1878—1881
FOREIGN TRAVELS—MANAGEMENT OF HER WORK AT HOME
I mentioned, in an earlier chapter, the way in which Octavia’s
difficulties had, on more than one occasion, called out the help and
sympathy of new friends. This good fortune was remarkably exemplified
when she broke down in 1877. Miss Yorke, who now came forward to give
her sympathy and help, became one of the most important figures in the
remaining years of Octavia’s life; and, by her persistent devotion to
her comfort and active help in her work, did much to encourage her to
new efforts. But, for the moment, her help took the form of
accompanying her in a foreign tour, which turned Octavia’s attention
away from the troubles which were weighing on her mind, and gave her
new sources of interest.
In the letters chosen to illustrate the tour, I have, as a rule,
preferred those which show her sympathy with the people and modes of
life with which she came in contact, rather than those descriptions of
scenery, which often strike readers as familiar. But her strong
artistic sense gave her so great a power of realizing and describing
natural beauty, that I have occasionally made exceptions to this rule.
As the final decision to go abroad was only accepted after
considerable hesitation and delay, Octavia had to make all her
provision for her time of absence in the course of a week. Under these
circumstances, her sister, Mrs. Lewes, consented to undertake the
guidance of the fellow workers in this emergency. As, however, Mrs.
Lewes could not assume all the responsibility which had fallen on her
sister, a certain amount of decentralisation was effected, and greater
power entrusted to the fellow workers.
[Sidenote: HER FELLOW-WORKERS]
The capacity and disposition possessed by each thus became more
manifest; and, while some showed administrative power, but with little
real sympathy, others, who had felt more of Octavia’s personal
influence, threw themselves, with hearty delight, into the life of the
poor people. I have chosen letters from two of these sympathetic
workers, as best illustrating Octavia’s purpose. One was a lady whose
name I do not venture to quote, because I have not been able to find
out where she is now, or obtain her consent to the use of her name;
but I am sure that she cannot be offended that her cheery, and rather
unique influence should be remembered. The other is Miss Emily
Harrison, to whom I have already alluded in an earlier chapter; whose
little painting room near the playground was the scene of much
friendly intercourse, and much more useful guidance than a more
conventional teacher could give. At the same time Octavia’s personal
influence on the tenants was shown by such experiences as Mrs. Lewes
relates. One tenant said to her, “We shall be all right now you’ve
come. We do understand Miss Hill and Miss Cons.” And again Mrs. Lewes
writes, “At the D.’s I began with a locked door, a barking dog, and a
notice to quit, and ended with a gentle interview, a promise to pay up
largely, as soon as ever he is in work, and a withdrawn notice.”
It will be seen that one victory, though of a temporary kind, marked
this period. The public-house, which had been so bitter a bone of
contention at an earlier stage of its existence, was turned into a
coffee-house; and, under Miss Cons’ energetic guidance, succeeded in
holding its own for some time.
Still more cheering news came to Octavia during her absence. Her
example had been producing effect in other towns; movements for
housing reform had begun in Liverpool, Manchester, and Dublin; and a
very efficient worker, who had come to Octavia for advice and
training, was carrying on a satisfactory scheme in Leeds.
January 10th, 1878.
MIRANDA TO MARY HARRIS.
As to Octavia’s work, she means to get Gertrude to be the centre, as far
as she can, but each of the volunteers to be put in direct communication
with the owners, and to be answerable immediately to them; and she will
ask the owners to understand that she expects them to look into the
balance sheets, each quarter, and to see how things are going for
themselves; not to hold her responsible any more just now. Meanwhile she
leaves all the work _in train_; and Gertrude will advise and help the
volunteers, and direct the assistants as far as she can, but will not
take Octavia’s responsibility to the owners. Of course she _could_ not,
as the work cannot be her first duty; and she might have to break off
any time. O. thinks the plan will make the volunteers splendidly
independent, and will answer very well wherever there is a good worker;
also that the worst can do little else than not make any great
improvements in their properties. The management of the Donation Fund
she leaves with Minnie, whose judgment she trusts very much.
Hôtel D’Holland, Cannes,
January 24th, 1878.
OCTAVIA TO HER MOTHER.
We reached here last night. Miss Yorke is kinder, brighter, and with
subtler sympathy than I had imagined. She is an excellent manager, and
prevents one’s feeling forlorn in travelling. It is an immense comfort
that all my work is so well started, and that I am anxious about
nothing.... I hope dear Gertrude found all as easy as could be; but one
feels how puzzling things might be, from there being omissions of form,
when once the living voice was gone.
[Illustration:
OCTAVIA HILL.
_From a Drawing by Edward Clifford. 1877._
]
Villa Cattaneo, Nervi Riviera de Levante,
February 4th, 1878.
The MacDonalds are very kind, but I rest much more on Miss Yorke’s
quiet, strong, wise help. There is something so sterling in her. She
says little, and does so much. I am deeply interested about the war, and
long for news. We get no newspapers here! And, for the first time in my
life, I do miss them sadly.
[Sidenote: AN ARTIST’S WISH FOR HIS FRIEND]
52, Wigmore Street,
January 24th, 1878.
EDWARD CLIFFORD[87] TO OCTAVIA.
DEAR MISS HILL,
I write just a little greeting to you, as one of the many friends who
are thinking pretty often of you, and longing for the time when you may
come back, revived, to all the folks who need you here.
I wished so much for you to go, that I can’t be sorry, for a moment,
that you are gone. What I hope now is, that you may have a delicious sky
above you, and hills and green plains on each side, and a few unexpected
roses, and the promise of anemones and violets before long; and that you
are already feeling, as it were, in a new planet, and as if everything
had happened about forty years ago. Distance and time are more like each
other than might be supposed.
Don’t, of course, think of answering any note of mine. I shall hear of
you, I hope, from Miss Miranda.
Yours sincerely,
EDWARD CLIFFORD.
14, Nottingham Place,
January 27th, 1878.
MRS. HILL TO OCTAVIA.
MY OWN DEAREST CHILD,
I feel it a great blessing that you have no anxiety about your work. I
am glad, both for its sake, and for yours; for I am sure you could not
recover, as we wish you to do, if you felt things were likely to go ill.
I hope this change will prove an improvement in its organisation, and
the beginning of an easier life for you. You have climbed the hill far
enough to look back, and survey the road passed over; and reflection
will suggest to you by what future paths the goal you set before
yourself is most likely to be reached. Accept this interval, as a
precious time lent you for retrospect and prospect, and for renewing the
bodily health that you have expended so unsparingly.
Your loving MOTHER.
c/o George MacDonald, Esq.,
Villa Cattaneo,
February 9th, 1878.
OCTAVIA TO EMILY.
I should greatly prefer, if you have time, that you should train a lady
on each Committee[88] to wise relief with the fund,[89] rather than
spend it on entertainments. You see I want to distribute power, not to
accumulate it, and to bring it _near_ the workers, who are face to face
with the poor.
We know _no_ news except what we learn in private letters; not a
creature here sees a paper. I don’t know, if the six million is voted,
nor whether the Pope is dead.
[Sidenote: MEMORIES OF MAZZINI IN GENOA]
Villa Cattaneo, Nervi,
February 12th, 1878.
TO EMILY AND EDMUND MAURICE.
