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snowed all day, as it did sometimes that winter, there was so much to see and to do in Brantwood itself that the day seemed all too short. From the hall, hung round with Burne-Jones cartoons, to our host's small, plainly furnished bedroom, ablaze from floor to ceiling with Turner's watercolors, the house was full of treasures, none more wonderful than some of his own drawings. I remember hearing how one of these a water-color of a hen's feather painted with exquisite delicacy-was lying on a table at some distance from where he was sitting; he asked a child in the room to bring it to him. Holding the paper carefully by the edges with both hands, she crossed the room slowly and smoothly, her head turned away lest she should blow the feather off the paper! He said it was the very prettiest compliment ever paid him.

In the evening after dinner we had much singing and dancing-that is to say, T. danced for him, dances "out of her own head"; T. was a delightfully pretty girl of sixteen, having real Titian-colored hair with the most exquisite ripple in it (she owed a great deal to that hair) and a frank, fearless manner that immensely delighted him. She had most decided views as to what she considered amusing and interesting, and one of her great charms for him was that she was absolutely incapable of pretending anything that she did not feel.

After the dancing one of us read aloud, very often our host himself; sloping his book toward the nearest candle (at Brantwood wax candles and firelight were the only artificial lights allowed-was it that made him think his girl guests so pretty, I wonder?), but he hardly ever, at that time, needed spectacies. That winter the favorite book was Miss Edgeworth's "Patronage," which we found much more to our taste than "Harry and Lucy." Another book that greatly pleased him was "Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard," by Anatole France. He gave my husband his own copy, and wrote in it, "Exquisite, but cannot be read fast." He talked much and brilliantly in those happy days, laughing heartily, with an infectious, chuckling laugh when anything amused him. His voice was singularly soft and pleasant, and every "r" was "burred as by a Northumbrian or Parisian. He used to talk quite frankly of the many celebrated people he had known:

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Turner, the Rossettis, Miss Mitford-"merry Miss Mitford," he called her-the Brownings, the Carlyles. He had the greatest love and reverence for Carlyle, and spoke with scornful amusement of such mistaken enthusiasts as wished to enroll Jane Welsh Carlyle among the martyrs on account of her "man's" bad temper. He admitted that Carlyle was frequently grumpy, and habitually melancholy-"but so am I"— and he was easily irritated. "That clever shrew," his wife, well knew this, and by the very tones of her voice as she "rasped out his name" could set his nerves on edge in a paroxysm of febrile irritation. Mr. Ruskin reserved all his pity for Carlyle. T. had a birthday while we were at Brantwood, and had expressed a wish for a blue Liberty silk dress. The dress was instantly sent for, but when it arrived neither its texture nor its color quite pleased our host, who had his own ideas of what silk should be. So Marshall & Snelgrove, I think it was, were bidden to send "a skyblue silk, a good one." When it came it proved to be a good one, and a local dressmaker was found to make it. T. was at that time much enamored of the maidens in Miss Greenaway's drawings (there were so many of them at Brantwood), and accordding to her instructions it was made with straight, skimpy skirt, and the waist under the arms. Mr. Ruskin never lessened the pretty wearer's joy by a single adverse criticism, but when Miss Bluegown had tripped off to bed he exclaimed reproachfully to me: "Why did you let her have it made like that? The woman hasn't left her a single scrap of waist." As a matter of fact, he greatly appreciated what we moderns call "smart frocks," and anything daintily frivolous, especially Frenchily frivolous, found distinct favor in his eyes.

"The little woodwoman, alias "Pigwiggina," who came twice a day to fill the big log-basket by the study fire, was one Jane Anne, a sturdy mountain lassie of fourteen, whom it was my mission to assist with her music while I was at Brantwood. She had a been taught by the master himself, on a somewhat complicated plan founded on the earliest Latin psalters, where the rhythm was arrived at, not by means of bars, but only by the values of the notes, and following this method she certainly had learned to play some four bars of his favorite "Deh

Vieni Alla Finestra" tolerably correctly, but it was not a system attended by rapid progress. Nor were Jane Anne's stout, hard little hands very flexible. Every Saturday a dozen or so of other mountain lassies, aged from ten to fifteen, came for a "lesson." These lessons were positively encyclopædic in their scope, ranging from the varying shapes of fir-cones to the correct position on the map of "Riblah in the land of Hamath," probably followed by a disquisition on the god "Bel or Baal" as represented "on the cast of a coin-Italian-Greek, finest time." Sometimes he read Shakespeare to them, sometimes a poem of Wordsworth about their own lake country; but whatever else was included, the Bible and some botany formed part of the lesson. Among the many other subjects he taught them songs, such as the following, both words and quaint, lilting tune being his own:

Ho, ho, the cocks crow!

Little girls-get up;
Little girls to bed must go
When the robins sup.

Heigh-heigh-the nags neigh!
Up, boys, and afield

'Ere the sun through yonder gray Raise his russet shield.

