much as to the covers.-Books are the negative pictures of thought, and the more sensitive the mind that receives their images, the more nicely the finest lines are reproduced. A woman (of the right kind), reading after a man, follows him as Ruth followed the reapers of Boaz, and her gleanings are often the finest of the wheat. But it was in talking of Life that we came most nearly together. I thought I knew something about that,that I could speak or write about it somewhat to the purpose. To take up this fluid earthly being of ours as a sponge sucks up water, to be steeped and soaked in its realities as a hide fills its pores lying seven years in a tan-pit,-to have winnowed every wave of it as a mill-wheel works up the stream that runs through the flume upon its floatboards, to have curled up in the keenest spasms and flattened out in the laxest languors of this breathing sickness, which keeps certain parcels of matter uneasy for three or four score years,-to have fought all the devils and clasped all the angels of its delirium, and then, just at the point when the white-hot passions have cooled down to cherry-red, plunge our experience into the icecold stream of some human language or other, one might think would end in a rhapsody with something of spring and temper in it All this I thought my power and province. The schoolmistress had tried life, too. Once in a while one meets with a single soul greater than all the living pageant which passes before it. As the pale astronomer sits in his study with sunken eyes and thin fingers, and weighs Uranus or Neptune as in a balance, so there are meek, slight women who have weighed all which this planetary life can offer, and hold it like a bauble in the palm of their slender hands. This was one of them. Fortune had left her, sorrow had baptized her; the routine of labor and the loneliness of almost friendless city life were before her. Yet, as I looked upon her tranquil face, gradually regaining a cheerfulness which was often sprightly, as she became interested in the various matters we talked about and places we visited, I saw that eye and lip and every shifting lineament were made for love,unconscious of their sweet office as yet, and meeting the cold aspect of Duty with the natural graces which were meant for the reward of nothing less than the Great Passion. -I never addressed one word of love to the schoolmistress in the course of these pleasant walks. It seemed to me that we talked of everything but love on that particular morning. There was, perhaps, a little more timidity and hesitancy on my part than I have commonly shown among our people at the boarding-house. In fact, I considered myself the master at the breakfasttable; but, somehow, I could not command myself just then so well as usual. The truth is, I had secured a passage to Liverpool in the steamer which was to leave at noon, with the condition, however, of being released in case circumstances occurred to detain me. The schoolmistress knew nothing about all this, of course, as yet. It was on the Common that we were walking. The mall, or boulevard of our Common, you know, has various branches leading from it in different directions. One of these runs down from opposite Joy Street southward across the whole length of the Common to Boylston Street. We called it the long path, and were fond of it. I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably robust habit) as we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. I think I tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly audible. At last I got out the question, -Will you take the long path with me?-Certainly, said the schoolmistress,-with much pleasure.-Think, I said,-before you answer: if you take the long path with me now, I shall interpret it that we are to part no more!The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow had struck her. One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard by, the one you may still see close by the Gingko-tree.— Pray, sit down,-I said.-No, no, she answered, softly,— I will walk the long path with you! -The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking, arm in arm, about the middle of the long path, and said, very charmingly,-"Good morning, my dears!" John Ruskin (1819-1900), eminent as author, art critic, and social reformer, was the son of a wealthy English merchant. His father was a lover of pictures, and took the boy to see the great collections in public and private galleries in England. His mother read to him daily from the Bible, and to this Ruskin attributed the clearness and beauty of his style. He was educated at Oxford. His first intellectual interest was in art, and his first book was Modern Painters. Later volumes were Stones of Venice, and Seven Lamps of Architecture. These established his position as one of the great art critics of his time, and as a master of English prose. He next turned his attention to social and economic questions. It was his belief that no nation could produce great art unless it had moral and spiritual greatness as a foundation. He saw the English people in their great industrial development, forgetful of higher things. He wrote books and delivered lectures untiringly in the effort to arouse the nation to a sense of its wrong aims. Nor did he stop at writing. The death of his father left him a fortune of nearly a million dollars: he spent practically all of this in various projects for bettering the condition of the working people of England. He built model tenements, established co-operative associations, started schools for workers. Many of the reform movements of to-day owe their origin to John Ruskin. He wrote a great number of books, dealing mainly with the three great interests of his life, painting, architecture, and political economy. The selection "The Sky" illustrates Ruskin's wonderful descriptive power, and his gift of writing prose that has the beauty and music of poetry. |