Chapter V (2)

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.