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Once during this first fireside talk he caught me looking earnestly at his face.

'Well, Jessie?' he asked with an interrogative smile.

I tried to get out of answering, but he insisted on knowing my thoughts.

'I was only wondering why none of the photographs I have seen are the least bit like you,' I blurted out at last.

This pleased him greatly.

'I am so glad you think so, for I have always hoped they were not really like me, but people will say they are very good! And it is very humiliating! They always seem to me just caricatures of my face!' And he added plaintively, "The sun seems to have a spite against me and I'm sure I don't know why! I have always spoken very respectfully of him!'

I wish it were possible to convey any adequate idea of the exquisite voice which lent an unforgettable charm to even the lightest speech so musical that its memory rings in my ears to-day, 'forty years on.'

Here I will give from my journal a little description of Brantwood as it was in those days.

It is a long, low, white house, facing the lake, and sheltered at the back by steep wooded hills. There is a narrow strip of sloping garden, and a little road between the house and the water's edge. It stands some little height above the lake, and behind it rises abruptly the rocky hill covered with trees and shrubs which gives the house its name 'Brant' being Cumberland for 'steep.' In the wood there are many paths and flights of steps, and a little stream which comes tumbling down from the moor above. Over this stream the Master has built with his own hands an arched stone bridge, built without mortar, of which he is frankly proud. He showed it to me during our first walk in the wood. "The only help I had in building it was a little assistance from Baxter in lifting some stones

too heavy for my unaided strength. And it will last for generations!' It was really a very pretty little bridge, planted with ferns and woodland plants in the crevices.

Near the house is a small level plot of grass which is sacred to the Master, and never invaded by gardening hands. Here he walks up and down in the sunshine when he wishes to be undisturbed, 'and to think out something particularly nice!'

Above this little wood there is a wide stretch of moorland whose bracken and heather offer a feast of rich color to the eye as one issues from the sombre woodland.

The wild strawberry grows freely in the wood and is a great favorite with the Master. He called my attention to one plant which had thrown its runners right across the path. 'So confiding of it. I do hope no one will be so cruel as to tread on it!'

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In the square entrance hall of the house there hung some large and very fine cartoons by Burne-Jones. The drawing room gave me a great shock of surprise. We were then at the height of the 'æsthetic' the 'greenery-yallery, Grosvenor Gallery' days, and I had pictured to myself an ultra-'artistic' room, all sage green, peacock blue, and old gold, with Morris papers and hangings, and so forth. In place of which I found a typical Early Victorian room, old-fashioned, but not antiquein fact, just such a room as might have been found in the house of any wealthy couple of the upper middle class, fifty years before. And that was exactly what it was, for nothing had been altered since the days of the elder Ruskins. Had they returned to life, they would have felt absolutely at home in that drawing room at Brantwood.

The chief additions they would have noticed were the wonderful Turners adorning the walls. These were all water colors, and were protected from injury by sunshine by light wooden frames across which was stretched dark blue glazed calico. All the drawings were framed to the same size, so that any frame would fit any picture. These coverings were removed at sundown, and in the Master's little bedroom, where many of the most exquisite hung, many candles were lighted when the room was prepared for the night, so that he might enjoy his treasures while dressing and

undressing. Visitors were at full liberty to uncover any of the drawing-room pictures if they wished to examine them, but the covers must be replaced immediately you had finished looking at any of them, under penalties too dreadful to be faced!

The study was the room which faithfully reflected the tastes and character of the Master. It was a perfectly delightful apartment, but without a shadow of straining after effect. A long, low room, made by throwing two rooms together books everywhere, the walls lined with library shelves, stands for portfolios, pictures and drawings on every side, cabinets full of minerals, tiers of drawers filled with sketches and engravings, a few comfortable chairs, and last, though by no means least, a small octagonal table by the fireplace.

I should think no famous author ever did his literary work with so little paraphernalia as did Mr. Ruskin. This small table not only served as his writing desk, but also served for the frugal meals which he took alone in the study when not inclined for society. His breakfast was always laid on it and also his afternoon tea. There was not much to be removed in order to 'lay the cloth,' for a large sheet of blot

ting paper laid flat on the table and a pile of foolscap were, with a small inkstand, all that was needed when writing. There was not so much as a penwiper to be seen. One day I said that I should make him He replied with comic solemnity, 'Jessie - there is no penwiper to equal

one.

the left-hand coat tail!'

It was a genuine workroom, with a pleasant amount of tidy untidiness -books on chairs waiting to find their homes on the shelves, pictures leaning against the walls waiting till he should make up his mind where to hang them, and parcels of mineral specimens waiting to be disposed of in the cabinets.

Three large windows down one side, with deep window seats, gave perfect views over the lake and the hills.

