Life of Octavia Hill as told in her letters/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
1860–1870
NOTTINGHAM PLACE SCHOOL. BEGINNING OF HOUSING WORK
The removal to 14, Nottingham Place was one of the great crises in Octavia’s life. The housing work, with which her name is specially connected, was organised in this new home; and here began the regular co-operation of the sisters in the educational work, which they felt to be so important in itself, and which, as will be seen from the letters, linked itself on so happily to the work among the poor tenants of the Marylebone courts.
On the other hand, this period was marked by special troubles; which, however, led to the formation of new friendships, and the strengthening of old. Thus the value of her friendship with Mr. William Shaen, which had been realised many years earlier, was yet more fully appreciated, in consequence of the difficulties connected with the purchase of Ruskin’s houses; and the help, then begun, continued throughout his life. Her friendship with Mrs. Nassau Senior, the sister of Mr. Thomas Hughes, was increased by the ability which she brought to bear in the arrangement of the accounts for the houses.[1] A time of great despondency and pain, during Octavia’s first visit to Italy, led her to appreciate the sympathy of her friend, Miss Mayo; and the rather dreary, commonplace life in the hydropathic establishment at Ben Rhydding, brought her in contact with Mr. Cockerell, who became one of her most helpful fellow-workers; while the need of assistance, caused by the turbulence of the children in the playground, made specially valuable the staunch fellow-work of Miss Harriet Harrison and her sister Emily.
Another friend, who came forward to help, when Octavia was obliged to go to Italy and Ben Rhydding on account of her health, was Mrs. Godwin, the sister-in-law of George MacDonald. The management of the houses had devolved on Emily, who found in Mrs. Godwin's firm and gentle influence the greatest assistance in those early difficult days in Freshwater Place. With regard to the housing problem, my wife gives the following account of the incident which first fixed Octavia's mind on the subject:
"When we went to Nottingham Place, Octavia arranged to have a weekly gathering in our kitchen, of the poor women whom we knew, to teach them to cut out and make clothes. One night, one of the women fainted; and we found out that she had been up all the previous night washing, while she rocked her baby's cradle with her foot. Next day, Octavia went to the woman's home, and found her living in a damp, unhealthy kitchen. Octavia was most anxious to help her to move into more healthy quarters, and spent a long time hunting for rooms; but could find none where the children would be taken. Then all she had heard as a child about the experiences of her grandfather, Dr. Southwood-Smith, in East London, and all she had known of the toy-workers' homes, rushed back on her mind; and she realised that even at her very doors there was the same great evil. With this in her mind, she went to take her drawings to Ruskin, not long after the death of his father. He was burdened by the responsibility of the fortune that he had just inherited, and told Octavia how puzzled he was as to the best use to make of it. She at once suggested the provision of better houses for the poor. He replied that he had not time to see to such things; but asked whether, if he supplied the capital for buying a tenement house, she could undertake the management. He should like to receive five per cent, on his capital ; not that he cared for the money ; but that, if the scheme were placed on a business footing, others might follow the example. Upon which, Octavia exclaimed, ' Who will ever hear of what I do ? ' Nevertheless, she admitted the justice of his criticism, and promised to use her best efforts to make the scheme a paying one ; and so actually began the work which was to spread so far.
"When Octavia was searching for a suitable house to turn into tenements for the poor,—she was most anxious to find one with a garden. We spent many days looking at empty houses, and seeing landlords and agents ; but, whenever the purpose for which the house was required was understood, difficulties were at once raised. At last, after one of these refusals, Octavia exclaimed, ' Where are the poor to live ? ' Upon which the agent replied coldly. ' I don't know ; but they must keep off the St. John's Wood Estate.' "
With regard to the school, which was to supply so many zealous and sympathetic helpers for Octavia's work, it will be noted that all of the four sisters had shown an early interest in education ; and while Octavia and Emily carried on the teaching at Nottingham Place, in which Florence afterwards shared, Miranda was managing a day school for the children of small tradesmen and artizans. The Nottingham Place school was originally intended only for a few children of intimate friends. But the growth of the numbers, and Octavia's additional work in the management of the houses, induced Miranda, in 1866, to give up her separate teaching, and to become the head of the Nottingham Place school.
As will be seen from one or more of the letters, Octavia was disposed to emphasise the difference between her stern ideas of discipline, and Miranda's gentle persuasiveness ; and, though this difference may have been exaggerated in Octavia's mind, something of the same feeling seems to be reflected in the accounts given by early pupils. On the other hand, that Octavia's readiness of resource and helpfulness in emergencies was specially impressed on the memories of the scholars, seems proved by an amusing story, which I remember hearing from one of the pupils. One night, some of the girls suddenly awoke to the impression that some intruder had come into the room. Whether the newcomer was a ghost or a burglar, they were, of course, uncertain. (I forget whether a chest of drawers or a towel-horse was the real offender.) But after trying all sorts of remedies, one girl cried out triumphantly, " I'll tell Miss Octavia " ; and this form of defiance seemed to restore the courage of the most timid.
But one would rather mention as the distinctive part in the management of the Nottingham Place school, not so much the differences of quality between any of the sisters as the way in which they all worked into each other's hands. Another old pupil, writing since Octavia's death, says, " I feel what a privilege I had in being one amongst you all—the little I do was first put into me in Nottingham Place days. I so admired you all, and the separate work you did."
Nor was Octavia's power over the young limited to those who were officially recognised as her pupils. Dr. Greville MacDonald, who has since made his mark in such different ways, writes :— " Miss Octavia Hill had an extraordinary influence upon me in my boyhood, though she could have known nothing of it. She was the first person who taught me how to learn, and how to love learning. In my youth, when I began to know a little of her social power and her personal sacrifice, she had more to do, I think, than even my father, in giving me a steadfast faith ; which, thanks to her heart and life, became established amidst the ruins of conflicting questions, and has ever grown in steadfastness."
But, besides the assistance which the school supplied in the development of Octavia's work among the poor, the home at Nottingham Place was connected in a more material way with the inhabitants of the Marylebone courts. The stables at the back of the house were turned into a room for the tenants' parties ; the rooms above were let to a blind man and his family in whom Octavia was much interested ; and, in order to prepare the place for habitation, Octavia and Miss Cons whitewashed and painted the rooms, and even glazed the windows. This practical knowledge of such work was a great help to her in carrying out the repairs of the houses, and training unskilled men, whom she wished to employ.
