Chapter IV (1)

MILTON STREET, DORSET SQUARE
DECEMBER, 1858—APRIL, 1861.

When Miranda went to Italy, in 1858, Octavia suggested to her
grandfather that it would be more economical, as well as more
comfortable, if she and her mother and Emily could move into
_un_furnished rooms. Octavia said that, if he would lend the money for
furniture, she would be able to repay him out of what would be saved
on rent. He kindly undertook to lend the required amount; and, after
the rooms had been secured, Octavia made out a list of necessary
furniture, with approximate prices. Then after her day’s work, she
visited various shops, and with Gertrude’s and Emily’s help chose what
was required. If she spent more on one thing, she took the amount off
something else; and she determined that she would keep to the fixed
sum. This was achieved. Then she planned and cut the carpet, and each
evening she and Emily sat on the floor sewing it. One night they
worked till 12 o’clock. All this time Octavia was going each morning
to Dulwich, where she stood drawing for about four hours, then she
went to Great Ormond Street to the Women’s Classes, and walked from
there to Milton Street, Dorset Square. Yet she was as merry as
possible, and sang and repeated poetry while she and Emily were at
work. And in due time she repaid the money that she had borrowed.

103, Milton St., Dorset Sq.,
January 4th, 1859.

MRS. HILL TO HER DAUGHTER MIRANDA.

I only came to this house to-day. It is so very pretty; you and Florence would be enchanted with it. Dear Ockey and Minnie must have worked so hard; they would not let me have any trouble, but arranged it all, and beautiful indeed it looks: the crimson table cover and chair cover and green carpet and white muslin curtains and white walls with roses, make such a lovely combination, and I enjoy the nice square high rooms. Miss Sterling, who called yesterday, exclaimed, “What a dainty room you have.” It certainly does give one a most pleasant sense of simplicity, cleanliness, and beautiful colour.

January 25th, 1859.

OCTAVIA TO MIRANDA.

... I think you will like our dear new home; the prettiness of it is a continual delight to me, and I am most thankful for its order and cleanliness.... I am so fond of it.... I was amazed to find how much you had all thought of Ruskin’s statement about my accuracy. Of course I was disappointed, because I thought the battle was won; but you see it referred to pencil and colour sketches, in which I had not tried mainly for accuracy, believing that I need not try, that the amount of measurement I gave it secured it; and I had other things to aim at. It was not colour or pencil sketches that he ever praised for accuracy. (Oh yes, the first coloured one; but then it had so little colour). I never thought for a moment my eye was accurate about anything, unless it were matching colours. I only thought that, by some miracle, the things I had done were as accurate as human work need be; and that all would continue so, if I worked in the same way. Now that I know where I am, I don’t doubt I can win the battle in time by steady work; and I have not been the least cast down about it, since the first hour I knew it. I am very impatient to get home and see how Minnie is. I didn’t like leaving the darling all alone.

[Sidenote: CONVALESCENCE]

TO HER SISTERS.

... Don’t let anyone frighten you about my health; I think they none of them are frightened now; but, whether or no, I am resolved to take the most immense care; for I think it probable this will be required for a little time, and that it is very important that I should preserve both health and strength.... I enjoy Dulwich[34] extremely; you know it is so nice to see a little country. I only go three days in the week now, because of fatigue and expense.... I have such lovely walks home past trees with rooks’ nests, you remember them. Our home is in such exquisite order; for dear M. has the housekeeping and everything is as orderly and noiseless and comfortable as can be. I hope she won’t find it too much for her ... the rooms are very pretty and comfortable. For my part I greatly fear I’m growing idle, I never seem hard worked now, and I never seem to do needlework or anything. I take it however very quietly, and don’t mean to exert myself just now unless I need.... Ruskin was so kind when he heard I had been ill. He wrote to tell me to write and let him know whether I ought not to stop working for some time....

February 7th.—We went to a Pre-Raph. Exhib., and saw the loveliest wood in Spring, full of harebells, a thorn tree casting a shadow over some of the flowers.

February 27th, 1859.

EMILY TO HER SISTER MIRANDA.

... Ockey has just received another Veronese to copy for her work at home. She has begun doing it so beautifully. She is distressed at only working three hours on Dulwich days; so she has begun working in her spare time at the College, and by that she will manage six hours _every_ day....

We are very regular with our reading three evenings a week from nine to ten. Mama reads and Ockey and I work.... I think Ockey is becoming converted to Shakespeare. Dear Mama reads it so beautifully.

February, 1859.

MY DEAR MR. RUSKIN,

I thank you for your letter. “What has been the matter?” you ask. Physically, only this, I have severe pains in walking distances that I used to manage easily. But you would quite laugh if you saw me, to hear me speak of want of strength.

But the truth is that, if enough is as good as a feast, too little must be as bad as a famine; and I feared that I had just too little for my work. But everyone agrees that it isn’t fatigue that has made me ill, but responsibility and worry and want of change. It’s my own fault. I ought to take things more quietly and not think that so very much depends on my deciding wisely, and not nearly break my heart if things go wrong for a time.