... We found Vaccari, a young shopman in a jeweller’s shop, in a little
back street in Genoa. He was greatly delighted, and told us it was the
first donation they had had from England, he thought. He was so sorry
not to show us the house himself, (he could not leave his master’s shop
on a week day) so that we fixed to go in to Genoa, on purpose, on
Sunday, and to see the house and the tomb.
We drove first to the cemetery. On a little plateau there were four
tombs. One of Mazzini’s mother, buried in 1852. It seems he chose the
spot himself. He came unknown to Genoa, made his way into the cemetery,
mingled with the crowd, wandered over the place, and chose this spot for
her burial. He then returned to Geneva, and wrote to a friend of his in
Genoa, asking him to arrange the burial. He planned the stone himself.
There is a profile bas-relief of her; and the stone simply records that
it is that of Maria Mazzini, the mother of the exile, Joseph Mazzini
(escile is, I suppose, exile). Six very beautiful cypresses stand round
the tomb, three on each side. The feeling is one of space, air, freedom,
simplicity, and tenderness. Next to her tomb is that of Savi, much less
simple, but beautiful. The third grave is that of a stranger. Behind the
three is a kind of cavern, in the side of the steep rocky slope which
rises high above. This cavern has a very simple massive Egyptian-looking
entrance over which alone stand the words “Giuseppe Mazzini.” Within is
the tomb. The whole was designed by a young workman not twenty years
old, but a disciple of Mazzini’s.
We went then to the house. High but very humble; a dark staircase leads
to a dark back room looking out upon one of the narrow viciola with
which Genoa is traversed; here an old man, looking very poor, but (V.
told us) who had known M. well, was carving little wooden frames by the
faint light which came in just by the window. V. led us very solemnly
into a small room leading out of this, where he told us Mazzini was
born. This contained a book-case with their club-library—not in all more
than double the size of mine—and several more portraits and relics of
their heroes. It was evident the club used this as a little reading or
committee room. There were besides numerous casts, engravings,
photographs, and little busts of Mazzini, Mamelli, M.’s mother, and
others; a little glass case with the quill pen with which M. wrote one
of his books, the cockade he wore at Rome, two pairs of his spectacles,
a tiny little letter from him, and a lock of his hair; another autograph
framed, nearly undecipherable, had been written the day before his
death.
The whole morning was to me very interesting and instructive; of course
I judge from very slight data, but it appeared to me that we had come
upon a man of deep and strong conviction, of much education, much
thought, one of a company of poor men, bound together in closest
fellowship by a common reverence, a common hope, and memory of a time of
real danger and adversity. Their efforts were very touching. We asked
what hope there was of collecting the remainder of the money. V.
answered that they meant to do it. “Mais, madame, pour les ouvriers ça
demande du temps.” We asked about the chance of securing the books.
“Some of us,” he replied, “have the works of Signor Mazzini; it is our
intention to present them to the library. We have ourselves read them,
and made notes, that we may be able to spare them the better.” Something
like a library _that_, written first indelibly in men’s minds. Their
small contributions, too, for purchasing the house were touching.
[Sidenote: REVERENCE FOR RELICS OF MAZZINI]
I could not help thinking it strange that a man of such thought,
dwelling on the far future with quiet hope, speaking of education as
_the_ thing to desire, and having come face to face with great men, at
great epochs, should tell us, with such impressiveness, that one man in
Genoa had Mazzini’s purse, his sword and other things. No body of
workmen in England would speak so of any dead man’s possessions. Has the
worship of saints’ relics thus coloured the forms of reverence? Was it
that the times in England have needed and produced no such heroism, as
that of the man who held his life in his hands for years, and chose
exile for his fellow citizens? Was it that definite creeds of
Catholicism had been cast aside by these men? no other profession of
faith except reverence for country and heroes adopted? Is it southern
adoration? Or what made the difference? I ask myself and know too little
to reply. But of one thing I am sure; it is _not_ that the _spirit_ is
less important than the accident of form. Except in that question of the
autograph, I was struck again and again at the way in which Vaccari went
right thro’ the non-essential to the essential.
All thro’ the interview I felt painfully that I knew too little to learn
a tenth part from him of what I might. He gave me credit again and again
for knowledge, and was disappointed by my ignorance. I stopped him to
tell me about an inscription on a house I had noticed. It was to Mamelli
saying that he gave his blood to his country, and his poems to
posterity, and that in that house he had his cradle and his dwelling. He
thought I knew that Mamelli had died young, wounded at the siege of Rome
in 1849; and his face lighted with joy and he broke from French into his
native Italian as he said it was he who sent Mazzini the message, “Rome
is a republic! Come!” He told me that the mother of Mamelli still lived
in a garret there, and his sister. I admired the stone and inscription,
and he said with pleased smile, “It is we” (that was I think his circolo
or club) “which drew out and planned it there.”
I suppose it will live rent free, if these three little rooms, of to
them holy memory, are purchased.
I wish Edmund would write to him, if ever occasion offers. He seemed so
delighted with sympathy, and must have felt me very stupid—of course I
am ignorant, and the difficulty of language was great. I could
understand, but not talk. I could have done nothing but for Miss Yorke,
who was so kind; she knew less than I did, much! But she took such
pains, and asked everything I asked her. They look upon England as very
rich, and cared for sympathy. He did not want us to think they were not
really in earnest because the matter took time here, said it was so
different in England; and, when Miss Yorke said there were rich men in
Genoa, he said, “Oh, yes, but not so many, and it is not they who
listened to Mazzini.”
OCTAVIA.
Rome,
March 14th, 1878.
OCTAVIA TO HER MOTHER.
I write to-day, to be sure to send a letter in time for your birthday;
time and strength are so uncertain now, one has to be beforehand with
things. I think of you so, and shall think of you on the day. My
thoughts of you all make me realise how you are all doing, and have done
so much, and how little I am doing to combat the difficulties that every
day brings. I do hope you all know that I am better; _that_ will make
one anxiety less. How I think of you all, of dear Andy bearing the
burden of all management; of dear Florence keeping to work with her
frail health; of dear Gertrude so marvellously carrying on my work; and
of dear Minnie doing all so perfectly, and thinking of everyone. Among
them all, however, you seem to me to have the heaviest weight, who have
to care for us all and think for and of us, and be our centre and head.
[Sidenote: EXPEDITIONS FROM ROME]
Hotel Vittoria, Rome,
April 3rd, 1878.
TO HER MOTHER.
I have been thinking that it would be a very good thing if, at the end
of May, you were to come out to me for a month. By that time I shall be
in Switzerland. I am not a very bright companion, and we should not be
able to travel about; still, I think you might enjoy the beauty and the
quiet; and, if you were to bring a few books, we might sit out of doors
and read together.... We went to Albano and La Riccia, which Ruskin
knew; and I began to look a little more; the flowers were lovely, and I
liked seeing the site of Long Alba, and Monte Cavo, sacred to Jupiter
Latiaris. I drew a great tomb there. Yesterday we went to Ostia. I drew
the castle, and also drew, in a great fir wood near the sea at Castel
Fusano. We have been sixteen long drives to places since we came
here—many of them full of beauty and interest. Ruskin and Virgil made me
feel more at home at Albano and Ostia. I fancy, too, I am really better
the last two days.
Hotel Vittoria, Rome,
April 4th (1878).
TO HER MOTHER.