The rest of the development of this period may be gathered from the letters. There is one to Mrs. Shaen, dwelling on her difficulties with the playground ; and at first they were very great. When the ground was being enclosed, the wall was twice pulled down. And, when Octavia and Emily went into the court, they were pelted. At the time of the opening, to which I and my father went, we were warned by a policeman that the court was too bad for us to go down. How great a change was wrought the following letters will show.
| 14, Nottingham Place, W. | |
| December 13th, 1860. |
Emily to Miranda.
We came here on Saturday ; and very delighted we are with our new quarters. Poor Ockey had such difficulty about getting the house, because of being a lady without property, and so young ; they thought it mere speculation. Mr. Maurice and Ruskin, who were her references, were so kind about it. Ruskin saw the landlord at the College about it ; and Ockey received a letter to the effect that Mr. Ruskin had borne testimony to her " energy and every estimable quality," and, if he and Mr. Maurice would, without giving a formal guarantee, say as much in writing as that they believed Ockey capable of managing the affair, it would be sufficient. These letters were written ; but, before they were both received, Miss Wodehouse had given a formal guarantee ; and 0. , to her delight, found that Mr. Shaen had arranged the matter. Was it not nice of Miss Wodehouse ? She heard from Miss J. B. of the difficulty, and said that she had perfect confidence in 0. and perfect confidence in the plan ; and she would give the guarantee in a minute. . . . We did not know till nine o'clock that morning that we were to move; so you may think what a bustle we were in. . . . Ockey is immensely busy, and quite in her element, buying things, and reading over schedules of fixtures, and examining the plans, and carpentering. We have not yet fixed what rooms we are to keep; it must depend on the lodgers. . . . We are close to the park; so the air is very good; and we are about ten minutes' walk from Queen's College. The back of the house is delightfully quiet, because it looks out on Marylebone church and schools. The rooks in your favourite tree are so near that we often hear them cawing.
| The Pines, | |
| Christmas Day, 1860. |
Emily to Miranda
. . . Ockey came from Brighton yesterday. On Monday evening she proposes to start for Cumberland. She has to go up to town to-morrow, for Ruskin is going to attend to her work. She is much better than last week; and I never knew her sweeter. I can hardly bear her to leave the room, I have seen so little of her for so long, and I feel she is so soon going away.
| 14, Nottingham Place, | |
| January 20th, 1861. |
You need not be anxious about the house, everyone calculates to lose the first quarter. Ockey has all the money put aside for her first quarter's rent, in case we should not let. . . .
Is it not delightful that Ockey is so happy with Miss Harris ? She seems not able to express half her joy; her letters are full of such expressions as "Oh, I am so happy!" "Oh, it is so delicious!"—and she thinks she
shall go back there again and again. To Miranda.
.... I am just going to Cumberland for three weeks. Think of the glory of that! To-morrow I am to see Ruskin about my work. We had a very delightful evening on my birthday ; you know he sent me "The Angel in the House" and "Faithful for Ever." Ruskin and I had a delightful long talk on the 5th about all sorts of things. . . . This bright, beautiful Christmas, with all its glorious thoughts, makes one hope that next year we shall all be together. Dearest Andy, you know I would not urge you lightly to leave a work you had undertaken ; but I do feel that we ought to be all together again. Life is too short and precious for us to spend much of it separate ; and we do want all our strength for work here. . . . It's a miserable fact that I never write to you except about business ; but I should have liked to tell you about our new home, with its wide stone stairs, and large, light, quiet rooms. I am looking forward to your return with great longing. . . . It's striking twelve, so I must not write more ; but, dearest Andy, I do wish you all good birthday wishes, and that this year may be brighter than any before it. Give darling Flo a kiss for me ; how delicious it will be to see her again !
To Miranda.[2]
... I wish, dear Mir., that you were having a holiday ; it seems really hard for you alone to be working. I wonder when you will get some change and refreshment. ... I am grieved that Mama refused to go to Cromer ; I am really anxious about her getting away somehow this summer ; she seems to me to be living too monotonous a life ; so if you see anything she would like to do, pray encourage it, regardless of expense, and write and tell me about it at once. I don't consider it an open question whether, if it is in our power, we should send her anywhere she fancies going. And will you remember that often the only way to do this is to enter heart and soul into some pleasure with her?
To Miranda.
.... How well I remember coming suddenly in upon you that last dreadful night, and finding you hard at work on my skirt (which, by the way, has met with unqualified admiration, darling), and how good you were in never opposing my coming. Well, I've had such a summer as I never shall forget. The unbroken peace of it, like one long unclouded day ! The merry home life, and exquisite redundance of the perpetual beauty. If I raise my eyes I see the mountains, perhaps crowned and veiled in lighted cloud ; if I walk round the garden, the long sprays of rose, or delicate green ferns, delight me ; if, in the night, or rather early dawn, I come into this room which adjoins mine, I see the moonlight lying over the river, field and hills, or the long cold level lake of mist lying in the valley, breaking under the first ray of the sun, and rising in wreathed pillars, covering the lowest end of the village of Broughton, as it rises, but never, I understand, rising as high as this house. Then we've read so ; the ignorant old thing is getting some glimmerings about history. I've left off walking again ; after the first fortnight I got more and more tired with it, but I persevered till the fever came, and have never resumed it ; but the terrace here is my continual haunt.
To Florence.
I want to tell you something of all I have seen and felt, because ... I fear you have had a sad house. I have been to Keswick. We spent several delicious days there, sitting up on lovely hills overlooking Derwent Water, with all its wooded islands, and the blue valleys that part ridge beyond ridge of mountains ; and rowing in the evening on the smooth water watching the sun set, and mists gathering on the mountains, gathering in intensity of colour, minute by minute ; or driving far over the mountain passes to Buttermere, and Crummock, and learning about ferns and flowers. Then we drove to a lovely little village called Eamont Bridge ; it is rich in historic memories. . . . We saw a large Druid circle called Mayborough (of which Turner has made a lovely picture). Then we went to Lord Brougham's place, Brougham Hall. It is an old building which belonged to his ancestors generations back. It is kept in the best possible taste ; there are fine old Norman rooms, with a well under one bed for supplying the castle in times of siege. There are beautiful pictures by Gainsborough, Reynolds, Holbein, a most interesting collection of portraits. Then we saw a grand old ruined castle. Then the village where the rebels were taken in the rebellion against George, in favour of Charles Edward. Mary's aunt, a dear old lady who lived at Eamont Bridge, was the child of a man whose father has written a most interesting letter giving an account of their capture. The Duke of Cumberland came to his house ; and Mrs. Mason's father, then a youth, was sent out to him to give him notice of an ambush. His mother hid in a wardrobe for fear.