I think you’re mistaken about the teaching, which is hopeful and refreshing. As to sentiment there are few people who have not stronger feelings than I have. I assure you, I am considered _the_ person in the family, who is without imagination, poetry, feeling, affection. Good only to do a sum, carry a weight, go a long walk in the rain, or decide any difficult question about tangible things. You happen to know the other side of me. All _that’s_ kept in, that I may do my work; and you don’t know what a life of calculation and routine and steadiness mine is. I’m told that the best developed organ that I have is that of caution.

[Sidenote: ESTIMATE OF HER OWN CHARACTER]

However, thank you, I hope I haven’t “come to a smash.” I’m gloriously well to-day, and I’ve done my full work; perhaps I may manage five days at Dulwich after all. I think I wrote too seriously, and I beg your pardon. You can imagine the horror of being ill, to a person whose whole heart is in what they do, and who has never been obliged to calculate strength, but only time.

Never mind, I’m in glorious spirits now. The Salvator is going on well. I’m not the least afraid of anything. I will conscientiously take care of my health; and, if I lose it then, I can’t help it. I should like to leave them all comfortable, and learn to love them, and to live to do some drawing worth doing and to see the Alps; and then I’d leave the world in God’s hands who made it. In the meantime I’ll order the dinners, and try to be quiet and sensible, if you will go on having patience with me. You’ll see me rational and quiet some day. You mustn’t expect a great deal of wisdom, in spite of my having begun with hard experiences so young. You know I’m only a little more than twenty; and it takes a long time and a great deal to teach me anything. I assure you I try to be calm and sensible about all things, and if I say foolish things, I don’t often do them, as our condition here shows. I never, but for two days in my life, felt so strongly about anything as to prevent my working and both times I think you would admit that I had sufficient cause. So neither feelings nor excitement do anyone very much harm.

Most sincere thanks for your letter. You won’t forget the out of the way ways that I can help you. I will be sure not to overwork myself; and it would be a great pleasure to me to help you more.

I am,
Yours affectionately,
OCTAVIA HILL.

103, Milton Street, Dorset Square,
March 6th, 1859.

TO MIRANDA.

... Ruskin has written me such a kind letter telling me to take as long a holiday as I like.... I am to do “such a difficult thing from Turner” at South Kensington soon. I was much puzzled, knowing _that_ would prevent my beginning work till ten o’clock any day; so after much thought I meant to give up the College. I mentioned it to Miss Sterling, who seemed quite dismayed, said I must know they could not possibly supply my place; it was impossible; the whole flourishing or decay of the classes depended on whom they had in my place; my value could not be calculated in £. s. d., or in any number of mechanical performances. So after calculating that I could get at the worst thirty or thirty-three hours’ work weekly, I resolved to remain. I had no idea Miss Sterling cared so much about it.... To-morrow we have a grand tea-meeting at the Young Women’s; Lord Shaftesbury will be there.... I draw at the College daily now. I have such nice expeditions to Dulwich, I go over the fields, and now the leaves are coming out it is most lovely.

Minnie and I never sing here now at all, we haven’t time.

[Sidenote: HER PUPILS IN DRAWING]

March 27th, 1859.

TO MIRANDA.

I really could not write last Sunday. I am now writing in the lovely early morning, before setting off to go to the eight o’clock Communion service at Lincoln’s Inn. We shall think of you both.... I have nearly finished the cloud I have been copying at Dulwich, and am anxiously expecting Ruskin’s criticism on it. You know I am going to Normandy on or about the 16th; fortunately I do not yet realise it, except as a point before which certain works must be done and preparations made; but when I am fairly off I suppose I shall believe it; and not until then. I think you would be very much interested in some of my drawing pupils. One little boy, James, is my great favourite. He is ten years old, and tells me he has lived in Worcestershire until last September; but he is not like a country child, he is so intelligent. He has bright beautiful eyes, and I like to see his queer little figure in his pretty white blouse waiting for me at the door. He is so earnest and interested in his drawing, and works so very hard at it, it is quite delightful to teach him. Then there is a little girl, Annie, who is now so good and attentive. I like to see her dear pretty little head, bent down over her drawing. She has a beautifully fair skin, and when I find fault with her, all her face colours; and she has large blue eyes with long lashes and soft fair hair. She hasn’t special talent for drawing like James, but I like her personally so much. My women are progressing surely and steadily. They’re getting the right spirit and aims. I take them leaves and sprays to show them their beauties and teach them their names.... I am reading the first volume of “Modern Painters.” I thought you would like to look at these pictures in the light of his words.... I am so very much wrapped up in my drawing I seem to think of little else; and yet I do manage somehow to remember and dwell on a great deal besides. I often think of you both.

103, Milton Street,
April 3rd, 1859.

TO MIRANDA.