... We drive to-day to Tivoli, to-morrow to Subiaco (St. Bernard’s
Monastery); on Saturday to Olevano; on Sunday we drive thro’ Palestrina
to Frascati. On Monday we shall see Tusculum, and then drive to Albano,
where we shall probably stay some days. Miss Y. has gone to tell the
carriage not to come before post time, because I want news of you all
before starting.... We drove yesterday to Veci; it was a lovely drive. I
am certainly better. I am much stronger, but I must not try yet even a
little walking: it hurts my head. How interested you would have been
with all these beautiful places and historical associations! It is a
splendid way of seeing them to drive out, as we have been doing for the
last three weeks. Of course one loses much by not being able to walk,
even a little, when one gets there; especially in a country where the
existence of a road to a place seems an exception to be noted.
Perugia,
April 14th, 1878.
TO MIRANDA.
You would have been interested in Assisi. It is quite unspoiled. There
is not a new or unsightly building there. It is marvellous to see how
one man has stamped his mark upon it for 550 years. Where he has marked
it, and where he could not make his mark, is equally notable. It was
interesting too to see the place now, when the institutions he founded,
and which necessarily have preserved many outward rules of his, are on
the eve of passing away: and to pause and wonder what effect their
disappearance will have on the influence he exercises. The little town
stands on the sunny side of a very bare hill. It is full of towers, and
balconies and loggie, and old arches; it seems well-to-do, but
old-world, living only by its memory—St. Francis a kind of living soul
preserving and pervading its body.
[Sidenote: IMPRESSIONS OF ASSISI]
Inside the town stands the tiny little church of San Damiano, the one he
wanted to rebuild at first, and for which he took the money. Sta. Chiara
and her nuns were first there. All has been preserved as it was then.
The tiny church, the rough choir seats, the simple nameless burial
place, the vaulted refectory with its rugged seats, the small rude
infirmary, Sta. Chiara’s little room, are all there, and have received,
as herself did, his own stamp of humility, simplicity, and poverty, more
truly, more abidingly than any others. They say she kept the Saracen
from touching them by looking from a window; but, when she died, the
nuns were frightened; and the citizens built for them a church and
nunnery in the town. This, a large church, has now no marks of either
simplicity or special beauty that I cared for, except four frescoes by
Giotto, on the vaults of so high a roof that I could see little except
the exquisite glow of resplendent colour, and enough of angel form to
fall in with the general impression Assisi gives, that these glad and
bright visitants were by the holy and humble men of heart, who dwelt and
painted there, felt to be all around them, whether they kneel on earth
during a crucifixion, or support the head of a dying saint, or guide a
mortal on his dark path, or in bright companies fill the visible heaven,
or, with stately splendour, stand in myriads before the rapt eyes of the
man who conquers temptation. One feels no surprise; the sight of their
high holy and cloudless faces seems quite familiar; it is as if earth
and heaven must be filled with them; one feels one might hear the rush
of their great wings any moment, or hear their swift strong tread
either; and they are companionable too, not far from men, “not too
bright and good for human nature’s daily food”; or, at least, the
barrier is so slight a one, that it gives us no surprise when they step
down among men, or when a weary man is lifted suddenly by and among
them.
The monk who showed us over the church gave us a very graphic account of
the discovery and opening of St. F.’s coffin fifty years ago. It
reminded one of “Past and Present.” No one knew exactly where the coffin
would be; they only knew the church had been built for the body to be
brought there, just after his death. The Pope declared the coffin would
be certainly under the altar. They would not disturb this, and so
tunnelled sideways. They worked at night only, not to disturb the minds
of the townspeople. They worked fifty-two nights; then they found the
coffin. The head lay pillowed on a stone, the arms crossed; the figure
was perfect for a moment, but crumbled as the air reached it. Medals
proved its authenticity. It was sent to Rome to be certified by the
Pope; then carried in procession through the town which was “full!
full!” the monk said, “for everyone came, for he was not only a saint,
but he did much good to all people; so everyone came to it.” Then they
replaced the coffin on the solid rock, where for 500 years it had been,
hollowed a chapel round it, and there it is. And he so humble a man, who
wanted to be out of sight! Strangely sweet did the tiny little church of
Portiuncula seem; and the little hut by it where he died, which now are
enclosed by the great dome of St. Maria degli Angeli in the plain just
below Assisi. They seemed to bring back the simple, child-like heart of
the man; they and the home of Sta. Chiara seemed to me almost more to
recall him than even the solemn glory of the frescoes on the twilight
richness of San Francesco. And now the order he established will pass
away.
[Sidenote: REPORTS OF HOME WORK]
May 11th, 1878 or 9?
MIRANDA TO OCTAVIA.
Miss Cons has spent Mr. Crewdson’s £10 on the Walmer Castle library,
which has now 300 volumes and sixty members, many of them lads from
sixteen to twenty. Miss Cons goes to the Walmer Castle herself from
three to eleven every alternate Sunday afternoon; to set the managers
free to go out. She said half-apologetically, “I don’t serve unless
there is a great press; but I see that things go right.”
July 21st, 1878.
GERTRUDE TO OCTAVIA.
When I was in B. Court I took round some of the notices about the Club,
as Mr. Brock had spoken so warmly of its efforts to right itself; and I
had a very nice talk with Hobbs. He promised to go and talk to Mr. Brock
that evening, and spoke with pleasure of the old days, when those who
were teetotalers and those who were not worked side by side, and its own
funds made it self-supporting. Bristow, too, spoke to Miss Garton most
heartily. He brought out a chair that they might talk more comfortably;
and he said he would sacrifice “I don’t know what time and money” rather
than see the Club broken up. This week, too, Miss Kennedy sends good
news from Dublin. She says she has been afloat three weeks with her
father’s property in Dublin, which was neglected. She has adopted all
your plans and books, and writes up for printed forms; and she seemed so
interested. But just as keen as ever about B. Court. She says, “I had a
delightful interview with Mrs. Fitch, just before leaving London, and we
talked out all or most of our new ideas and wishes. So I hope the
‘alliance’ will be most satisfactory. I will do all I know to make it
so.”
Hôtel Bellevue, Thun,
August 5th, 1878.
TO MIRANDA.
We go on so freely just from place to place as each day seems best,
quite out of the beat of tourists, and off the regular tracks, really
near the lives and heart of the people. We see them in their chalets and
gardens, and in the upland fields bringing back their harvests. To-day
we have crossed sunny plains and uplands, and come along the ravines
beside lovely rivers, and stopped to lunch at queer old-fashioned inns.
I don’t expect to like it so much when we get to the grander scenery. I
expect the roads are fewer, and the tracks more beaten; we shall meet
more tourists and tourists’ inns. But still, as we take carriages and
stop where we like, we can avoid the worst places. We have all our
luggage with us; and, when the horses are fed, we take out our books and
cloaks, and sit in fields and woods. At the inns and hotels Miss Y. is
perfectly at her ease, and makes every place at once like home. She is,
too, up to all emergencies, like Mr. Barnett or Miss Cons; so, if we
have an adventure on the way, she knows what to do and all that is safe
and right. She knows at a glance which carriages are large enough, what
hotels are suitable, which drags are strong enough, at which places we
may leave luggage unwatched, what men would fulfil engagements without
supervision, etc., etc.
[Sidenote: MISS YORKE’S RESOURCEFULNESS]
How you would rejoice to see the simple happy homes of the people, and
all the wild woods, streams, and rocks, and pretty fields!