We drove to the foot of Ullswater, and then rowed up it nine miles ; but it poured, which we thought fun.
To Emily.
I wrote a few words to you to All Saints, as I didn't like your birthday to pass without one word from me ; but now I write in answer to your dear little letter......
We are so happy here, sitting out on the beach. Bathing, reading, and going to church are, I believe, our only employments, for I am often very very weary. The children[3] are running wild, as they always do here, it seems ; so Mary and I sit in the sunlight in great peace. The children heard it was your birthday to-morrow; and, dear little things, they have come running in with their little treasures of seaweed and flowers begging me to send them ; several offers have been made of various things which it was impossible to send by post ; so I enclose lavender and heartsease, and some seaweed from them all, and my best love to you, darling. Shall I send the balance sheets to you in future, or will it be useless ? Does A. understand them? I speak of returning in September, because A. cannot do my work and hers too ; also because I thought I'd like to see you quietly before Sophy's return; but I don't want the report spread ; besides, it's quite uncertain whether I shall be well enough to return. Do tell me whether it could be anyhow easily arranged about the double work without me till October.
To Miranda.
I went all over a coal pit yesterday. It was very impressive. Of course the depth and darkness and lowness one expected ; but I had not realised the entire absence of all native life ; no rats or mice, or even insects. Of course there was no place for them to be ; but, were the pit forsaken, there would be none at all. At present there are a few weak flies seen ; and the rats are terrifically fierce, having so little food. When caught in a trap they are usually found with great pieces eaten out of them by their fellows. They are brought down sometimes in the bags brought with food for the horses, who live in darkness, but in such an equable temperature, and free from exposure to weather that they look quite thriving. Wood down there soon rots, and is soon covered with white lichen like wool, but exquisitely feathered. The large furnace, kept continually burning near the second shaft, to cause a perpetual draught, looked so living and bright, after the damp low dimly lighted passages. The height of these depends on the depth of the coal strata. They call the earth above it the roof. The safety of a mine, and the ease with which it is worked, much depends on the material of the roof. Here it is stone, which is nice and firm. The main roads are first cut out, from which five yards apart are the cuttings. When these are sufficiently worked, the spaces left between (called pillars) are taken out, and the roof supported with props, which soon give way, and the passages gradually are closed.
To Miss Baumartner.
Ruskin is coming to us on Wednesday. . . . There is something almost solemn in the intense joy. . . I can remember when he came to us when we were so very very poor, and home was like a little raft in a dark storm ; where the wonder every day was whether we could live thro' it ; and now the sea looks calm, even if there are waves ; and we have leisure to look at the little boat in which we sail, and wonder if it will ever be painted with bright colours. ... I remember too how once Ruskin's coming was like some strange joy ; any little accident might have removed him for ever from all connection with us. Now the silent work of years has bound us together in a sort of friendship, which, whether it leads to outward communication or not, years, and separation, and silences will not touch ; and this visit comes like the expression of a friendship naturally, and like a bit of a whole.
To Mrs. Shaen.
I am in town now to take care of the young friends, who are to live with us. The work is extremely interesting to me ; all the girls have some special interest to me. Annie and Edith Harris from their relationship to my best friend ; I. from her position ; M. from her position, and for the sake of her family. Minnie's pupils, who are coming daily to be taught with the others, are the children of a widow who is working hard to educate them well to support themselves. They are dear, earnest, thoughtful, gentle, well-trained girls; so that the work will be very nice, and supplies an object now that the home is rather broken up.
To Gertrude (about starting the School).
As to needlework, it is one of my great desires to teach it to those children thoroughly, as well as all habits of neatness, punctuality, self-reliance, and such practical power and forethought as will make them helpful in their homes. I think they may be taught to delight in them. When lessons are over, I hope to read to them, while they work; or we will sing or talk together. If the children have time for study, work, walking, and play, I so much hope some of the elder ones will manage to spare some time for teaching quiet little children, either on Sunday or some other day. I think it would deepen their interest in their own studies so much; but I do mean to be so very careful not to overwork them. I may find that one cannot set them to teach without overstraining them.
14, Nottingham Place,
(undated). Probably August 1862.
To her Mother.
I believe that I really have not written to you since you left us, which certainly is very shameful behaviour on my part. ... A. is certainly infinitely better than she was, in mind and spirits, but just as foolish about overwork. It seems impossible to influence her about it. Annie and Edith are very fond of her ; and this is good, I think. She will often sing to them in the evening, and read aloud to us all. I hope gradually, by these sort of things, to get her interested in finishing work early, and undertaking no more ; but it is slow and difficult work. Her school is increasing, and her hope and delight in it too. You will easily imagine what a busy and merry household we are, with these young things laughing and playing like kittens. . . .
I take Annie and Edith to the Swimming Bath every week. . . . They are to join a gymnasium too, and always walk in the park. I hope we shall manage to keep, or rather make them well. I don't think they have strong constitutions. . . .
I am very glad that you are seeing so much that is beautiful and grand. It ' must be a great delight. . . . Now that teaching has fallen to my share, I regret very much my great ignorance. I want to work very hard at Latin. Minnie and I are thinking of trying whether Miss S., or some other good Christian, will read it with us. At present I work at it a little alone. . . . The Sintram is packed to go now. We miss it very much ; but I have had the St. Michael framed, and think of putting it there. I often reproach myself so much, dear Mama, now that you are gone, with the way I never entered into your plans for joy. I tried latterly to do it, even then feeling my mistakes, which I suppose will all come more clearly before me as years go on ; and perhaps it is no good dwelling too much on what is past recall. I wish this letter, or anything else I could do, would make you feel how entirely I rejoice with you in all you are seeing ; but perhaps you do know it partly. I am trying now to make the household bright and sociable for all the children ; and I feel more every day that every right healthy joy is a little bit of true riches the end for which really all work is done. . . . Tell dear Flo. I will write next time, and assure her I remember all her directions about half hours after dinner very seriously and very tenderly, because they remind me of her. I hope she'll find my education improved on her return. Give her a kiss for me.
To Miss Baumgartner.