I have been suffering with severe pains in my back, but else I am quite well and I hope Normandy will set me up in health. It will seem very strange to you, but I dread it. I have been working so long, I don’t feel as if I knew how to stop. I am afraid I shall be in everyone’s way, and do everything awkwardly and ill. Mary[35] will forgive me however. Dear Mary! Mrs. Harrison writes that she is looking forward to my visit most eagerly; and she thinks it will do her a great deal of good.

You will know how thankful I am that we shall stay in this dear little home. I need not tell you how kind everyone is, you know they always were, but it seems to me as if people even increased in kindness wherever I go, from the old man who takes care of the pictures at Dulwich, and brings me his first wallflowers and spray of sweet-briar, to Mr. Maurice’s ready advice; poor and rich, learned and unlearned, old foe and new friend seem to help us; when I am good and humble and walk home watching the sunset or rooks’ nests against the night sky, I often repeat the Magnificat and think thankfully of all people’s kindness. Sometimes I look back thro’ the strange long years and trace the growth of things and people. Then, dears, I think of you both.

[Sidenote: ITALIAN WAR OF LIBERATION]

Via della Scala,
April 5th, 1859.

FLORENCE TO OCTAVIA.

You ask me if there is any danger for English at Florence. Everyone says that as long as the English minister is here, we are perfectly safe; but, if England takes any decided part in the war, if the minister goes, and it is not safe for the English to remain, they will be ordered to go, and a certain time allowed them; but people seem to think it very unlikely.... There is a great deal of excitement among the Italians, and a great deal of fine feeling. I heard an anecdote the other day which pleased me very much, particularly as it was about a Leghorn boatman, which I had always thought to be the most horrid class possible. There were two young men volunteers, who had to cross in a boat to go somewhere; on landing, they gave the boatman 5 pauls; he still held out his hand; they thought he was not contented, and gave him a Napoleon; he continued to hold out his hand, “What is it?” they said.—“Take your money back,” he replied. “I never have taken any from volunteers, and hope never to do so; but if you would shake hands with me, I _should_ like to shake hands with any one who is going to fight for Italy.”

45, Great Ormond St.
April 16th, 1859.

EMILY TO HER SISTER MIRANDA.

You will be glad to hear that Ockey has really gone to Dieppe ... It seemed a great pity to shorten her holiday by two days, because of her college work this afternoon, which I was fortunately able to take.... She saw Ruskin yesterday. She went to Dulwich and took her work from there to Denmark Hill. Ruskin had said in his letter that he had only a quarter of an hour to spare; so of course she was careful to go away after a quarter of an hour; but altho’ her visit was so very short, it seems to have been very nice. Ruskin was very pleased with all her work. The cloud is to be left till his return in the autumn; and O. is to draw other things at Dulwich, which Ruskin wants for the “Modern Painters.” She is also to copy Turners at South Kensington, directly the pictures go there from Marlborough House; so this summer she will have three days at Dulwich and three at Kensington.

In speaking of the cloud, O. said that it was all wrong; why did Ruskin praise it? And he said he knew it was wrong, but that it was very difficult indeed. Salvator had a great deal of power, and what he blamed him for was for misdirecting it.

The Veronese which O. had been doing at home, Ruskin was delighted with. He said he wanted to keep it, to show some people what girls could do. You may think what a state of excitement dear Ockey was in yesterday with seeing Ruskin and with the thought of her journey.... Her costume looked so pretty and suitable. Gertrude made her a present of such a beautiful black silk dress, so nicely made that it has disclosed to me, what I did not know before, that Ockey has an extremely pretty figure.

[Sidenote: EXPERIENCES OF TRAVEL]

27, Faubourg de la Barre, Dieppe.
April 18th, 1859.

TO HER MOTHER.

I am quietly, splendidly happy; everyone is kindness itself. I had a very rough passage indeed, but the wind was favourable and never shall I forget the vanishing of the cliffs of England in a deep intense blue mist of cloud, as the storms came on. I stayed on deck all the six hours we were on board, standing on a bench looking over the changing space of waters; the fresh free wind blowing delightfully. The old look of all things is enchanting; high flint walls are built up the hills, out of which grow hundreds of wallflowers. The large old church, with its time-eaten stones and boldly carved gargoyles, delights me more than anything; its pinnacles rise up in the sunny air; and its lovely flying buttresses against the blue sky, all crested and crowned with wallflowers and ferns; and all the grey stone mellowed and toned by thousands of gold and silver lichens.

I hope you are all comfortable and have all that you want. Tell Minnie that, though I gave her directions about what she was to do, she is not to think that I mean to bind her to do these things if circumstances alter. She will use her own judgment.

I took a vehement determination to have nothing to do with a short stout repulsive foreigner, who sat in the railway carriage opposite to me, and who, to my consternation, was most polite and attentive.