Bernina Hospice,
September 14th, 1878.
OCTAVIA TO HER MOTHER.
We are here at the queerest, nicest, out of the way place. It is a
capital hotel, the people kindly, simple, and capable. We are the only
people staying here, tho’ travellers call continually. To our great
delight last night heavy snow began to fall, and has continued all day.
The sky is evidently full of snow, and we cannot see far, but, between
the swiftly falling flakes, we dimly see the great slopes of the near
mountains, and a white ghost-like lake fed by the glacier opposite.
Beyond it we see a narrow little barrier of rocks (which was black when
we arrived, but now is quite white) which separates us from another
little lake called Lago Nero, fed not by glaciers but by springs, and
which therefore is dark and clear, not thick and white like Lago Bianco.
The narrow little barrier marks the watershed, from which streams
descend on one side to the Black Sea, and on the other to the Adriatic.
Zernetz,
October 1st, 1878.
TO HER MOTHER.
The drive to-day was magnificent, the weather beautiful (this was our
fifteenth pass, this is the only one we have been over twice). It is
much more beautiful, now the snow is so much more abundant. The larches
are the brightest pale gold. The cloud shadows were lovely to-day. We
get the warmest welcome from all the people we have seen before. Miss Y.
sees, recognises, and remembers all about them all. It is quite funny
when we drive thro’ a town or village; she sees the driver who took us
to one place, or the girl from whom we bought something; it is
marvellous how she remembers them after such slight acquaintance, or
under such different appearances. It makes all the people so pleased. It
is very strange; the season is over, and the hotels are closed, or not
expecting visitors; and the masters of some of them are hard at work, in
rough clothes, doing field labour—some of course have other hotels at
Cannes or Nice—but others, who looked so spick and span in the summer,
you meet now with a long whip in the lanes, following an ox-cart with
hay.
We had such a pathetic, interesting driver to-day, a brown,
weather-beaten, much-enduring man. He drove us in the summer, and won
Miss Y.’s heart by taking so much care of his horse, and so little of
himself. He looked worn and shabby then, when everyone looked spruce.
His little flaxen-haired girl of three years old ran out to see him, and
he took her up on the box for a few yards. To-day we engaged him again,
and he was so pleased; he’s so hard-working looking. I think he is
rarely employed as a driver. The 40 francs seemed a _very_ large sum to
him; and he put on such a gigantic, very clean collar in honour of the
day. He walked a large part of the forty miles to save his horse; and
Miss Y. noticed what a small dinner he ordered, and that he never
lighted a cigar all day (so different from most of the drivers) till
just as we were coming here, when, with a solemn and pleased air, as if
it were the right thing, he lighted one to drive up smoking. He doesn’t
look wretched, only long-suffering, as to weather and work, and very
careful. We have engaged him to take us on thirty-eight miles to-morrow;
and I daresay he will carry home his 80 francs and spend or save it very
providently.
Tyrol,
October 4th, 1878.
TO MIRANDA.
Will Minnie look into the question of the Commons Preservation appeal,
with a view to considering whether or not to give £20 of the Ruskin
donation money? On the one hand they must be very careful about
litigation; on the other, their hands ought to be strengthened to carry
on that which is wise.
[Sidenote: EXPERIENCES IN TYROL]
Bruneck,
October 13th, 1878.
TO HER MOTHER.
I think you would be much interested by the old-world life here, and the
customs handed down for generations. Maggie is very kind in explaining
the things we see. Yesterday troops of cattle were returning from the
mountain pastures to their winter homes near the farms. Each troop had
its best cow decorated with a cow-crown, a high and bright erection of
which the creature was very proud. She wore also a bright, broad,
embroidered collar, and a gigantic sweet-toned bell, _much_ larger than
I ever saw in Switzerland. Cows, goats, oxen, sheep, and men all came
together, most of them more or less adorned with flowers, ribbons,
bells, and embroidery. But the principal cow, quite conscious of her
honour, walked in a stately way in front. The people came out in force,
in every village, to see them pass; and the greatest excitement
prevailed to see in what condition they returned. To-day, after mass,
they are all turned into the largest field on each farm, and the
neighbours go round to pay visits to see how each herd has prospered.
The senner or dairyman, who has been in charge, brings down in triumph
all his butter and cheeses; and they go quite far out of their way, to
pass in triumphal procession with the flocks through Bruneck itself. I
suppose as a kind of type of the plenty he brings, it is the custom for
him to store his pockets with cakes which he gives to the villagers on
his way down. Maggie told us last year their queen cow broke her horn
just before they should return; and she had to be deposed, and was very
depressed; another cow had to be trained to wear a crown; they practised
with a milking stool, and had to teach her to walk first. I thought
Blanche would like to hear all this. We drove yesterday to Tauffers, a
village twelve miles from here. It lies at the head of a valley, and six
weeks ago was a lovely village full of gardens and surrounded by
meadows. But, one Saturday, the river ceased to flow; and they were
alarmed. It seemed a mass from an avalanche had fallen into it and
blocked it; and, after the body of water had accumulated behind it, it
suddenly broke thro’ the dam and tore in headlong force along, carrying
great rocky sand and trees in its course. For six hours it tore along;
and then the men could get out to see to the cattle. Every bridge
between them and Bruneck and the outer world was torn away. There were
some Austrian tourists there; and two of them volunteered to scramble
over the waste of ruin, and climb along the edge of the mountain down to
Bruneck with some of the villagers; and they came to the burgomaster
here, and bore witness to the desolation. The burgomaster sent a great
drum thro’ the town announcing the catastrophe; and all the peasants
round brought food and carts and horses, and worked with a will.
[Sidenote: LIFE OF A TYROLESE PEASANT]
The Tyrol,
October 27th, 1878.
TO MIRANDA.
Did I tell you how here the elder brother has all and the younger has
nothing but the right to support, and labourers’ wages in return for
labourers’ work, on the ancestral estate? Some go away to make a place
for themselves elsewhere; but many don’t. They can never marry, and they
grow old in a life of humble service on their brother’s land.
Mr. Howitt has been much touched by the life and character of the
brother of the old man who owns this farm, and wrote these lines which
he would like you to see. He told us of the old man’s silent life,
strict attention to the cattle, reverent raising of his hat, and letting
his grey hair be caught by the wind, as he prayed in the field when the
vesper bell rang in the distant town, and of his unnoticed place among
the other labourers; and how when his nephew was married, he thought he
must make him a present; so he asked leave to go into the bedroom let to
the Howitts, where the chest of drawers containing his own earthly
possessions stood; how he took out a green little old jug made in the
form of an animal, of no value, but all that he could find to give. Take
care of the lines, for I like them.
Lienz,
November 2nd, 1878.
TO MIRANDA.
I should be frantic if you didn’t so beautifully report all you send, so
that I know what there ought to be.
I was so delighted with Miss Martineau’s letters; it seems to me to show
how much things have taken root, and how much heart there is in things,
and how people are helping one another. I wonder if Mrs. Wilson is sure
to be fully occupied. It is delightful when the volunteers themselves do
so much; but I hope they will use the assistants in other fields.
It is no use frittering time and strength in many places.
St. Michael, November 9th, 1878.
TO HER MOTHER.