We are all reassembled for work after Xmas dispersion ; and my little troop occupy much of my time. We are all well, and busy. I am succeeding capitally. Ruskin, you know, perhaps, has gone, giving me the grandest drawing lesson, an hour and a half quite alone, thorough teaching ; and then it is so nice ; I do feel we are such thorough friends. He talks so quietly, so trustfully, so (I had almost written) reverently ; and then the thought made me laugh. But I think you'll know what I mean. He saw me again the next day at Burne-Jones's, introducing me to him and his wife ; and after a little time, asking to speak with me on business. We went into a quiet little room ; and, after business was over, had the most delicious talk. He asked me to write to him in Switzerland, saying that I was "the one" (and then with his accustomed accuracy correcting the statement to), "one of the few" people from whom he wished to hear ; and then once more he qualified it by saying, "You tell me just the things I wish to hear." All this, however, this quiet acknowledged friendship can hardly be described even in words, to me so precious, which expressed it, because it depended on the way, and slight accents and actions impossible to describe. So to come to more important things ; Ruskin was so delighted with the trumpet Fra Angelico, that I am to leave Turners and all else and devote myself to Fra Angelico and Orcagna, wherever I can find them ; also a little water-colour drawing won the remark that now I had "delicacy" of touch for anything. Nevertheless Ruskin's heart is with social things ; and I was earnestly charged to leave any drawing, if I saw what of help I could give anywhere, believing (which is not difficult) that in doing any good, I was fulfilling Ruskin's wish and will as much as in drawing. "Never argue that it is not my work," he said ; "I believe you have power among people, which I ought not to monopolise. I'm going away myself too ; so just look upon it that I leave you charged to do anything you may see good to be done ; only mind, Octavia ! one way there is in which you may both grieve and vex me, namely by hurting yourself. Don't be proud and foolish ; remember your strength is worth keeping. Rest for months or years, if you ought, but don't lose it." Rather a strange, rather a proud, a very thankful and glorious position,—isn't it, Emma ? It doesn't make much practical change. The social work is best done by the way. He didn't mean "help people with money," for he didn't leave me any. I meant to rest a good deal ; but the confidence and the freedom, if it is wanted,—these make a difference.
To Florence.
.... I only began my physiology yesterday, but have done a great deal since, and if Mrs. M. has the sense not to object to the children's learning it, I shall go on with it steadily, preparing a lesson for them each week, and so shall learn much myself. I think you would think all our little flock very much improved, if you could see them. . . .
.... You will have heard, I suppose, of our magnificent concert for the blind. It was one of the most splendid evenings of my life. . . . M.E. is so delightful a child to me. I can't tell you how I enjoy her. I often long for you, dear, with all your sympathy with people in general, and power of making children happy. You know I've a damping cool sort of way that just stabs all their enjoyment. I don't think I've any child nature left in me. However, it will injure them less, that what they all want is to grow up. I mean S. and I. and M.E. want qualities, that will fit them for early usefulness, developed.
Mrs. Hill to Miranda.
.... I think neither M. nor O. can have found time to tell you about their visit to Ruskin. He entertained them grandly at luncheon. They stayed two hours talking on all kinds of high subjects. It seems M. said some very pithy things, which delighted him extremely, and which he afterwards quoted. He spoke of O.'s painting powers very highly—he was all kindness. M. says he seems so impressed with O.'s greatness, and he told someone she was the best person he knew. .... He said to O., "I don't like to blame people for what they do, when they are mad with grief or terror ; but I must say it was cruel of you to tell me about A.'s illness ; I was very ill at the time ; and it threw me back." She answered, "I didn't think——" "You didn't think I should care. I care very much for her sake, and very much for yours." He asked a great deal about it, and when they spoke of how we nursed you, the tears came into his eyes.
To Miss Baumgartner.
Miranda's life has been in imminent danger ; in fact, for some days the doctors gave us no hope. . . . You may imagine what the watching and nursing were. I can never tell ; so awfully is every incident of those long days and nights burnt into my memory. But there is one thing you can't know. The infinite, the wonderful, the universal sympathy and desire to help ; it was something triumphantly beautiful ; one felt it even at the worst, only it felt so very far away, so helpless. Mr. Maurice was here daily, often twice or thrice. He used to come, like a great tender angel of strength, so infinitely pitiful, saying and reading to us things never to be forgotten, answering Miranda's questions unconsciously asked, so that they answered those deep down in us, thinking no service too small for him to render, none too arduous, startling me to a sense of my own existence by some tender bit of thought for me. And Miss Sterling, I don't know what we should have done without her. When danger was gone but anxiety remained, I sank down to a state of miserable weakness and low spirits ; and she would come and take me out for drives. I couldn't stand or walk, so terribly fatiguing had the nursing been ; why, the simple feeding was enough. Miranda was fed every half hour, and Mama and I did very nearly everything. Ruskin sent most kindly. And then the little children, who stole about the house and spoke in whispers ; and my children, who did their work quite self-reliantly, and waited with gentlest service on us ; and poor old women who sent daily to ask, and teachers who offered all service to set us free, and friends who drove in to bring flowers and grapes, and servants who were like rocks of strength : there wasn't one person, who didn't show love and helpfulness far above what one could have dreamed or hoped.
To Miss Baumgartner.
Minnie and I had been at Ruskin's, talking for two hours about faith. It has left upon us both an impression of the deepest solemnity. Minnie says joy. Well yes, I say joy too. . . . I am sitting in the hush of an examination ; the children each at a separate table are deep in sums ; so strangely do the little things of this world blend themselves with the great, all these strange duties leading one on to the great thoughts and facts that lie below.
To Emily from her Mother.
Dear Octa has just arrived. She has been so happy at Leicester. She says she never had such a fight to get away from any place. They were so happy together, those girls. Octa spirited them up to all kinds of things, made designs for L.'s carvings, inspired one of them to come up to town and go in for a Latin certificate at Queen's ; gave A. hints about village schools, etc. To Miss Baumgartner.
We have all felt some time or other how much we owe to those who have consented to be served by us ; and I sometimes dream about the time that shall come when we shall try "to keep up the spirit of our poor," not by shutting up their hearts in cold dignified independence, but by giving them others to help, and thus rousing the deepest of all motives for self help, that which is the only foundation on which to build our services to others. How strangely then, when all confess mutual dependence, and glory in mutual service, will all our strange words sound about admiration for those who starve in silence ; as if that silent starvation were not the most awful protest against all who might have been near friends, who might have been noble Christian ministers. ... I have been thinking very much of the past, because of the sad news from Australia of my dear old playfellow Charlton Howitt. They sent me a copy of the Govt. Provincial Engineer, saying it should be sent to me as "one of dear Charlton's old old friends" ; and they all seem to bear it as calmly and faithfully as they were sure to do.
To Miss Baumgartner.