Tell Minnie this, it will amuse her. He was a man of immense curiosity; and, I must in justice allow, he gave me no cause whatever for my aversion to him unless it were that, though he was willing enough to discourse about France, Switzerland, etc., or open and shut windows when he had nothing else to do, he took good care to keep all his energies for himself at any time of bustle; and, after chattering nearly three hours to me, directly we reached Dieppe he never even looked round to see if I’d met my friends, or told or showed me anything, though he knew the regulations of the city well—which would have surprised me if I’d trusted his nasty eye, and would have made me feel desolate, if I hadn’t been who I am, and in a state of happy and independent resolution (which, perhaps, I ought to give him credit for perceiving). I was really glad of his chatter at last, for I thought the voyage long.

April 24th, 1859.

TO EMILY.

It has seemed to me so wonderful really to see large spaces of almost uninhabited country; they give me a sense of loneliness and quiet, quite unequalled and delightful. We came to a large lonely château, surrounded with firs, just as the sun sank behind a low hill, towards which it looked. The hill, the firs, the birches opposite stood up dark against the sunset. Oh! it was so lovely! That night (Thursday) we slept at Houden in a room with great whitewashed beams, looking out over the yard. We didn’t sleep, we were so cold; and we got up only just in time for the diligence to Rambouillet. The country was flattish, and very like Weybridge in soil and trees and plants; only the poplars were exquisitely graceful. I never knew what avenues were till now. They are lovely, and seem to me to be particularly interesting in being so orderly; yet the order was only discerned, the beauty only felt, from one spot....

We could hardly bear the suspense of climbing the hill, on which it[36] stood. We wanted to see the carving, and could hardly have borne the time, but that we saw its spires. At last we stood at its foot, and saw the great thing towering in the sunlighted blue vault. We could not tear ourselves away from the rich old porches at the north end; tho’ we were sinking with hunger;—one exclaiming, “Oh this is St. Peter—his key! look!” Another discovering, with delight, that there was the Virgin, or there was the Righteous Judgment. At last we went and had dinner, and on returning, entered.

I think you will be greatly amused to hear of our adventures, and all the people we have seen. I have to do all the talking to people, I’m getting quite ready to ask questions, and it increases the fun very much.[37] We have been in the most complete country and among quite rustic things; and I have laughed more since I came to France, than I have done for years, I think. I can’t say that I think the people very nice; they are extremely polite, except the soldiers, but are wretched beggars.... I hope, dear people, that all goes on well with you, and that all is comfortable. Pray tell me if it is not.

Via della Scala,
Tuesday, April 24th, 1859.

FLORENCE TO OCTAVIA.

There is great excitement in the town; a great many people about, and a great many gens d’armes. It seems the troops here want to go off to the war; and the Grand Duke does not know what to do; the soldiers are in great excitement, and it was said if he did not let them go there would be a revolution, or something or other to-day.

The poor old Hyena does not know what to do, he has too many keepers. _I believe_ the end will be he will abdicate, and leave the management of affairs to his sons. Many people are going: and still more are talking about it, because of the war and the unsettled state of affairs. I cannot say I feel at all afraid, I feel so perfectly safe. I am in the hands of One who knows what is best. In case of a revolution, everyone seems to think there would be no danger for private individuals. The Italians, especially the Florentines, are a good people, passionate, but not bloodthirsty and savage like the French. It would certainly be very shocking to be among scenes of violence; and I do hope the _French_ will not come here, on any excuse. Of course there is no knowing.

Wednesday, April 25th, 1859.

Well here we are without a government! Old Hyena has decamped, and all the family. The accounts at present are rather confused; but it seems the troops said they _would_ go to the war, and it would be the worse for the Grand Duke if he did not let them; so he was obliged to consent: but then the people wanted a constitution, and he was to tell them his decision at the Pitti Palace this afternoon; I do not know if he appeared; but at six he was gone. To-morrow General something or other from the King of Sardinia comes. You have no idea of the happy wild excitement the town has been in all day; everywhere the Italian colours, troops of men, with bright coloured flags, going about the streets, crying “Viva l’Italia!” “Viva il re Vittorio Emanuele!” “Viva l’independenza Italiana!”; at the cafés and hotels great flags up, and hardly a man without a bow or feather or something of Italian colours. It is very impressive and exciting; there is something so beautiful in _unity_, in men forgetting for a time their petty cares and dislikes, enmities, passions, interests, uniting in the great common feeling. _Coachmen_ seem especially patriotic. I have not seen _one_ without the Italian colours; perhaps it may be that, being mezza festa, and many people wanting carriages, in the present state of feeling a coachman who had the colours would be preferred. M. would call it very wrong of me to be suspicious, and attribute bad motives to people.

[Sidenote: THE TUSCAN REVOLUTION]

I cannot help pitying poor old Hyena; I hope he is pretty comfortable. No doubt he has been sending his things off for a long time. He would not have been bad, if he had been a private gentleman, poor fellow; he was out of his place, like a poor old dog having to draw a great cart. There were great placards up saying that the Grand Duke had gone, and that General —— from Piedmont would come, and in the meanwhile begging of the people to behave properly, and not to make any disturbance. But they were as peaceable as possible; seemed as if they would like to shake hands with everyone. I never saw such a happy expression on the Florentine faces; it was quite pleasant; even the little dust-heap boys had the colours on their ragged hats. I wonder how it will all end. What a terrible thing war is. A thing for the ninth and not the nineteenth century....