[Sidenote: TYROLESE SCENERY]
I really ought to tell you of our travels, they are so full of
interesting things. At Heiligenblut, on Wednesday, we hadn’t very fine
weather; the sky was dark as when snow is coming; but we went a scramble
up to a high point (where there was a ruined chapel with a fine view of
the Gross Glockner) and all the snowy valley and peaks, and all up, by
an icy stream, which reminded me very much of Lowell’s Sir Launfal. On
Thursday the weather was really magnificent, clear, bright, and so
sunny. We saw the Gross Glockner to perfection, and then drove three
hours to Winklern. We had a dreadful char-a-banc with such gaps in the
boards of the floor; it was very draughty for our feet, but we had such
views! At Winklern we changed carriages, and started for another four
hour drive to Ober Vellach; but the fates seemed against us; first the
axle of the carriage broke and quietly deposited us on the ground to our
infinite amusement. The driver went off with the horse to try to borrow
another; and I sat in the sun trying to draw a chalet, with such Indian
corn outside it, and above, the golden larches, and beyond them the
slope of snow; but I hadn’t time to do anything. The man returned with a
kind of cart, but very comfortable. We drove some way in it, when the
man looked and saw the cord, which had tied our luggage, loose, and all
the luggage gone. We made him drive back some miles; and there quite
quietly in the middle of the road stood the luggage, neither walker nor
driver having passed. It began to get late; the sun set, in wonderful
splendour; and then the moon rose. We were driving thro’ a long defile
in which a torrent joins the Möll. It is a wildly destructive one, and
has strewn the whole valley with stupendous stones, and dug channels
among them, and tossed them here and there over all the waste. The road
threads its way, now down into channels of half frozen water, now up
great banks of stones; here and there the Möll expands into small lakes,
in which the opposite slopes of snow-covered fir trees and the moon and
snow peaks were exquisitely reflected; and for miles we went without
seeing a house. It was very lovely. On Friday we drove only 20 miles to
Spital; the weather was quite lovely, every blade of grass sparkled in
the sunlight, and the frosty air made everything bright. We had two fine
grey horses, which greatly delighted Miss Y. They trotted along the
frozen snow at a fine pace. To-day we have driven 29 miles, from Spital,
by Gmund and Rennwig, here. It was not clear when we started; a snow
cloud seemed to darken the sky. We climbed a long steep bleak hill, and
then saw the folds of the hills north, south, east, and west, and the
river, by which we were to travel so long, deep in its channel, far
below us; still the light was not beautiful. Gmund is a funny old-world
place, with an arched gateway to enter by, and another under a château
to go out by, and a fine old statue on a bridge,—nothing pretty in it,
only it looks so asleep. The road led on for nine miles more by the
river, till we came to Rennwig. There we were to change our carriage for
one with two horses, as the Katschburg over which we had to pass is
steep. We went into the inn to have some coffee. There were the maids
spinning and the mistress working, and our driver came in for his food;
all in the same large warm sitting-room where we were. To our intense
delight, when we came out, we found we were to have a sledge and two
large horses, strong as cart-horses, to draw it. It was very
comfortable; we had no end of wraps; and Miss Y. bought us each some
great warm over-boots this morning. There we sat, as warm as could be,
with our luggage packed round us. We saw at once that the day, the
middle of which had cleared and been splendid, had changed its mind, and
more snow was coming, as a heavy cloud hung over the mountain in front.
Slowly, lightly, thickly it began to fall; the great fir-covered slopes
were seen through the mist of it; the landscape was little changed by
it, for there was much before; the road was thick with it, the drifts
white and deep; the mountains loomed large and white; then the moon
rose, and the snow ceased. Such a silence, such a scene I never saw; for
nine miles we drove without passing a house or a person. [Sidenote: A
TYROLESE INN] Our driver had a great horn, which he blew before a bend
in the road, to warn any sledge that might be coming; and the unfamiliar
sound seemed to make the silence more marked. We are on a post road, and
employing postal vehicles, and all is safe and familiar, and easy to the
people evidently, but very impressive to us. We are, as you say, seeing
the country as it is, and not in gala dress for tourists. We like the
people much. We seem a great marvel to them; they see few tourists here,
and few English anywhere. We are in a very comfortable inn, but
surrounded by deep snow. We are much amused with the people in the room
where we had supper. A perfectly sober, orderly, well-behaved set of men
and women came in to supper. One great dish was placed in the middle of
the table; they all helped themselves to it with spoons, which they took
out of their pockets. When they had finished, they sucked their spoons
and pocketed them. The master and mistress of the hotel, their servants
and children, came next. They had a plate each allowed them, but only
one glass amongst them. They give us many things which they think the
right thing; but they evidently regard them as great luxuries, and to be
taken _great_ care of. The little bits of carpet beside our beds they
carefully fold up every morning and put away all day, and get them out
for us each night. Their little charges are somewhat touching. They ask
us how much bread we have eaten, and charge accordingly. We go on to
Radstadt to-morrow. Don’t be anxious about us, we are very cautious; and
I never saw anything like Miss Y.’s knowledge and observation. She knows
the strength and power and time and chances of all things.
St. Johann in Pongau,
November 11th.
We had such a day yesterday! We came sleighing fifty miles. We came by
Unter Tauern down to Radstadt, and then it being only 3.30 o’clock, and
as we had only driven forty miles, we thought, after dining and asking
for a chance post card, we would go nine and a half miles to Wagram, as
we wanted to see the winter sunset over the snow, and it would give us
more time at Gastein. We drove off, still all in sledges; and a splendid
sunset it was. It was quite dark when we drove into Wagram, which
appears in large letters on the map; but, as Baedeker mentions no inn,
we had enquired at Radstadt which was the best. It was a rough place
indeed, but the woman took us upstairs, promising a room, when suddenly,
whether it was that in the light she saw we were quite unlike the
country people, or what, I can’t say, but she turned resolutely
downstairs, took us into a kind of top room to parley; and nothing could
induce her to give us a room. Moreover, she declared that there was no
horse in the village which would take us on. The master, our coachman,
and all the men in the room supported her. Miss Y. really believed them,
she is so very disinclined to suspicion; they seemed to send and see,
but became more positive. “Oh,” I said, “get a room; they’ll send us on
to-morrow.” “There was no room,” they said. I thought they looked simple
people frightened at us, so I said, “Ask her what she advises us to do.”
Go back to Radstadt, two hours’ drive in the utter dark. However, there
was nothing for it, and laughing we agreed. We still stood talking.
“Tell her we’re English,” I suggested, “and have many railways in
England, and no sledges”; for I saw one of the great causes of suspicion
was that we hadn’t gone round by railway. [Sidenote: MISS YORKE’S
DIPLOMACY] Miss Y. told them; and they became interested. She was very
gentle, and, I think, touched them; for suddenly the men made a sign to
her to accompany them. I followed their flaring tallow candle thro’
great barns, out into the stable yard, where in solemn circle they
showed her a sledge, such as peasants use, just a platform of boards on
runners. “Would that do?” “Certainly, perfectly.” So persistently
truthful was she that she thought they meant a man would drag it, and
said pleasantly, “Oh, it didn’t matter about a horse at all.” Horse!
they’d a beautiful horse, she must really see it; so she was conducted
thro’ great barns to the stable. She admired duly the great animals, but
still clinging to her belief in their truth, said, “But they can’t go in
the snow.” “Oh, beautifully!” they exclaimed. So all was settled. The
good woman, touched by her gentleness, couldn’t do enough for her, and
fetched her own great slippers lest her feet should be wet, and they all
took us under their wings. They would make us go into the hot tap-room,
and there kept us for two hours, while they prepared our room. We were
made to draw up to the common table, and saw the moderate drink and
food, the strong young women walkers who came in for their dry bread and
beer, laid down their bundles, and set off again to walk all night. We
saw the men drinking, and they looked with much interest at our maps.