It happens that Andy's school has moved to the very room which, in the first old days of London work, Mama took as a workroom, now twelve years ago,
I had not been to the room till the day of this party, and Andy had not remembered it.
And there I stood again after twelve years, with a deep sense of mighty love on all sides, to help me to do whatever I willed ; friends and sisters, pupils and servants watched and waited for sign and look that they might know what I wanted done ; and there was not one among the little pale faces lit up with unwonted joy, that I might not have committed to some strong friend to be cherished, if my own strength failed.
On the Sunday following I had eight young servants from different places, whom I have long known and watched, to go with me to receive the Communion, as we hope to do together each year.
As I came out, Mr. Hughes was waiting for me, asking, almost entreating, that one of us would teach his children. Finding that we really couldn't, he asked me to come to breakfast next day, and see Mrs. Hughes, to advise her about a governess.
They were extremely cordial and earnest, said that for years they had been longing to get us, but that Miss Sterling had always told them that we were too busy, which indeed is true. I was much touched by Mr. Hughes' grief about the children's hatred of lessons ; and finding that they wanted someone to take the children into the country for a month, till they could find a governess, I thought that I might take the work, and perhaps might get the little things through some difficulties, and so might make lessons pleasanter hereafter.
I gave my own pupils[4] three days' lessons. Minnie took the last three, after which they went in to the Cambridge Local Examinations. I came down here at three days' notice, and have succeeded beyond my brightest hopes. To Miranda.
Last night Mr. Hughes read some splendid Christmas thoughts about "Vie de Jesus" of Mr. Maurice's from "Macmillan." It was glorious. Mr. Hughes is cordiality and politeness itself, and does so like to talk about Co-operation. He speaks of Mr. Neale, but has not seen him lately.
I am very happy here, getting on capitally, especially with Mrs. Hughes, whom I like extremely. Mr. Hughes and I have very nice talks ; and he is so entirely kind and considerate. The children are most delighted with the history poems.[5] Will you tell Mama I kept the "Education" because Mrs. Hughes was so interested in it ; and I have read a bit to her each night after dinner, before Mr. Hughes joined us.
To Miss Davies.
Re a petition to ask for the extension of University Exams, to
girls.
I am really ashamed to have troubled you to write twice about the signatures, which we are heartily glad to forward.
I meant to write and ask whether signatures of private governesses in private families were needed. I gather from your last note that they are. I will obtain any that I can on the other paper, and forward them to you, if I am not suddenly called from London. We are very anxious to learn the girls' fate; though we feel sure none of our pupils have passed. I suppose, in that case, we shall receive no notice. If there is any chance of a formal or informal examination next term, we should like to know; and every pupil shall pass. We shall know the standard, and have time to prepare, and shall send in those girls only who are just of the right age.
P.S.—I see you ask how I think the examinations told. I was extremely pleased with the effect on our pupils. I thought they were much invigorated by the examination; it interested them much; the intercourse with other students gave them a feeling of working with a large body of learners all over England, which was very good; and I think the examination tended to raise their standard somewhat—which, I regret to say, I think is not high.
These like all other examinations require careful and noble use; people must look beyond them, or they cannot look at them rightly. There are better things to be learnt than ever can come out in an examination. And to work for one is dangerous; learning, for the sake of learning and knowing, is the only legitimate course; but a standard, that will test our knowledge at last, is almost invaluable.
I hope to find these examinations quite consistent with real education of body, soul, and spirit. I would not give up an hour's rowing weekly, nor a single bit of reading to a blind old woman, nor any deeper study than would be tested in the examination, for the privilege of attending and passing; but I believe the intellectual stimulus will be most valuable, and need interfere with nothing; and I quite expect to send up our pupils regularly, if you are able to obtain the privilege for us. But there is a still greater value in these examinations. Some such plan must be adopted before the education of our girls will improve. It is next to impossible for ladies to know what their governesses know; there is no recognised system of examining pupils. I am sure the want is a very great one, and very generally felt. I have had very much to do with finding governesses for people; and I feel the difficulty myself keenly, so keenly that I would not myself undertake pupils here, until I had organised a plan by which their parents might see something of their progress. I provided each girl with a book, in which her answers to the examination questions, each half year, might be written; and then her parents can see her progress. But of course this plan is clumsy. The questions are given by the teachers, who must necessarily know where the pupils are likely to fail, and who examine, in fact, on their own course of instruction; and we want just such a standard as this offers. I write in haste, but hope you will be able to understand, though I have expressed myself so badly.
To Mrs. Shaen.
As to myself, I can only say that every year adds more and more to the number of blessings I have to be thankful for,—friends, and knowledge, or rather sight, and power, and hope, all increasing steadily; rich and poor, young and old, teachers and taught, forming so bright a band of friends round us here. I don't think anyone can be richer, and all our work opens before us calling for fresh energy and hope, while as I look back over the past years of those I love, as well as of mine, I see ever fresh proofs of a guiding love and wisdom. I am so happy!
To Miss Baumgartner.
Florence is coming back to us after the Easter holidays. Will you be interested to know that I have got to know Holman Hunt very well, through the Hughes's, to whom I often go now? Two of their children come to us to learn drawing, arithmetic, and Latin. I like Mr. Hughes more and more.
We heard Kingsley the other day, such a splendid sermon.
Mary Eliza passed the Cambridge Local Examination, though two years under the age, and with six weeks' preparation. I have my certificate (i.e. from Queen's College) signed, amongst others, by Stanley.
14, Nottingham Place,
To Mrs. Shaen.
I have long been wanting to gather near us my friends among the poor, in some house arranged for their health and convenience, in fact a small private model lodging-house, where I may know everyone, and do something towards making their lives healthier and happier; and to my intense joy Ruskin has promised to help me to work the plan. You see he feels his father's property implies an additional duty to help to alleviate the misery around him; and he seems to trust us about this work. He writes, "Believe me, you will give me one of the greatest pleasures yet possible to me, by enabling me to be of use in this particular manner, and to these ends." So we are to collect materials, and form our plans more definitely; and tho' we shall begin very quietly, and I never wish the house to be very large, yet I see no end to what may grow out of it. Our present singing and work will, of course, be open to any of our tenants who like to come. We shall take the children out, and teach the girls; and many bright friendships, I hope, will grow up amongst us. The servants and children here are trained for the work and longing to co-operate. I saw Ruskin on Monday, and felt that the suggestion might be a blessing to him; so I wrote on Wednesday, and received the grand promise of help by return of post, showing how entirely it met his own wishes. So now we are deep in studying details of model lodging-houses, and are so very happy.