B.[38] told me to say we have had a most peaceable revolution; and there is no danger. It seems the Grand Duke first refused _everything_ that was demanded; but afterwards said he would do _anything_; but the people would not accept then.

Milton Street,
May 12th, 1859.

OCTAVIA TO GERTRUDE.

I’ve enjoyed all. It is right to let people hear of joy in this world. We were so delighted with Mortain, where there are immense grey granite rocks, and soft green dells of richest grass, bright with millions of flowers.... I saw showers of rain in the distance changed to bright mist, as they were between me and the sun, and the mist swept over the waves of blue hills, and from higher still among wastes of moor desolate with wind, tho’ bright with furze and cranberry, to which I climbed with hands and feet. I saw the sea, nine miles away, one golden blaze, on which the motionless grey rock of Mt. St. Michel stood faint and clear and firm. I delighted in the diligences. We always took the coupé, and there we were almost always alone.... The view from the top of the castle of Mt. St. Michel was magnificent, rising suddenly 300 feet out of the flat sand. This granite rock is very impressive; it had a wonderful tendency to become deep purple and has a look of solemn solitude which is rather increased than diminished by its one neighbour Tombe-lame.... Light and shadow passed quickly over the immense space now turning the grey sand to dazzling yellow white, now lighting a silver thread of some far-off, before unnoticed, stream; now leaving some space of water the brightest green, or purest blue; while far in the distance a long white line tells of the approach of the tide of dashing waves and rushing waters, and of the deep unfathomed ocean.

[Sidenote: HOW TO CHOOSE BOOKS FOR A LIBRARY]

1859.

TO MISS STERLING.

My own impression about the Library is that all books may be read rightly or idly; that, if the pupils are inclined to choose the latter course, they will not read “instructive books” and will get no good from wise ones. I should choose books by great authors, whether fiction, poetry or science; because they will repay earnest and careful reading; and any which seem to me likely to be delightful, because they treat truthfully anything that ought to interest people. I would suggest a few books; but they will probably be those which have taught me much, and which other people have been interested in, more because they knew them better than other books than because they were naturally suited to them. Longfellow, Wordsworth, Scott, George Herbert (too difficult?), Tennyson, Mrs. Gaskell’s “Moorland Cottage,” “Lizzie Leigh and other Tales” (cutting out “Lizzie Leigh”) and “Mary Barton” (perhaps). For the girls “Moral Courage” and “Steadfast Gabriel,” published by Chambers. The “Ocean Child,” “Birds and Flowers,” and some of Miss Martineau’s books are full of right and interesting thoughts. Miss Bremer’s “Strife and Peace” and “The Home” always seemed to me very beautiful books. If we might add one copy of the “Lectures on Great Men” to the Library and one of the “Feats on the Fiord” I think it would be well; the former would be a most valuable addition, and the more often it was read the better. I don’t know the price of Kingsley’s “Good News” nor whether it be much read, or if not whether or no it would be worth while to get it for Mary Moore’s benefit. I know very well the harm that would be done by any one reading these books only; and I would give you a far more serious list if I were able, provided always that they were great books of their kind. None of the books that I have read of a more studious kind seem to me the least suited to them; and of course you will remember that, where study is voluntary, it is begun because something has become living and interesting to us, as poets and writers of fiction often can make things, and people who love actual fact, like Ruskin and Carlyle, so seldom do. I don’t mean to exclude the two last from amongst the poets; but there is a great deal of simple fact and logic, untouched by feeling, in both. It often seems to me that, if we all had more of the poet nature, we should get people much more interested in all things near and far; and then, if we loved truth more, they would go thro’ much otherwise dry hard work to know facts. And one thing more, we mustn’t forget that reading forms but a small portion of a working woman’s life.

103, Milton St., Dorset Sq.,
May 29th, 1859.

TO MIRANDA.

I have Ruskin’s notes ready to send you by the next opportunity; and they will tell you far more about the exhibition than I can. I saw him on Monday week; and he told me that he saw from all I had done that I had the power to become all he wanted of me, namely a thoroughly good copyist. He wants me to learn to copy in water-colours the great Venetian masters. He asked me if I could be quite happy to do this, and told me he could be quite happy to spend his life thus, if he were in circumstances to do it. He then said to me that he had thought of setting me this summer to copy things for Mod. Paint.; but that, as that would not teach me much, it would be better for him, if I could be happy not to do any work which was to be used by him at once; to get a greater power. “In the one case,” he said, “at the end of six or eight months I should have several useful drawings, but _you_ would be of little more use than now; whereas, in the other, you would have attained considerable power.” ...