Meantime we saw them wash our sheets and bring them in to dry; and we
felt the preparations the women were making above, while the men did the
honours below. We hinted our fatigue; but it was all of no use. At last
we got the man to take us up to our room. The woman was giving it a
final sweeping, and wasn’t very pleased; but we admired the room and won
her heart. A long low room with beams showing fine tiny latticed
windows, a great massive wooden door with such a carved pediment, a long
shelf running all round the room under the ceiling, set all round with
shining pewter plates, two feet in diameter, against which hung numerous
glass tankards. The beds were very small, but quite comfortable. The man
asked the woman if she had given us water, “Oh yes, sehr viel”—very
much—she replied. We found it a decanter full, and we had one towel
between us; but evidently her very best, all embroidered at the end.
They did their utmost for us. They seemed a little relieved, and very
much pleased when Miss Y. paid them this morning. The man showed it to
the woman, as much as to say, “I told you they would pay all right”; and
she nodded a self-controlled, satisfied little nod. We all shook hands;
and we drove off, sitting back to back on the sledge, our feet down at
each side; they could be put into a ring like a stirrup when we chose;
our luggage tied on near us, and we came merrily on here thro’ the snow.
Now we are going on to Lind.
November 26th, 1878.
OCTAVIA TO HER MOTHER.
I hope you will receive safely a letter I posted from Innsbruck to tell
you that I am coming home for a very short time, and that I expect to
arrive on Saturday evening, November 30th, but may be as late as Monday
2nd (evening).
We drove here from Imst to-day, forty-one miles thro’ the Ober-Inn-Thal,
and passed all along the defile of the Finstermunster. It has been the
worst day we have had for seeing the scenery; still I thought it very
grand, and was glad to see what threatening snow looks like. The great
swirls of wild white cloud, breaking and clinging against the mountain
sides, and lying level in narrow ravines, were very grand. The
Finstermunster is very impressive, the Inn threads its way 500 feet
below the road; and the craggy cliffs above the road were stupendous. We
hope the snow may fall heavily to-night, and leave it clear for the
Engadine to-morrow. Yesterday, when we drove thirty-seven miles from
Innsbruck to Imst, it was quite fine nearly all day. Here we are in our
old quarters at Nauders, at the old-fashioned inn we liked; but we have
had to come to the other side of the house to secure a room with a
stove, very necessary with snow deep round everywhere.
I shall turn up in a very forlorn condition, as to dress fit for
London.... I try not to think of coming back; I daren’t.
[Sidenote: LETTER TO A NIECE]
Salzburg,
November 17th, 1878.
TO HER NIECE, BLANCHE LEWES (aged 6).
I was so pleased by your sending me the little bunch of roses in Mama’s
letter. I was glad to hear of your moving to Elm Cottage. I fancy it is
very pretty. I hope you and Maud like being there.
I suppose you very often go to see Aunt Margaret. You would be
interested to see the way we travel here. There is thick snow on the
ground; and we go on sledges,—that is carriages that have no wheels, but
go easily in the snow. They go very fast.
The other day we started before it was light. The moon was shining
brightly; there was a little light in the sky where the sun would rise.
Miss Yorke and I sat in a sledge, which is so low that one feels almost
on the ground.
The driver had on a great fur coat, a fur cap, and great fur gloves. He
looked like a picture of a Laplander; but we had a horse, not a
reindeer, to draw us. There was another sledge behind us with our
luggage. I couldn’t think why the white horse that was drawing it kept
coming and rubbing his nose against my shoulder; and I thought, too,
that it was a little frisky sometimes. When it got excited, it seemed to
prance about a good deal; and I wondered why the driver let it.
But soon we saw that the good little creature was being trusted to
follow without any driver at all.
He followed for twelve miles, till we changed horses, over the mountain
and over the wide tracts of snow, where the road was only marked by
posts which stood up from the snow; and through the quiet little
mountain villages, where the people were just waking and coming out to
cut a way through the snow to their cow-houses or wood-sheds.
Every now and then the driver of our sledge turned back and called,
“Cieco, Cieco” to the horse; and he trotted up, and rubbed his nose
against my shoulder. We met the peasants walking. It was hard work in
the snow; even where our horse had been, it was over their knees. One
boy had a little dog with him; he wanted to keep it out of the snow, and
had buttoned it into his coat in front; its little head looked so funny,
wagging in front of his chest. We went up over the mountains where there
were no more houses, and hardly any peasants to be seen, only just
snow-covered mountains, and fir trees loaded with snow, and all the
streams were covered or edged with icicles, some of them as tall as a
cottage.
There used to be wolves there; but I suppose there are none now. It was
strangely solitary; so much so that we saw two pretty chamois going over
the snow together into a fir wood. They left pretty footprints in the
snow. There wasn’t another road going in the same direction for a
hundred miles; so, though it was so high and cold and snowy, the people
have to go over it all the winter. It was very beautiful to see the sun
rise, and the snow on them looked quite rose-coloured in the light. We
drove fifty miles in sledges that day. The people here all have a little
ground, and they plant what they want to eat and to wear too: and they
hardly ever buy anything in shops. Their cows and goats and fowls give
them milk and eggs and cheese and milk; and their sheep provide them
with wool; and they have flax and hemp, and the women spin and weave it;
and they make it in the winter; and they make even the leather for their
shoes at home from the skins of animals. Very little corn ripens here;
it is not warm enough; but they make great racks, like gigantic towel
rails, with numbers of rails twice as high as the houses; and there the
little corn that they have and their hay are placed, that they may get
sun and wind and ripen and dry.
They are very fond of their country, and have fought for it several
times.
I mustn’t write you more of a letter to-day. With love and kisses to
Maud and baby and Papa and Mama.
About 1878.
TO MR. RUSKIN.
Thank you very much for your letter.
Please don’t think about me. If in anything you ever did or thought
there is anything you would wish otherwise, forget it, as if it had
never been. Never mind telling me, or even telling yourself, whether
there was anything, or nothing, or if anything how much, or what it was;
just, if it occurs to you, put it from you like an unreal thing; never
let it trouble you. You know this is what I wish always.
Be sure not to trouble, so far as I am concerned, about any painful
thoughts of me, which remain to you, if such there be. They are either
true and will abide, or false and will vanish—it can but be for a little
time.
Bagnieres de Bigorre,
February 5th, 1879.
TO MRS. EDMUND MAURICE.
There’s a thing I am anxious about; and that is I fear I’ve led you into
what may be troublesome, as it turns out, and that is the Kyrle Open
Spaces Committee.... You never said or felt or implied that you’d time
for a great new work, which this kindling would be; and I write to say
to you that I quite realise this, and shall not be surprised or
disappointed that the K. S. C. becomes a very different thing from what
we three talked of that morning, or even what I wrote of from Paris. I
daresay you and E. will manage to make it a most useful opening up of
the Open Space Kyrle work in London; and this will indirectly help the
wilder commons slowly; in fact there need be no difference in programme;
but I think you ought at once to know that I see a wide difference in
expectation. It is clear there is no large or zealous body to gather
together; you can’t even get an Hon. Sec., but the effort will be good
as far as it goes.... It is the want of general interest, without a fire
in the midst, that is telling. But never mind; only don’t think I expect
much, nor strain yourself to do anything you don’t see your way to. Take
it very quietly; go on till it grows into more life, if it may be,
before all the commons are gone....