Brave for work and bright for play
Be you girls and boys;
And pity those that lose the day
Without its tasks or joys.

Whether the girls understood much of the lessons, whether this delightful instruction made any lasting impression upon them, I do not know, as I have never seen any of them since. But they assuredly enjoyed themselves tremendously, and that was what he wanted. Moreover, the apex of the afternoon, to which all previous joys converged, came in the shape of a right royal TEA at five o'clock. This feast they laid for themselves, with much cheerful chatter and clatter on the two big tables in that long, narrow room, the master's study. He cleared the tables for them himself, giving up his room to them entirely every Saturday afternoon, because, not unnaturally, the parlor-maid objected to "so many crumbs in the dining-room just before dinner." The little girls were none of them in the least afraid of him, seeming to regard him with a maternal sort of indulgence rather than awe, and Jane Anne on one of

these festive occasions confided to T., "He's a foony man is Meester Rooskin, but he du like oós to tek a good teä." This amiable desire on his part covered a multitude of eccentric enthusiasms, and to do the girls justice they always did their best to oblige him.

It was almost pathetic, his eagerness to give pleasure wherever he could. In the drawing-room at Brantwood by tea-time every table, chair, and a goodly portion of the floor would be littered with a profusion of sketches, photographs, fifteenth-century illuminated missals, uncut gems, minerals, Greek coins, and when there was positively nothing left to sit upon, and we had to walk delicately because of the scattered treasures on the floor, he would exclaim gleefully, "Now we begin to look comfortable." When we had seen everything, Baxter, the indispensable, would come and clear up and put everything in its proper place again. Mr. Ruskin started T. and me on mineralogy, and every day we had to say aloud, "Quartz and gold, calcite and silver, chalcedony and agate." With T. he studied the book of Daniel, as, "in spite of college," he found her sadly deficient in what he considered an adequate knowledge of the prophet and his doings. My husband, when he was not out of doors or singing the bass songs in Mozart's "Figaro," spent all his daylight in painting in water-colors under the master's supervision, and was forgiven many scientific heresies because he could "paint butterflies flying-not with pins through them." Turners, Bewicks and William Hunts were among the copies, and many happy morning hours were spent painting at a big table in the drawing-room window. As is, fortunately, the habit of nearly all really learned people, Mr. Ruskin was ever ready to put his vast stores of knowledge at the service of anyone who truly desired information, who was genuinely keen. And one of the great charms in talking to him was that he was immensely interested in what you had to say, as well as in what he said himself. Whatever the topic under discussion, it became for the moment of paramount importance. He was absolutely absorbed in it, looking his companion straight in the eyes with his own-the bluest, kindest, clearest eyes I have ever seen. My husband ventured to disagree, deferentially, but very decidedly, with many of Mr.

Ruskin's pet scientific theories, but his host never resented it, only occasionally lamenting that a man "who could paint so well should waste his days in teaching stupid boys geology. And teaching them wrong!" But after we left he wrote to A. on this very subject:

"Never you mind the Mousie; but set down very carefully what you doubt in 'Deucalion.' It is of great importance to leave it sound. You make me very happy with your beautiful letter-so entirely natural and sincere, and of the rarest sort. And it is a continual joy to me to think of what I can still do to please you. And here's a lovely letter from Mousie to-day, saying there's a chance of your being able to come in May. It can't be too soon, and I shall squeak myself when I see you both again.

"I send you the lecture book-my own copy-and please mark in it any mistakes or questionable or obscure bits you find. I'm just going to reprint it."

To me he wrote:

"I have so much to remember that I cannot begin to mope yet. But I see myself descending in the future-into depths of the inconceivablest woe-unless you come back in May.

"As for T., I'm too thankful for what I got of her to begin yet to hope for any time to come. The good you both did for me abides. I slept quite sound last night, and have been doing all sorts of good work this morning. As for A., I'm going to send him not some of my books but all; only I don't want to choke him off me when he sees the lot of 'em. And I'm going to send him the Scarborough sketch he liked, but want to write a few words about clear and body-colour, first, for general circulation, and send them to him printed."

A few days later:

"Yes; I'm dreadfully alone! Too alone to do anything! No Præterita getting done; nor anything at all but clearing out old letters, and clearing up drawers. But that is progress of a sort, more than I've ever made before. I wrote twenty-five letters yesterday and was obliged to begin with one to T. to-day, for she wrote me such a sad account of herself that I had to do my best in tutorial and imperial reproof.

"I do believe the next thing likely to be done is a botany class book-like ethics

the chapters headed 'Gussie on Gooseberries,' 'Libbie on Lettuce,' 'Kate on Kale,' and the like. I forget if you had seen 'Ulric,' I've got a fifth chapter of him on hand. The weather seems to me very dull to-day, but I believe the rest of the household is under the same impression; and I suppose the sun will shine again some day. I hope the books are with A. by this time, and have set the Mousie squeaking."