[Sidenote: MORE WORK FOR RUSKIN]

I believe it will be a real comfort to Ruskin, to feel that I am going to copy the pictures that he feels to be so precious, and that are being so destroyed. You see no one is taught to be humble enough to give up setting down their own fancies, that they may set down facts; and they deify these fancies and notions and imaginations of their own hearts, till they really think it a mean thing to represent nature, or other men’s works simply and faithfully: people hate copying because they do not copy simply, I believe. One tells me that when she copies, she is striving to appropriate the excellence of the picture; another that she is not wanting to copy the picture, but to sketch nature; she therefore will go so far off that she cannot see it clearly.... One lady assures me she should despise a person who paints exactly from nature, as she should a person who copies pictures: that Art has a higher function than either to delight or to teach; it has to remind us of our glory before the fall. Mr. D. informs me that in the time I take to copy a foreground, he would get the essence of every picture in the Dulwich collection. It sets me wondering what the essence of a picture is, that it can be got at so rapidly; and whether, if it is worth much, it may not also be worth much labour to gain it, and require much of the much talked of thought and spirit of man; whether faithful and earnest work may not be the only fit preparation for perception of truth in picture or in life; whether before we can understand, much less embody, noble truth, it may not be necessary firmly to believe day after day, when it is inconvenient, and when it is agreeable, that there really is a truth and a God of Truth, distinct from the imaginations of men’s hearts; whether simplicity is not much more necessary than excitement, even in art. So that I think one has reason to be very thankful to have been taught to look at real lines and colours and sizes, which one may not misrepresent; which don’t change when we change, nor depend for their power or beauty on our thoughts about them.

Milton Street,
June 26th, 1859.

TO FLORENCE.

[Sidenote: INFLUENCE OF MRS. BROWNING ON OCTAVIA]

... I quite trust Ruskin about his plans for me; only I wonder why he should speak _so_ despisingly of all copies, and yet set me to do them; but some day I shall understand it. I haven’t any doubt that Mrs. Browning feels passionately and intensely; but probably her passion is both controlled and concealed. I think her turning away, when you spoke of England, simply showed she saw you were feeling a great deal, and she meant to help you to conceal it. Ruskin says of her that she is the only entirely perfect example of womanhood he knows. You will see her again? I wish it were possible, or would be of any use, to thank her thro’ you for all she has taught me. You know sometimes as I walk to Dulwich in the scorching sun and am doubtful, or as tiredly I return up the New Road, the sunset or moonlight speaking less to me than haunting uncertain fears about those I love, I begin repeating “Isabel’s Child” to myself. The wonderful power of contrast of wild storm without, and dream within, the glory of the child’s vision, the almost awful infinity of thought in every verse, the perfect reality of the whole, are fresh delights to me, and yet I forget them all in the perfect rest of the last verse.

“Oh you
Earth’s tender and impassioned few!
Take courage to entrust your love
To Him so named, Who guards above
Its ends, and shall fulfil,
Breaking the narrow prayers that may
Befit your narrow hearts, away
In His broad loving will.”

And numbers of other lines and verses and poems teach me day by day. Well! you ask what I mean about not singing. Simply that I sing out of tune and haven’t time to learn not to do so, having a bad ear; and so I think I’d better make up my mind to the fact.

Thanks, dearest, for all your sympathy; but don’t be unhappy about me for any reason. I am so happy; and more so day by day. Miss Rogers returns this week. Mrs. Yarnall[39] has a little daughter.

103, Milton Street,
July 24th, 1859.

TO MIRANDA.

I want to ensure giving you some account of a speech of Kingsley’s. An Association of ladies has been formed to help sanitary reform; they have published tracts, etc. Their first public meeting was held on Thursday at Willis’s Rooms. Lord Shaftesbury made a speech as chairman, and urged ladies to attend to all the details of the question, as men could not. The legislative and theoretical was to be done only by them; the minute and much of the practical by ladies. Mr. Kingsley said: “After the excellent _résumé_ of your intentions which we have just heard in your report, there seems nothing left for me to say, except to ask you to consider what will be the result, if you succeed in accomplishing your aims. Now just consider! very great aims, very important aims—very dangerous aims some people would tell you that they are; nothing less than saving alive of some four out of every five (?) children that die annually. If you believe the teaching of many great political economists, who think that England is in great danger of being over-populated, and who advocate preventive checks on the increase of population, you had better pause and think whether it wouldn’t be better on the whole, just to let the children die; whether we mayn’t have difficulty in finding work and food for them. But if you hold, as I confess I do, that a human being is precisely the most precious thing the earth can have; if you think that the English race is the very noblest race the world contains; that it has, moreover, a greater power of adapting itself to every kind of climate and mode of life than any other, except the old Roman, ever had; that, besides all this, it is, on the whole, a young race, showing no signs of decay; you will see that it is worth while for political economists to look on the map, and see that at least four-fifths of the world is uninhabited, and not cultivated even in the most ordinary way.”