From Ruskin to Octavia.[6]
My Dear Octavia,
Yes, it will delight me to help you in this; but I should like to begin very quietly and temperately, and to go on gradually. My father's executors are old friends, and I don't want to discomfort them by lashing out suddenly into a number of plans,—in about three months from this time I shall know more precisely what I am about: meantime, get your ideas clear—and, believe me, you will give me one of the greatest pleasures yet possible to me, by enabling me to be of use in this particular manner, and to these ends.
J. Ruskin.
Thank you for notes upon different people. I've got the plates for Miss B.
To Miss Baumgartner.
I write expecting your warm sympathy in a much beloved plan that now Ruskin promises to help me to carry out. We are to have a house near here (with a little ground to make a playground and drying ground), and this house is to be put to rights, for letting to my poor friends among the working-class women. We are to begin very quietly, and go on gradually; but I see such bright things that may (that almost must) grow out of it. I hope much from the power the association of several families will give us of teaching and help. The large circle of helpful friends around us will be invaluable. I am so happy that I can hardly walk on the ground.
Beckenham, July 11th, 1864.
To her Mother.
I think you will be interested to hear that we went to West Wickham church yesterday. It is the loveliest village church I ever saw, I think, standing near an old castle-like house, and far from the village. Evidently, at some time the chaplain of the lord of the manor has been the clergyman; and the chapel has been an appendage to the great house. … We had not long sat down, when I saw Mr. Neale very near. His wife and two daughters were with him. He does not look one bit changed to me. … The service was very beautiful and set me thinking much about him, and his life, and its apparent failures and real successes. There was something very touching in the sight and thought of him. I had such a sense of his being looked upon by many people, if not as foolish, at least as having utterly failed. As if that unbounded, because entirely unselfish, generosity could fail to leave its impression on the world! His own retreat from all the people who would have reverenced his spirit seems, too, as if he himself had a sense of utter failure. I would give a great deal, if I could know what may, indirectly, or rather untraced, grow out of such work as his.
December 11th, 1864.
To Miss Baumgartner.
The purchase of the house has been delayed by legal difficulties; but, at last, Ruskin has placed the whole affair in my hands; and when I am satisfied about the house, he will at once send me a cheque for the whole amount required. This enables me to employ our own lawyer,[7] who is, heart and soul, in the plan; but, since I saw Ruskin, I could not attend to the matter at all; for every moment of light time has been occupied by a drawing for the Society of Antiquaries; and the dark has been little enough for teaching, accounts, and all my various extra work. This drawing I should like you to see; it is a copy of the earliest dated portrait of an Englishman,—1446. It is of an ancestor of Lord Verulam; one of the Grimstones; such a quiet, stedfast face, looking out from under a perfectly black hat, with quiet thoughtful eyes, like a person who went slowly and steadily on his way, without either hurry or doubt. I should never have done, were I to tell you of all the importance attached to his shield and chain and necklace, and all the accessories of the picture; how the antiquaries glory in each detail, and understand 216 LIFE OF OCTAVIA HILL CHAP. from them each, who and what he was. To me his quiet face comments in its silence on our hurry and uncertainty ; and, as I sit drawing him, I hope to gather reproach enough from his still eyes to teach me to live quietly. It is rather a grand piece of work ; and is to be kept in the gallery of the Society, after being sent to Germany, to be chromo-lithographed for publi- cation in their " Archaeologia." The Secretary of the National Gallery had noticed my work, and recommended me to the Secretary of the National Portrait Gallery, to do the work. It is expected by them, and by the Director of Antiquaries, to lead to much more, and would really make me rich, in spite of myself; but there is small chance of time to do it in. I have also two portraits waiting to be done, miniatures ; but happily I do them at home at odd half-hours. I am also much interested in my large drawing-class at the Working-women's College. Eighteen hardwork- ing, intelligent women attend regularly. Our daily pupils have increased to six, which, with six residents, are as much as we can manage well, and we have refused any more, daily or resident. When we once get the tone up, the new pupils will fall into it naturally ; but, after increasing our number and parting from some, we have had hard work this term to battle with the school- girl element, which was strong in new-comers, and gained strength from numbers. Our old pupils have come out finely ; but the experience has made it a difficult term. And now for another side of our lives. We are every moment expecting Mr. Maurice. He comes in now we are such near neighbours, and sits and talks so very delightfully. We hope he will spend an evening here, while Mrs. Maurice is at Bath, and we should not be robbing her of him. MacDonald is so kind and nice. v FIRST PURCHASE OF HOUSES 217 I am going there on Tuesday, when he gives a lecture on Sacred Poetry. Mr. Maurice is to be there. I have twice lately heard MacDonald read Chaucer and lecture on it. Ruskin, whose lecture at Manchester you will pro- bably hear, is coming to us on his return. He wrote such a delightful little note about it, and I had such a grand talk with him, quietly, just before he went. April 2nd, 1865. To Miss BAUMGARTNER. Our great event of the term has been the actual purchase for fifty-six years of three houses in a court close to us, which Ruskin has really achieved for us. We buy them full of tenants ; but there is in each house at present a landlord, who comes between us and the weekly lodgers, and of whom we cannot get rid till Midsummer. All we can do, therefore, is to throw our classes open to the tenants, and to do much small personal work among them, so that we may get to know them. But all repairing, and preventing of over-crowding, and authority to exclude thoroughly disreputable lodgers, must wait till Midsummer. At that time we are to begin the alteration of our stables into one large room, which will enable us to get the tenants together for all sorts of purposes, much more easily than at present. I am taking my holidays now, that I may do with short ones after this additional work begins. ... I feel that the work will be invalu- able 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 play- ground for them. The plan promises to pay ; but of 218 LIFE OF OCTAVIA HILL CHAP. 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, how- ever, 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. 1 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 1 ? and do you think there might be any
The marriage of Gertrude to Charles Lewes, son of G. H. Lewes. v RELATIONS WITH RUSKIN 219
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. 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 220 LIFE OF OCTAVIA HILL CHAP. be sold with five cottages, in a very populous district near us, and a large house and pretty garden besides. Kuskin 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 v OPENING OF THE PLAYGROUND 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. 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, pre- ferring power and responsibility and work, to com- mittees 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 subscrip- tions are offered, and I hope to make the place really very efficient. My girls are of course very help- ful. . . . 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 here- after. LIFE OF OCTAVIA HILL CHAP. 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 some- times I do break through my rule, when I am urging them to do better, to live a little more nearly in accord- ance 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 v CONCERT FOR THE BLIND 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. 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. LIFE OF OCTAVIA HILL CHAP. 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 0. 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. 1 August 2nd, 1866. MRS. HILL TO EMILY. . . . We are all very happy here. A. and Octa bathe every day, and read Virgil together after break- fast. . . . 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
Mrs. Hill and her three daughters were staying near Falmouth in a
cottage lent them by Miss Sterling. v A VISIT TO CORNWALL 225 great delight . . . We are very merry. 0. thinks she has laughed more this week than in a year at home ; but I don't think she knows what a frequent occur- rence 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 1 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 2 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. Sarsden, Chipping Norton, November llth, 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. 8
Miss Sterling's servant. 2 Hugh's wife.This was afterwards known as the "Maurice Girls' Home."