[Sidenote: CONTRAST BETWEEN FRANCE AND TYROL]
Hôtel de France, Bagnieres de Luchon,
Haute Garonne,
February 8th, 1879.
TO BLANCHE LEWES.
I hear you were interested by my other letter. Now I am in quite another
country. I am in France, and very near Spain. We meant to have ridden
to-day a little way up the mountain and looked down into Spain; but
there is still a little too much snow. They have no sledges here, as
they had in Tyrol. The snow soon melts here. All the carts are drawn by
great oxen. They draw them with their heads, not with collars as horses
do. They have their heads harnessed, because their necks are so very
strong. They have great sheepskins fastened on their horns, partly to
look pretty, and partly, I think, to prevent the harness rubbing them.
On Wednesday, we were driving in a carriage with two fine horses. We
began to go up a hill, and we passed a cart with a heavy block of
granite, and twelve strong oxen to draw it. We went on a very little
way, and then our naughty horses didn’t like going up-hill; and, instead
of going on, they went back; and they wouldn’t press against the collar;
and, the more the coachman tried to drive them on, the more they went
back. This is called “jibbing”; and it is very dangerous, because they
can’t see where they are pushing the carriage; and they might send it
off the road, down a precipice. Miss Yorke and I got out, as well as we
could. The coachman, who had been very proud of his horses, and who had
driven past the twelve oxen very dashingly (the oxen go very slowly),
now said very meekly, “I must get two cows.” So he called the driver of
the oxen to lend him two; and they fastened these in front of the
horses. It looked so funny to see how the patient things pulled slowly
and steadily up the hill; and the naughty horses couldn’t help coming,
though once, when the rope broke which fastened the oxen, the horses
again tried to go backwards. The man talked to the oxen all the way;
they seemed to know all he meant them to do when he shouted. We couldn’t
tell what he said, for the people here don’t talk French among
themselves, but an old language that their neighbours can understand.
They wear bright handkerchiefs tied round their heads, instead of hats
or bonnets, and their boots are not made of leather, but all of wood;
they are turned up at the toes, and oh! they make such a noise on the
floor! Besides the oxen they use a great many mules; and they carry the
milk to market in bottles slung on each side of the mules. It is much
warmer here than in England, and many flowers are out already. The
snowdrops grow wild in the woods.
March, 1879.
MRS. HILL TO OCTAVIA.
Miranda gave your message to Mrs. Hollyer[90] whilst she was doing my
grate. When she had left Mrs. Hollyer said, “Paradise Place is so quiet
now; there are such nice respectable people. We are all so comfortable
there”; then she looked up in my face with such a nice expression, and
added, “Will you tell Miss Octavia so?” I did think it such a delicate
way of returning your sympathy in her illness.
[Sidenote: WILLIAM HOWITT’S DEATH]
Rome,
March 27th, 1879.
TO MRS. SHAEN.
Did you see dear Mr. Howitt’s death? We found him dying, when we came
here. He was one of my oldest friends. I remember their house as one of
the happiest and best I knew as a child. He used to take me for walks,
when I was six years old. Mrs. Howitt looks so clearly thro’ to the
meeting in the future, and has none but holy and happy recollections and
the human grief is so natural, and yet the peace of trust so great. It
is beautiful and helpful to me. I was almost a daughter to her, and her
son who died in Australia one of my earliest companions; so she lets me
slip in there, and there seems more life in the house of death than in
all the sunlighted hills, for God seems so near her, and she feels
_that_ so.
Verona,
May 9th, 1879.
TO MRS. EDMUND MAURICE.
I am very sorry you are having so much trouble about the name; perhaps
now that the real work is so abundant, and must be so engrossing, this
question may die down. I _do_ feel that the name, be it what it may,
ought to mark the much larger work you propose to yourselves than the
C.P.S. does; else you may hereafter have difficulty in getting all the
work recognised as yours; and also people will be puzzled continuously
and practically by your not being a branch of the C.P.S. Remind Mr.
Haweis that you have to encourage gift and purchase and beautifying as
well as “preservation”; that you have to do with _private_ land as well
as _commons_, and that you have to do with Metropolitan as well as rural
open spaces. A name never includes all objects; but a narrower one
belonging to a somewhat analogous society would be very confusing. So I
feel.... Mr. Barnett you have probably seen.[91] His letter strikes me
as depressed, and I am sorry. I realise what he says about throwing
stones, but such practices often die down, after a little; and tar
paving is such uninteresting London stuff; you can’t plant, or even have
a may-pole in it; nor feel as if it were the earth. I hope they won’t
put it, and certainly wouldn’t give a farthing to help; but I’m so sorry
the burden of that and the Pensions is on him.... How splendid all the
life of the movement you describe is. I have no fear if the people now
interested can only be kept working with _some_ result, enough to keep
up their hope; if so, the things must grow.
Freshwater Place,
1879 or ’80.
MISS EMILY HARRISON TO OCTAVIA.
I got two nice little letters from children, when I was away. I heard
they took my answers, and read them to the other children in the
Playground. Wasn’t it nice of them? I send you my little neighbour’s
artistic efforts; he is only a little chap. They had trained my scarlet
runners, and left everything just as it was in my room, and welcomed me
back so tenderly, saying the place had felt _empty_ and dull without me.
A girl, who has a lot of sisters to mother, came to tell me she had
found the motto she liked best, “Love is the greatest force,” evidently
learnt from experience; for they are all so fond of her. She and four
sisters, and other little and big neighbours, came yesterday to work for
an industrial exhibition we are going to have; and whilst they did
needlework and pasting, etc., we read the “Fairy Spinner.”[92] I think
M. H. was really the only one who could listen to it, as she has been
ill and didn’t feel the excitement of the novelty so much as the others.
Some of the dear little tots kept running past crying to the swallows
and butterflies painted on the wall, “I’ll catch you bird,” “I’ll catch
you butterfly,” almost as happy, dear, as if they were real ones, I
think.... We came home to that dear Haven named Miranda, looking so
sweet and rested and full of delightful sayings and doings of other
people. Can’t you see her upturned face telling them, and a twinkle in
her eyes at something funny?
[Sidenote: ART IN FRESHWATER PLACE]
No date. (Probably 1879.)
FROM MISS EMILY HARRISON.
DEAREST OCTAVIA,
Oh if one could but have a penny botanical garden in the Marylebone Road
for the hot little children and weakly old people!
“Now I hope you’ll enjoy yourself,” with a hearty grasp of the hand, as
much as to say, “You _must_ now,” was the last word I heard at
Freshwater Place.
