Wait

a bit and have some more,” they cried. When I remembered that these same

boys had been our greatest trouble, defying authority, climbing walls,

breaking windows, throwing stones, with their hands against us in all

things, I could not but feel that we had got on a little, however the

houses may fall short in external perfection of what one longs for them

to be. I have hardly any of the teaching at home; dear Andy and Minnie

having thrown their strength fully into it; so Flo and I only take

special classes; but the bright young life round one is very refreshing;

and I grow much attached to some of the girls;—not the old sense of

being any longer their head; this, you will understand, I am not sorry

to resign, however precious the position was. Meantime, I have my little

sanctum here and go out among my ever-increasing circle of real friends.

My work now is mainly teaching drawing, which I enjoy much.

[Sidenote: IMPROVEMENT IN THE COURTS]

June 7th, 1869.

TO MISS FLORENCE DAVENPORT HILL.

... We are having a large meeting in the parish this week to try to

organise the relief given; very opposite creeds will be

represented—Archbishop Manning, Mr. Davies, Mr. Fremantle,

Eardley-Wilmot, and others. I must go myself. I shall try to get Rose to

go too....

Lady Ducie writes that she is perfectly engrossed in your book, and

tells me she must get it. She is quite appalled at the state of things

in the workhouse; it seems quite to be weighing on her mind.

June 9th, 1869.

TO THE SAME.

... I daresay one is apt to overrate one’s own work; but one is the more

anxious to have it fairly weighed, and receive all advice from other

people; and I do want to have it fairly considered, and get the

authorities to recognise it. Mr. F., the rector of our district, and the

main mover in the matter, is to call on me to-day. May some power

inspire me with intellect and speech! I have hardly a hope that they

will place me on the Committee. I shall try boldly; but I think no

ladies will be admitted. Mr. F. is happily a friend of Lady Ducie’s.

P.S.—Mr. F. has just been, and will propose my name at the Committee.

Ben Rhydding,

September 10th, 1869.

TO EMILY.

... Life here has been a great success every way. It is odd, in a place

like this, to get on so well; but energy and enjoyment are such a

delight to people, they forgive much, where they can secure them and

have these. A large picnic party went to Fountains yesterday. They

begged me to go. I could not, and said, “I will ask all the people, and,

when you are started, you really won’t want me.” “Oh,” said a young,

buoyant Quaker youth, “but we do want you to talk.” ... In pity also

give me some more teaching; it is the only anchor I have, and I shall be

destroyed by dissipation if you don’t preserve me. Oh dear, I have been

writing three hours; and I did so want to do my miniature; for you don’t

know how much I want to finish it.

[Sidenote: ALARM AT HER OWN FAME]

6, Clifton Villas,

Bradford,

September 17th, 1869.

TO EMILY.

To-night there is to be a dinner party here. Dr. Bridges and several

influential people are asked to meet me;—I do feel such a take-in of a

person. I wish someone would explode me; it is so difficult to un-humbug

oneself. It is all taken for extreme modesty (fancy mine!) and laid to

one’s account as so much excellence. A Mr. and Mrs. R. K., who are

looked upon as great guns, are giving a dinner party in my honour.

Really it’s very ridiculous; what I _am_ glad of is that I am going to

see Saltaire, a model village near here which has grown up round a

manufactory, belonging to a Mr. Titus (now Sir Titus) Salt; no beer

shops there, only model cottages, schools, etc.... I’m very happy, and

as bright as can be; but save me from this again! I’m going to settle

down to a steady, quiet old age, if ever the happy time arrives when I

reach home.