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.
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.
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 braining 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!
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. 1 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.
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. 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 kngw 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.
Always faithfully yours,
Octavia Hill
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
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.
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.
October 10th, 1867.
To Emily.
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.
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.
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.[8]; 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.…
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[9] 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.
January 24th, 1868.
To Emily.
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.
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[10] 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."
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. Koss 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, arid 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 childlike, 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.
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." …
(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."
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 fete 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[11] 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.
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.
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.)
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.
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[12] has done wonders; I never knew the business half so well managed when my sisters were away; and she has been so happy in the work, and has learnt to know and care for the people so much.
Have you read Morris's "Jason"? I have been reading it for the second time. I am increasingly impressed by it. It is marvellous to me how any one can so throw himself into so noble a time without Christianity; the hint of deeper meaning is so telling, and goes so home, because it is only suggested and kept subservient to the intense realism of the scenes and incidents. It is a book one believes from first to last. The accessories are described so beautifully; it is true poetry.
I know it is very forlorn to depend for intellectual intercourse on books and absent people. But for you who have so many resources, I hope it is not quite so bad. At any rate, how you must be feeling yourself useful. Still I am sorry for you; you seem somehow (all sensitive people do) to get so much more pain than pleasure out of your feeling. I wonder whether you are ill-balanced, and your bodies ought to be more vigorous to match your organisations; or whether you are, as it were, martyrs, for us to love and look up to, and learn from and delight in; but appointed, for some inscrutable reason, to bear a large share of the pain of the world—to be purified to a higher point than we, until the last sorrow shall be put under your feet.
Any way and every way, God bless and keep you.
November 29th, 1868.
To Miss Baumgartner.
We are all assembled again, and very happy. We have a very large number of pupils, as many as we could take in; but these are mainly under my sisters' care, who enjoy the work, and thrive in it. I only teach the girls a few things, and rejoice in their bright young life. I give a few drawing lessons, and am managing my dear houses, which are getting into such excellent order as to be a great joy, and but little painful care. I am drawing again at last, too, to my great delight, and am able to see a good deal of my friends, and to bind up all the links of knowledge of the details of their lives, broken by my illness and absence. So it is a quiet, beautiful, thankful, busy, but not oppressed, life.
March 7th, 1869.
To Miss Harris.
My dearest Mary,
I have had a most delightful week. The crowning day was last Sunday, when I dined at Ruskin's. It was exceedingly interesting. I had been determined to ask him a little about Greek mythology, literature and art; and how, without knowledge of Greek, one might enter into some comprehension of all these; for I have lived long enough to remember the passionate revolt of our then young thinkers against the dead formal worship of all that had its origin in Greece; and now I am interested to notice the men, leading from weight of earnestness, tho' educated in all the Gothic and Teuton sympathies, turning back to Greek thought, and even imagery, as if it contained nobler symbols of abiding truth than our northern legends. Yes, even to feel the influence of the Grecian wave myself. So we got into interesting talk. He told me that there was little translation of Greek which he knew or cared for; that he had done a little himself, which will be published with next Tuesday's lecture; that Homer, even translated by Pope, taught one a good deal; that some tales by Cox (do you know them?) were intensely good; but (as I was pleased to know that I had instinctively felt), Morris's Jason was the most helpful almost of all. He sketched for me most beautifully, a kind of plan of Greek mythology, saying that the deities who governed the elements were the primary ones; the earth the sustainer of man; the water governing the ebb and flow of his fortunes, the two fiery deities earthly and heavenly; and the goddess of the air the inspirer. He quoted curious parallel thoughts from the Bible; "the wind bloweth where it listeth." He told me some strange things, too, about Minerva giving men strength from winged beings, and once, when enduing Menelaus with courage to fight Paris, giving it from a mosquito; whereas most gods give them strength from quadrupeds that are strong. Round these central deities are grouped many minor ones; Mercury, the cloud-compeller, often represented as a shepherd, guides the footsteps of men in life and death.
I asked him how far Virgil was too Roman to be trusted. He seemed very much pleased to find that I could read Virgil, and was fond of him; it seems that he is very fond. He said moreover that Latin was untranslateable—being so magnificent a language; whereas Greek, mainly depending for its interest on thought, could be perfectly well translated. I found that he and I agreed in liking the 2nd and 7th books best, he rather inclining to the Infernal Regions and the Fall of Troy. He told me that the exquisite tenderness between fathers and sons delighted him above all things in Virgil, and led one to the root of the main source of Roman greatness in its noblest time.
You will be sorry to hear that Miss Cons can only, at present, give one day and a half weekly to the work; and that Miss Sterling is so much interested in what she calls "linking my little affairs to whatever has life," that she will not work except near us nor of course could Miss Cons do more than this in so short a time.
On Wednesday we are to have our play.[13] We are actually to have an audience of 200 poor people. Everyone is very kind about it; we have a splendid room, and all promises well.
Oh, Mary! life and its many interests is a great and blessed possession. I love it so much. … And yet it seems such a simple, quiet thing to slip out of it presently; and for other and better people to take up their work, and carry it on for their day too.
To Miss F. Davenport Hill.