I didn’t at all like leaving it. The children enjoyed their _field_ day
very much, I think, and kept asking, “Wasn’t it nice on Saturday?” with
such a little hug of your hand! I was so pleased with one child, who, I
_knew_, in the midst of amusing herself, simply to give me pleasure,
came away to me with, “Won’t Miss like to have a game of six acres of
land?” and the girl with the dreadful face behaved splendidly, and
carried poor little Shannon all the way home to Swiss Cottage; for we
nearly killed the poor little fellow. The cab-door burst open, and he
was shot out, and I expected him to be killed on the spot. But on Sunday
he was on his legs again—quite a hero; and instead of pitching into me,
his parents were so kind; only too anxious to reassure me, and show how
well he could walk. In fact, Johnny has come into notice ever since. I
had a nice talk with grave Mrs. Wilson, who is going to lend books, and
to honour me by getting me a cup of tea there; and I went to say, “How
d’ye do?” and “Good-bye!” to B. Court Club, and found Mrs. Lewes there.
She was so pleased to get her rents all right; but also disappointed at
many things. It seems that it is when everything looks like failure that
courage comes from some bright spot, or something to start you afresh.
FROM A LADY HELPING IN B. COURT.
The cobbling class that I have superintended since the 2nd of December
has kept up, as well as I could expect, in some respects, and very much
better in others; for, though it has not increased in numbers, some boys
have never missed coming. They have really learnt to mend well, and have
improved so wonderfully in their manners to each other and to me, that,
in three or four cases, we have got really fond of each other, and that
is my hope for the future. Good, I like to think, may result. Nine boys
attended the last evening, and seemed very sorry that it was the last,
asking if, next winter, the class would be again; and, as they have once
or twice hinted their hope of my taking them for something else in an
evening, I am going to try; and we shall read English History to begin
with, and talk, and so on; for we are really so comfortable with each
other that just to be together is a pleasure to us now. They are only
young. But I found that they and older boys did not do well together....
The boy beyond all the others whom I care for is James ——; and as I fear
you may have heard anything but good of him—for I am the only one of
your ladies who has any liking for him, except, I think, Miss
Leighton,—perhaps it may be a mistake to like James as much as I do, and
to hope that he will do so well. But I am quite sure that if you, dear
Miss Hill, had the same cause as I have to admire all his ways and work
that I can see, you would also care little for what is said about his
mother and father. The first evening that he came he did nothing but
watch me, and stand, rather rudely, with his cap on all the time. Also
he had brought no halfpenny; and I told him that just for that evening
he might stay, but that another time he could not without paying.
[Sidenote: THE BOYS OF B. COURT]
His large head and the powerful expression of his face made me think how
bad, or how good, he might be, according to the way he turns. I heard
that evening that he was one of the worst (English “troublesome”) boys
in the Court. To my surprise he came the next time with his halfpenny;
and, when I said that Lush the cobbler was late, he offered very civilly
to go for him. I thanked him, and _made much_ of him. During the evening
he worked more steadily than any of them; and ever since he has been my
best boy, both as regards working, and coming even when he has nothing
to mend, just because he seems so happy to be there and to do any little
thing that he possibly can for me. Mrs. Jales says that he is now much
better in the Court too. To say I like him says little, for I do a great
deal more than that. A woman would be strangely made who did not get to
feel him as somewhat her own property, and, even if he goes wrong
afterwards, not to lose her affection for him easily.
Braemar,
September 16th, 1879.
TO MRS. SHAEN.
In an age when doubt assails so many young spirits with its light
destruction of belief in the eternal and intangible, will not the
possession of such a brother be perhaps to the elder ones something no
other possession could be? Those who have never loved and lost may think
of the dead as buried and done with; those whose lost ones had nothing
noble or specially characteristic which was good about them, may think
of them as _having_ lived; but whoever has seen and loved a being with
peculiar beauty and nobleness, will have moments, and those the best and
deepest in life, when the certainty that _that_ being still lives, will
be quite quietly triumphant over all clever talk or brilliant flippancy.
I think to you all Frank will be always a blessing—in spite of pain.
[Sidenote: OPEN SPACES PRESERVATION]
On the attempt to save the site of Horsemonger Lane Gaol as an Open
Space.
Braemar,
September 24th, 1879.
TO MRS. EDMUND MAURICE.
I think we could get the Archbishop to hold a meeting. In fact _I have
no fear about getting money_, if dear E. can only get it into a working
shape where that only is needed. After all, even if Government _did_
give it, that only means all being taxed; and surely, so long as riches
exist, there is need to call upon those who have them to give of their
abundance freely and heartily to such places as Southwark; even without
_asking_ them, to make it possible for those of them who _want_ to give
to give helpfully, and, so long as there are even quite poor people with
any surplus, it is a pity they should not have the joy of giving freely.
Is it to be all compulsory taxes, and no free-will offering?
B. Court Club,
October 18th, 1878 or 1879 (?).
GERTRUDE TO OCTAVIA.
Mr. Blyth asked to come to see me on purpose to know what I thought
about things. He is very hopeful, much pleased at the quiet dignified
way in which the (Temperance) Lodges men behaved. They asked the _old
men_ (who are chiefly boys) what they meant to do about the debt, and
their reply was that, if they could not meet it otherwise, they must
sell the furniture, billiard tables, etc.! So, finally, the teetotalers
have formally taken the debts (now said to be £5) upon themselves, and
have also taken the tables, etc., as part of the club belongings.
There were, last week, forty-five new teetotal members, and there are
twenty-four non-total abstainers—sixty-nine in all. Seventeen and
threepence was paid in entrance fees, the whole room cleaned and put in
order; and Grimmins’s first act was to fasten up with his own hands, in
the renewed room, the tablet to Mr. Cockerell’s memory. They want it to
be just as it all was at first, and to have a penny subscription and no
ballot at election.
Eland House,
November 3rd, 1879 or ’80.
FROM MRS. EDMUND MAURICE TO OCTAVIA.
We went to the opening of Walmer Castle, which was a great success.
There were large crowds both of rich and poor. Among others Mr. Hughes,
Mr. Hart, Mr. Davies, Mr. Diggle, General Gardiner, Charles and
Gertrude. After the “public” had been admitted to the tap-room, and
before they began making their purchases, speeches were made by one or
two people. Mr. Hughes made a very nice speech, and so did Mr. Diggle,
who was much applauded. He came up and asked very warmly after you, and
said you would be glad to hear that all the work in St. Mary’s was going
on well, and some of it was being carried on with more vigour than ever.
Miss Cons looked very happy, and was busy talking to everybody. The
whole place looked very clean and comfortable, and all the food very
nice; there were decorations of flowers, and bright flags flying
outside. We went over the house, and saw the beautiful dining-room
upstairs and the smoking-room, and some very comfortable furnished
little bedrooms for respectable men. General Gardiner turned to a friend
and said, “We should some of us have been very glad of as good a bedroom
as this at the University.” My fear about the bedrooms is that they are
too dear. A shilling a night is not much to pay for so nice a little
_furnished_ room; but, if a working man has to pay seven shillings a
week for his room, I fear he will think it too much. Downstairs there is
a nice large room to be used for the Boys’ Club. It is to be decorated
by the Kyrle Society.
[Sidenote: WORK OF THE KYRLE SOCIETY]
14, Nottingham Place,
October 17th, 1879.
FROM MIRANDA.
I don’t know whether Minnie will write and give you any account of the
Kyrle Committee Meeting yesterday; but, in case she does not, I think
you will be glad to know that all went, I think, very satisfactorily.
Your letter was received with pleasure, and your offer of transferring
the St. Christopher work to the Kyrle was received with warm thanks.
Somebody is to be found to undertake the drawing.... Can you tell me
where your large St. Christopher is? I was asked to show it yesterday,
that the Committee might see how much needed completing.