It was in this charming study that most of the hours of my stay at Brantwood were passed.

The first evening, when bidding us good-night, the Master asked me

whether I liked to rise early and at what hour I generally came down. When I answered that in summer I came down about seven, Mrs. Severn exclaimed in dismay:

'Oh, my dear lady, don't do anything so awful in this house, I pray you! You would n't find a place fit to sit down in before half past nine at the earliest!'

'Yes, Joanie,' said the Professor, 'she would! My study is always ready long before that. Would half past six be too early for you to be called? No? And do you like coffee? Yes? Then I shall send you a cup of coffee at that time, and you will find a good fire in my study whenever you are ready to come down.'

And, with a parting glance at one or two of the Turners, Mr. Ruskin left us. Mrs. Severn was quite dismayed at this arrangement.

'But this is contrary to all rules and regulations!' she exclaimed as soon as the door was closed. "The study has always been sacred to the Master alone in the early morning! Nobody is ever allowed to be with him then.' But here Mr. Severn interfered on my behalf. 'Miss L. is the Professor's visitor, not yours, Joan! She shall do just what he wants.'

So, on my giving a solemn promise that I would neither talk myself nor let the Master do so, Mrs. Severn gave way gracefully.

I was down first next morning and found a housemaid busy arranging the bright fire.

'I have to be very careful, ma'am,' she explained, 'for the Master likes the room warm but the fire only just large enough to make it so. He says that getting the coal is such hard and dangerous work we must never waste a bit. Nothing makes him so vexed as to see a fire larger than is really needed.'

In a few minutes the Master came in, and after the morning greetings said, 'Now you will have to amuse yourself till breakfast time, Jessie, for I must be busy. Here are two things for you to look at — an illuminated thirteenth-century Missal, and Wood

stock.'

We sat down by the fire, on either side of his little table. After examining the lovely Missal for some time, I took up the Woodstock, and to my surprise and delight I found it was Scott's original MS. The writing was beautifully clear and the corrections and interpolations very few. The Master broke silence for a minute to call my attention to a particular page

each page was dated.

'When he wrote that page Scott believed himself a wealthy man. When he wrote the following page next day he knew himself to be a ruined man. Can you find a trace of it in that clear, careful writing?'

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And there was none. No more corrections than before not a tremor in the script.

Each morning of my brief visit I was privileged in the same manner. Sometimes Mr. Ruskin would pass over to me the sheet of foolscap he had just finished writing and tell me to see if any correction was needed. Sometimes he would give me some proof reading to do, telling me to pay particular attention to the punctuation, as 'stops' always bothered him so.

At twelve o'clock he put away his writing and went out for a walk if it was fine, and, if not, to chop up firewood for the house.

The two young girls, Rosie and Peggy, and I were allowed to accompany him then, and also in his afternoon walk or boating on the lake.

More than one afternoon he took us all three to tea at the Waterhead

Hotel, the recently widowed proprietress of which was an old friend of his. 'I like her to have a nice big bill to send me at the quarter's end,' he explained one day. So we feasted gayly on buttered toast, raspberry jam, and real homemade cakes. None of the hotel visitors got a taste of the raspberry jam; the whole season's making was religiously put away for 'the Professor' and the visitors he brought.

I cannot remember now how the subject was brought up, but I recall an interesting conversation at one of the Waterhead teas. I think it was mainly addressed to Rosie, and it was about marriage.

'Remember this: there comes a time in every married life when one partner or the other is tempted to believe that some other person would have been a more congenial mate. There is only one course to pursue if two, or perhaps three, lives are not to be wrecked. You must resolutely turn your thoughts away from the idea. You must deliberately, and with the whole might of your soul, resolve to think only of the good points and the virtues of the mate you have chosen, and of the weak points in the character of the one you are tempted to prefer. It may be a hard struggle for a time, but in the end you will win your way to safe anchorage again. Never forget this, any of you.'

In one of our walks he stopped to gaze lovingly at a violet nestling in a bed of moss by the roadside.

'How marvelously one's capacity for assimilating beauty varies! There are days when a roadside violet holds. more delight in its beauty than the soul can contain and there are other days when the whole majesty of the Alps will not suffice to fill the craving for beauty in the human heart.'

One day he mentioned something

which Turner had said to him once. Peggy opened her eyes in astonishment. 'Did you know Turner?' she asked.

'I knew Turner, Peggy, my dear, as well as a young, foolish, conceited man could know an old, wise, and modest man.'