[Sidenote: KINGSLEY ON SANITARY REFORM]

I ought to tell you that, before this he had shown us how he expected women principally to be of use, by saying that he looked upon this Association most thankfully because, for reasons which he wasn’t going to explain here, he looked upon the legislative part of sanitary reform with something more like despair than ever. They were not reasons connected with this Government, or with any possible Government, but resulted from his consideration of the character of the individuals, into whose possession small houses were passing more and more. He was not going into the question here; it would have to be attended to, but it seemed a great way off. Therefore he hoped women would go, not only to the occupiers, but to the possessors of the house, and influence people of “our own class.” “And it’s so easy,” he said; “there isn’t a woman in this room who couldn’t save the lives of four or five children within the next six months; and this, without giving up one of your daily duties, one of your pleasures, one even of your frivolities, if you choose.

“You ask me what is more terrible than a field of battle, and I tell you outraged nature. Nature issues no protocols, nor warning notes to bid you be on your guard. Silently, and without stepping out of her way, by the same laws by which she makes the grass grow, she will kill and kill and kill and kill. And more than this, we have our courtesies of war and our chivalries of war; a soldier will not kill an unarmed man, a woman or a child; but nature has no pity. By an awful law, but for some blessed purpose, she is allowed to have none; and she will strike alike the child in its cradle, the strong man or woman. I wish to God someone had pictorial power to set before the mothers of England what that means—100,000 (?) preventable deaths! Oh be in earnest. Remember that, as a live dog is better than a dead lion, so one of those little children in the kennel out there is worth saving. Try to remember that it is not the will of our Father that one of these little ones should perish.”

103, Milton St., Dorset Sq.,
August 14th, 1859.

TO EMILY.

I hope you haven’t thought me unkind, which indeed I haven’t meant to be, but only very busy, as assuredly I do mean to be all my life long, if I can contrive it. Thanks for your sweet and welcome letters. You will have received the French lines, without accents. I will neither vouch for spelling nor grammar, but you must treat them as if they were exercises in Chapsall.

[Sidenote: FURNIVALL’S SUNDAY WALKS]

The event of my life since I last saw you has been, as you know, an expedition last Sunday of which I would wish to speak reasonably and calmly if I can succeed. Indeed it was glorious! I never saw a better friendship than that between the men and him (Mr. Furnivall). I’m a little weary of thinking over the Sunday question, and yet—lest you cast me off utterly, and Mr. Durrant ceases to send me kind messages, and Mary be shocked indeed—I must tell you a little how we stand here about it. Of course I told Mr. F. that I should never dream of entering into a plan involving habitual absence from church; tho’ I didn’t tell him how much I can sympathise with the spirit of some people who do. He goes with the men every Sunday; they, some of them at least, remain at home to go to church each alternate Sunday; but that is no part of his plan. His own faith is just as deep and living as ever; but he has evidently been disappointed with the amount or kind of union the church gives. They go regularly and very happily all together; he is ever ready to sympathise and enter into all kinds of happiness from the greatest to the least. He showed me where they walked, he told me when we were coming to the loveliest groups of trees, when to the creek where they bathe, how the park looked at moonlight, and how they all enjoyed it. He wants us to join them in an excursion to Leith Hill or Box Hill in September. I asked if it must be a Sunday, and he thought much about it, but says the men can’t get holidays. He talked about Rossiter, told me he heard one of my sisters was down with Durrant. He amused me vastly by saying, “Hoets, whom you saw at Cambridge, wants people to go and see his wife and children, as he’s thinking of going to Australia.” As if one could go and call on Mrs. Hoets without introduction, on such a plea! Oh, Minnie, but it was so glorious! As we walked through the park at Richmond at night, we sang hymns, “No! never part again,” “There is a happy land,” “Here we suffer grief and pain.” In the chorus of the last, a number of working, or rather loitering, men in Richmond joined very earnestly. We saw the pictures at Hampton Court with which I was much pleased. The men were very nice; they are so learned about flowers, etc., so respectful, so thoroughly happy. Several of our own pupils were there; everyone behaved well.

103, Milton Street, Dorset Square,
August 20th, 1859.

TO REV. F. D. MAURICE.

I hope that you will, in your great kindness, forgive my troubling you by asking whether you can give me a few words of advice on questions that are troubling me practically very much indeed.

1st. I have been very much impressed by the good and joy Mr. Furnivall’s Sunday excursions seem to be giving to the men and to their wives, sisters, and friends, who from time to time accompany them. I have rarely seen a more respectful, intelligent, and happy party than they. Of course I shouldn’t approve of members of the Church missing service habitually; but that doesn’t seem to me to be at all necessary to the plan. I know some people, to whom such a refreshment after their week’s work would be an inestimable good. It would give me a great delight to accept invitations for them; and have this opportunity of seeing them, and helping them; nor can I see any rule which can make it right for me to go and see my friends on Sunday, or go into the country, and yet makes it wrong for _them_ to go all together. Ought I to give up my only day for seeing relations and friends? I shouldn’t have hesitated about it, but that I imagine, perhaps incorrectly, that you disapprove of those excursions. May I ask if it is so? I have been trying to enter into the full purpose of Sunday, as you told me, quite giving up work, and, as you told me, everything that was an effort (except writing to my sisters, which ought to be none), and I do at last understand Sunday as a duty as well as privilege; but is not refreshment by seeing friends and change of scene right?

