Put roses in their hair, put precious stones on their breasts;
see that they are clothed in purple and scarlet, with other
delights; that they also learn to read the gilded heraldry of the
sky; and upon the earth be taught not only the labors of it but
the loveliness.
--_Deucalion_
[Illustration: JOHN RUSKIN]
At Windermere, a good friend, told me that I must abandon
all hope of seeing Mr. Ruskin; for I had no special business with him, no
letters of introduction, and then the fact that I am an American made it
final. Americans in England are supposed to pick flowers in private
gardens, cut their names on trees, laugh boisterously at trifles, and
often to make invidious comparisons. Very properly, Mr. Ruskin does not
admire these things.
Then Mr. Ruskin is a very busy man. Occasionally he issues a printed
manifesto to his friends requesting them to give him peace. A copy of one
such circular was shown to me. It runs, "Mr. J. Ruskin is about to begin
a work of great importance, and therefore begs that in reference to calls
and correspondence you will consider him dead for the next two months." A
similar notice is reproduced in "Arrows of the Chace," and this one
thing, I think, illustrates as forcibly as anything in Mr. Ruskin's work
the self-contained characteristics of the man himself.
Surely if a man is pleased to be considered "dead" occasionally, even to
his kinsmen and friends, he should not be expected to receive with open
arms an enemy to steal away his time. This is assuming, of course, that
all individuals who pick flowers in other folks' gardens, cut their
names on trees, and laugh boisterously at trifles, are enemies. I
therefore decided that I would simply walk over to Brantwood, view it
from a distance, tramp over its hills, row across the lake, and at
nightfall take a swim in its waters. Then I would rest at the Inn for a
space and go my way.
Lake Coniston is ten miles from Grasmere, and even alone the walk is not
long. If, however, you are delightfully attended by "King's Daughters"
with whom you sit and commune now and then on the bankside, the distance
will seem to be much less. Then there is a pleasant little break in the
journey at Hawkshead. Here one may see the quaint old schoolhouse where
Wordsworth when a boy dangled his feet from a bench and proved his
humanity by carving his initials on the seat.
The Inn at the head of Coniston Water appeared very inviting and restful
when I saw it that afternoon. Built in sections from generation to
generation, half-covered with ivy and embowered in climbing roses, it is
an institution entirely different from the "Grand Palace Hotel" at
Oshkosh. In America we have gongs that are fiercely beaten at stated
times by gentlemen of color, just as they are supposed to do in their
native Congo jungles. This din proclaims to the "guests" and to the
public at large that it is time to come in and be fed. But this
refinement of civilization is not yet in Coniston, and the Inn is quiet
and homelike. You may go to bed when you are tired, get up when you
choose, and eat when you are hungry.
There were no visitors about when I arrived, and I thought I would have
the coffeeroom all to myself at luncheon-time; but presently there came
in a pleasant-faced old gentleman in knickerbockers. He bowed to me and
then took a place at the table. He said that it was a fine day and I
agreed with him, adding that the mountains were very beautiful. He
assented, putting in a codicil to the effect that the lake was very
pretty.
Then the waiter came for our orders.
"Together, I s'pose?" remarked Thomas, inquiringly, as he halted at the
door and balanced the tray on his finger-tips.
"Yes, serve lunch for us together," said the ruddy old gentleman as he
looked at me and smiled; "to eat alone is bad for the digestion."