… The trees are of course very small; but the creepers helped us, and the playground never looked so pretty. Our new swings were put up; and three people were entirely occupied with superintending them the whole time. Each child had a definite time allowed; and all others were kept out of the way; no easy matter with children so eager and so unaccustomed to control. The little band acquitted ' itself admirably, considering how young it is yet; it is an acquisition. We had numbers of games of course. The see-saw was crowded all the time. Two people took charge of it; and it seemed about as much as they could manage. It was very touching to see the children, when they first saw me open the gate. Our tenants were to come in first; and I had to pick them out from the dense mass of eager faces. Such impatience! as if a few minutes were hours! Such a break of light came over the face as I caught the eye of a tenant; the "Mary, you may come," or "Dickey, you next," was entirely unnecessary to the child addressed, but was the signal for others to make way; and thro' such tiny avenues, or from under bigger girls' skirts, the tiny creatures emerged to the wonderful place of flowers and the many welcoming friends. I was rather proud to see that I was usually guided by a neater dress or cleaner face to a tenant. Then followed the admission of a few children coming to classes, or members of the band or drill classes, but not tenants. And then the mass of children from the neighbourhood. Oh such a troop! The grown up people crowded on any place from which they could see. I wished our wall had been moved, and the rails up, both for the extra space, and that more people might have seen. All children had flowers, cake, and an orange on leaving. My conclusion is, the place is really getting into order.
I had the report from a surveyor on the houses for which we are in treaty. He says very naively, "It seems to me the houses are much out of repair, tho' considered by the landlord in excellent condition for the class of inmates." He says, too, the property in the neighbourhood is in excellent condition, and will let well.… Will you send me a copy of papers respecting boarding out? I should much like to send them to Mrs. N. Senior. I believe the chances are better in the country, and the plan more likely to be tried there.
I am glad you think it is best to wait and see the June list for Macmillan. It will be very odd if the thing ever is published. I am looking forward so eagerly to throwing the burden of the playground expenses, at least partially, on our new buildings; they are such a perpetual worry to me, and for so small a sum it seems a pity to be annoyed. If the surplus profit of the rooms will, as I hope, pay for the superintendence, it will make a great difference to me. We hope to finish the building this week. I feel so ungrateful when I complain of anything, when all has prospered in this wonderful way. Perhaps I am a little tired to-night.
April 13th, 1869.
To Mrs. W. Shaen.
I cannot tell you what my people are to me. We are such thorough friends. Sometimes small actions of theirs go straight to one's heart, making me feel how nice our relation to one another is. The other day I went down the court, once so savage and desolate. I saw two or three of the worst boys in the neighbourhood looking very happy and smiling. "Have you seen Mrs. Mayne?" they clamoured eagerly. Mrs Mayne is our superintendent there. " She's got something taking care of for you." I found that the boys had walked twelve miles, doubtless delighted with the expedition, but specially to bring me back a great quantity of "palm." And, as I came out carrying it, "Will you have some more?" "Wait a bit and have some more," they cried. When I remembered that these same boys had been our greatest trouble, defying authority, climbing walls, breaking windows, throwing stones, with their hands against us in all things, I could not but feel that we had got on a little, however the houses may fall short in external perfection of what one longs for them to be. I have hardly any of the teaching at home; dear Andy and Minnie having thrown their strength fully into it; so Flo and I only take special classes; but the bright young life round one is very refreshing; and I grow much attached to some of the girls; not the old sense of being any longer their head; this, you will understand, I am not sorry to resign, however precious the position was. Meantime, I have my little sanctum here and go out among my ever-increasing circle of real friends. My work now is mainly teaching drawing, which I enjoy much.
To Miss Florence Davenport Hill.
… We are having a large meeting in the parish this week to try to organise the relief given; very opposite creeds will be represented Archbishop Manning, Mr. Davies, Mr. Fremantle, Eardley-Wilmot, and others. I must go myself. I shall try to get Rose to go too. …
Lady Ducie writes that she is perfectly engrossed in your book, and tells me she must get it. She is quite appalled at the state of things in the workhouse; it seems quite to be weighing on her mind.
To the Same.
… I daresay one is apt to overrate one's own work; but one is the more anxious to have it fairly weighed, and receive all advice from other people; and I do want to have it fairly considered, and get the authorities to recognise it. Mr. F., the rector of our district, and the main mover in the matter, is to call on me to-day. May some power inspire me with intellect and speech! I have hardly a hope that they will place me on the Committee. I shall try boldly; but I think no ladies will be admitted. Mr. F. is happily a friend of Lady Ducie's.
P.S.—Mr. F. has just been, and will propose my name at the Committee.
September 10th, 1869.
To Emily.
… Life here has been a great success every way. It is odd, in a place like this, to get on so well; but energy and enjoyment are such a delight to people, they forgive much, where they can secure them and have these. A large picnic party went to Fountains yesterday. They begged me to go. I could not, and said, "I will ask all the people, and, when you are started, you really won't want me." "Oh," said a young, buoyant Quaker youth, "but we do want you to talk." … In pity also give me some more teaching; it is the only anchor I have, and I shall be destroyed by dissipation if you don't preserve me. Oh dear, I have been writing three hours; and I did so want to do my miniature; for you don't know how much I want to finish it.
Bradford,
September 17th, 1869.
To Emily.
To-night there is to be a dinner party here. Dr. Bridges and several influential people are asked to meet me; I do feel such a take-in of a person. I wish someone would explode me; it is so difficult to un-humbug oneself. It is all taken for extreme modesty (fancy mine!) and laid to one's account as so much excellence. A Mr. and Mrs. R. K., who are looked upon as great guns, are giving a dinner party in my honour. Really it's very ridiculous; what I am glad of is that I am going to see Saltaire, a model village near here which has grown up round a manufactory, belonging to a Mr. Titus (now Sir Titus) Salt; no beer shops there, only model cottages, schools, etc. … I'm very happy, and as bright as can be; but save me from this again! I'm going to settle down to a steady, quiet old age, if ever the happy time arrives when I reach home.
- ↑ How difficult some of Octavia’s zealous workers found this problem may be gathered from the following story:—On one occasion she heard a stormy altercation going on between one of her collectors and a tenant, and found that the point at issue was whether the rent due was 6s. 11d. or 7s. all but a penny.
- ↑ After her return from Italy.
- ↑ Miss Harris's five nieces of whom she had charge.
- ↑ At Nottingham Place.
- ↑ Written by Miranda for her little pupils.
- ↑ First reference to the housing schemes.
- ↑ Mr. William Shaen.
- ↑ One of the first tenants. Her only boy died in hospital. She was a widow who went very early to work. Octavia and her sisters went every morning for some weeks to get the children ready for school, until they had learnt to do it themselves.
- ↑ A name her sister Miranda gave her, because she attracted so many persons to join her in all she did.
- ↑ Mentioned in the "Homes of the London Poor."
- ↑ Marylebone Road.
- ↑ A former pupil.
- ↑ This refers to a performance of the "Merchant of Venice" in Dr. Martineau's schoolroom in Portland Street. Octavia acted Portia.