How that princely giver loved to give pleasure! Just picture our delight over that great box of books, all glorious in purple calf, a crowd of witnesses to his benevolent affection.

To T. he wrote-whether in "tutorial and imperial reproof" I leave to the reader's judgment (T. had evidently written begging him to interfere with respect to certain hated lessons):

"I will ask your father at once to let you take up Italian instead of German. I should wholly wish you to do so myself. I will also pray him to spare you arithmetic and grammar.

"N. B.-It is much wiser and nicer to write 'Ain't' than ‘are not' when you are in a hurry. You did not, perhaps, learn all you might have learnt at Brantwood. But you gave all kinds of pleasure to everybody in the house, and left a light behind you which no fogs eclipse. That was better than learning."

As usual, however, his saving commonsense prevailed over even T.'s blandishments, for on further consideration he writes:

"It is probably in some degree my fault that your father has retained his first intention. I have been unhappily busy (you know there was a somewhat serious, or ludicrous, interruption of my studies, while you were in the house), and I never got my petition written.

"Partly I did not like to venture so far with him; partly I was afraid of the responsibility, if, perchance, your liking play better than work was laid to my door! And my advice to you, dear girlie, is to do for the present without any further hesitation, what your father wishes, and to cure yourself, as far as you can, of habits of inattention which, you know-you do know in your little heart-are in great part wilful. It does not in the least matter whether you pass the Oxford examination, but it does

matter that you should get good marks known how beautiful are the American from your own conscience, and your father's girls! When I think of the American girls sense of your willing obedience. Where he would have met, of their delicate loveliwould be the virtue of obedience if we were ness, quick sympathy, and bright intellionly told to do what we liked? I will not gence, I feel that it is perhaps well for the disturb you any more with the book of peace of mind of his English pets that he Daniel, but write my lecture on it at home; never would accept the invitations of his and when you are allowed to come back to American friends and lovers. Brantwood you must read it with the strictest attention!

"Meantime I am ready to help you in everything that puzzles you; will look out the dreadfullest words for you in my big dictionaries, and-if that will give you any pleasure-begin learning German with you myself."

This was really a wonderful concession, as he says in another letter, "I hate German and the books that Germans write." Yet it was he who, in 1868, rescued "German Popular Stories" from oblivion, writing for them a wholly beautiful preface quite singularly full of humanity and comprehension of child character.

Personal beauty always had an immense attraction for him, and he frequently said that he would gladly have given "Modern Painters" for a better profile! And however much he loved some of his homely friends he never for a moment denied that he would have preferred to have them beautiful. In Mr. Collingwood's most pleasant book, "Ruskin Relics" (in some ways, to those who knew the man, far more intimately characteristic of him than the "Life"), he describes how in 1840, at Rome, Mr. Ruskin saw the beautiful Miss Tollemache (afterward Lady Mount-Temple, and one of his dearest friends) and quotes Mr. Ruskin's own words describing her: "A fair English girl, who was not only the admitted Queen of Beauty in the English circle of that winter at Rome, but was so, in the kind of beauty which I had only hitherto dreamed of as possible, but never yet seen living: statuesque severity with womanly sweetness joined. I don't think I ever succeeded in getting nearer than within fifty yards of her; but she was the light and solace of all the Roman winter to me, in the mere chance glimpses of her far away, and the hope of them."

He refused ever to visit America "because he couldn't be happy in a country that had no castles," but I feel sure that he would have foregone the castles had he

Unlike most geniuses, Mr. Ruskin seldom inflicted his low spirits upon his friends, though, like ordinary mortals, he had his fits of depression, for after a severe illness he wrote from Sandgate, where he had gone to recruit:

"Yes, if I could send you a long letter saying I was well wouldn't I? just; but now, when I can only send you short lines saying I'm ill what is the use? Not that I'm ill in any grave way that I know of. But I'm very sad. It's a perfectly gray day, snowing wet snow all over sea and land all day, and threatening for all night. I've had nothing to do since morning, and I don't know what to do till tea.

"I'm all alone in a room about the size of a railway carriage. I can't walk about in it (and wouldn't care to, if I could). I've no books that I care to read (or even would if I cared to). I'm tired of pictures and minerals, and the sky, and the sea. There's three o'clock, and I wish it was thirty-and I could go to bed for the next thirty.

"But every day I get some little loveletter from a Joanie or a Mousie that makes me think I had better try and keep awake a little longer."

He was not allowed to mope long, for in April of the same year he writes from London: "I had great joy and sense of being in my right place to-day in the Turner room, and am going to stay in London till people have been taught that they can't make my skin into gloves yet." Again, a few days later:

"I went to the Private View of the old Water Colour yesterday, and there were people glad to see me there. Robert Browning, among others. And I've been to the British Museum, and am staying very contentedly within reach of it and some other places. And I'm not going to theatres and altogether I'm as good just now as I know how to be!"

In his personal intercourse with the young people who loved him, absolutely free as it was from any didactic tendency,

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