Sometimes the Master dined with the family and sometimes alone in his study. This was when he thought there would be too much noise and talking for him. But after dinner he always joined his guests and the Severns in the drawing room for an hour or two. If he felt so inclined he would offer to read to us. And then we had a treat indeed! I have never heard reading to approach his in beauty. The voice, naturally one of rare charm, was modulated and inflected in harmony with his subject with the skill of a great artist. I had the great good fortune to hear him on several evenings. He read us several chapters from Scott's Monastery for one thing, and I well remember how vainly he struggled with the letter r in the verses beginning 'Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright.' No effort could prevent its becoming 'mewwily,' but it only added a piquancy to the charm of that lovely voice.

Another night he read us the whole of the story of 'Hansli,' which he had translated for Fors. There were several interpolations of his own, and when we came to one of these Mrs. Severn, sitting on the hearthrug against her husband's knee, would whisper in a stage aside, 'Arthur! Arthur! Are you listening? This is a bit of Ruskin's own! And I do so love Ruskin, don't you?' The Master would shake his head at her with a loving smile. 'Joanie! Joanie! Will you never grow up?' But he had to stop reading until he had finished laughing every time.

II

So the five happy days flew by and the sad Thursday came when my room was needed for another guest, and I must return to Kate's little house. But the Master softened the parting by promising to come to tea with me the next day and by telling me I should often be summoned to Brantwood for a few hours with him.

Alas! the next day brought a disappointment, for a number of people called on him and detained him so late that he was unable to fulfill his promise of coming to tea with me.

One day the young barrister, Mr. W., and the other 'boy,' Dr. D., came to tea with me at Kate's and we had a gay time. Mr. W. took far more liberties with the Master than anyone else would dare to do. I remember the latter complaining to me one day that 'Aleck' had made him put three whole sheets in the fire that morning.

Mr. W. told me one day how he first gained the Master's affection, and it was a very delightful tale as he told it.

'I'm almost the only person who dares to contradict the Professor, or to find fault with him, and that is the real reason of his fondness for me. I always tell him exactly what I think without fear or favor. That was how I first won his notice. One day he was showing some Oxford men myself among them a drawing he had just made of an angel. They all went into raptures over it. When it came to me I only said, "What made you draw one wing so much better than the other?” It was the first thing that struck me, so I said it. And the Professor was delighted. "Because I was tired and lazy and impatient. I did the first wing as well as I possibly could and then did the other anyhow because I was in a hurry to finish it. But you

are the first person who has noticed it, or at least spoken of it.""

Early in the following week Mr. and Mrs. Severn left home to pay a visit to friends. And twice at least during that week I had the great pleasure of dining at Brantwood with the little party there assembled. A carriage was sent to fetch me and take me back at night. It was a long and hilly drive, but had it been four times as long the evenings would have more than repaid it. We were rather a small party Rosie (the Sylphide of the letters) and I were the only ladies. Three of the Master's old Oxford pupils and present favorites, Mr. W., Dr. D., and Mr. C., were the others. I went in to dinner on the Master's arm each time; he took the head of the table and was the most genial and delightful host imaginable. He had not dined with us during my five days in the previous week, so I had not till then seen him act in that capacity.

I remember that on the first night the Master turned to his personal attendant, Baxter, and said, smiling

at me:

'Now, Baxter, this is a festive occasion, you know. It is the first time this lady has dined with me, so I think you must give us a little champagne in her honor.'

He sipped one glass of the champagne with much apparent enjoyment, but put his hand peremptorily over his glass when Baxter attempted to refill it.

When the carriage was announced for me at eleven o'clock, Mr. Ruskin said, as he bade me good-night, 'And if I send the carriage again for you to-morrow night, Jessie, do you think you would come again?'

At the next night's dinner the talk turned on the new æsthetic school and the Master said:

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Mr. C., who was an intimate friend of Burne-Jones, here remarked to Mr. Ruskin that that great artist felt a little sore at the Master's failing to speak more openly and publicly as to the high honor he held him in.

'But, my dear boy,' exclaimed the Master, 'Burne-Jones is much too far above me to want any aid from my words! I'm a mere dictionary maker, while he is a Heaven-sent poet! I have n't a spark of imagination in me, while he is nothing else. I can never see one iota beyond what is actually before my eyes. Whatever I can see, a telescope or a field glass could see. Nothing I ever wrote or painted would equal a square foot of one of BurneJones's pictures.'

'Well, all I know is that he told me not a fortnight ago that he owed everything he was, or could do, to you.'

'Oh, that's nonsense! I may have taught him a little years ago perhaps, but he has been beyond and above me for ages now, and I am only too thankful to get a chance of learning from him whenever I can. The only quarrel I have with Burne-Jones is that he likes girls with green-and-gray faces, and I like them with pink-and-white faces. And old gentlemen's faces, too, ought to be red, like a rosy-cheeked apple, not paper- or tallow-colored, like this!' smiling at Rosie and me, as he touched his own pale cheek.

We enjoyed more reading aloud on 'I can't quite make out what is these evenings. Over some bits from

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