[Sidenote: THE SUNDAY QUESTION]

I wanted to ask two still more difficult questions but really ought not to trouble you more. Oh that you were in London that I might ask you! No! I am glad you are resting. And truly too, I don’t depend on your advice, but I know our Father has thousands of ways to teach me, if only my stubborn will and foolish fancies don’t blind me.

God bless you all. I hope Mrs. Maurice is better. Please don’t answer if you are busy or tired. Is it really difficult to tell what is right? Or is it only that one will not see the truth? Or does one not pray trustfully enough?

The classes are going on steadily and well. I am very well too; and dear Mama and Minnie are having happy holidays. I am all alone.

OCTAVIA TO REV. F. D. MAURICE.

I cannot attempt to express the thankfulness I feel for your kindness in answering my letter, perhaps most of all for the first words, “You should never apologise for asking my opinion,” because it seems as if it might be understood to have reference to our baptism; and although I quite feel the help you would give to everyone to be the most precious, and don’t want any special right to more than you would give to others, yet I often feel as if I very much wanted to be sure that I was not wrong in asking you questions about our own life, which I do not feel wise enough, or old enough, to decide myself, and which I cannot trust, though I sometimes do leave, to the decision of others. It is not about questions referring to faith that I feel this most. I know always about this to Whom I can go, and thank God! for some years (until this question of Sunday) have felt His help all sufficient; and it has been, except for my own sin and weakness, but one long blessed revelation of His love, of the meaning of prayer and sacraments. It was not about them that I feel as if I wanted any more help than I have; seldom now (tho’ most deeply when I feel it at all) about home life; for we have learnt a good deal now about where we have been wrong about it; it is principally about the application of principles to other social questions; it is all very well for people to tell me not to trouble myself about them, but they are involved in every action of daily life. Earnest thought, life itself, and some words of your own and others, for whom I have a great respect, have led me to convictions which, as I say, would lead me to actions differing widely from yours, and, I suppose, proceeding from some difference in principle. Sometimes I act for a little while on my own convictions, and am very happy, till the recollection of how wrong I was, and how sure I was about other things which you have taught me, principally by advising my giving up a course of action and adopting another, or some partial failure, make me think I am arrogant and self-willed; and yet when I take the other course I am oppressed with a sense of neglected duties, fear of my own honesty, and confusion about how far I ought to trust people, and you specially. This produces inconsistency in action; tho’, on the whole, I adopt the latter course for the questions relating principally to work at the College; I feel my position there implies very complete obedience. When I can see you (but that is so seldom now), I so try (indeed I try always) to understand the grounds on which you act; and I own myself fairly puzzled. It was to this I referred.

Your letter has shown me a much deeper meaning in Sunday than I had ever perceived in it; and I see the difficulty about the excursions very clearly, as not speaking to people as spiritual beings, called to full rest in trust in God: I am not sure that I do not think that, after the Church service has done this, the rest of the day would not be better passed among God’s works in the country, and in friendly intercourse; but I am less sure of having entered into the teaching of the Bible on the subject, than of setting a sufficient value on mere cessation from toil and recreation; and so I shall decidedly give up these excursions, till I have thought more about them. And even then I hope I am not wrong in feeling that I do not think, especially as College people are concerned, I could feel it right to go to them, when you feel as you do about it.

I am afraid this letter will give you the impression that I am trusting far too much to you, far too little in God; tho’ I have stated very frankly (it reads to me almost unkindly), how fears that you may be wrong about some things mingle with my sure knowledge how wonderfully you have been proved right about others. I accept both reproaches. I am often tempted to trust too much to you; not, I think, to believe your wisdom, and gentleness, and patience, and faith to be greater than they are, but to think too much that I was to trust to them in you, instead of in God, because I have not felt Him to be an ever-present guide, not only into the mysteries of His own Love, not only into the meaning of past wants, but into the grounds of all right and all wise action. This and this only has confused me; all has been ordered to teach me, all to strengthen me; and I alone am wrong. Only with these thoughts others mingle; I must not, in order to recover faith in a Director, give up the direction He places in my way; I must not mistake self-will for conscience, nor impatience for honesty. No one on earth can distinguish them for me; but He will. It so often seems to me as if two different courses of action were right or might be right; and this is what puzzles me, even tho’ it is a blessing as binding me to people of widely different opinions. Thank you once more, dear Sir, for all teaching, given now and before.

(Undated, probably August, 1859.)

TO MIRANDA.