Читать книгу Life of Octavia Hill as Told in Her Letters онлайн

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I saw Rossetti last night, and learned that Ruskin is not going abroad, but to Manchester, Oxford, etc., to lecture. He starts to-day. He was at Russell Place, to see the pictures; but did not see any of us. Rossetti was so friendly, I could not hate him, with his bright bright eyes, and recalling, as he did, dear people; and he was so kind too.... Miss R. has heard of our being confirmed.^[27]... Mr. Maurice has been lecturing on Milton before the Royal Society.

45, Great Ormond St.,

July 8th, 1857.

To Florence.

... What fine efforts you are making about the toys! They quite put me to shame. How nice it is tho’, that we can work together, tho’ we are so far apart, is it not?... I hope you will get to know Mrs. Browning some day. How glorious that thunderstorm must have been! Do you know I am to teach all the classes this autumn, except singing,—(all is not many—reading, writing and arithmetic). The ladies are all going out of town.... Do you know I so enjoyed my visit to Weybridge last April. I have never enjoyed a visit there so much. I enjoyed the riding so, and how beautiful the country is!... (Of a visit to Buckinghamshire she writes): You know there are acres and acres and acres of beech woods, valleys and hills clothed and covered with them, and there are rounded hills with most beautiful slopes; and from little cleared spaces in the woods one catches a glimpse of far-off purple hills, and nearer hills covered with wood, and farm-houses with their great barns golden-roofed, with lichen lying in a sheltered hollow; and the great bare head of some uncovered hill, cut with clear outline against the sky; and then perhaps we plunged into the depths of the woods again, where the sunlight fell between the fan-like branches of the beeches and thro’ their leaves like a green mist, on to the silver stems, and on to the ground russet with last year’s fallen leaves, perhaps upon the crest of some tall fern, or upon a sheet of blue speed-wells, or on some little wood sorrel plant, or a grey tree stump, touched with golden lichen, or gold-green moss. And then the larks, cuckoos, and nightingales seemed hardly to stop by night or day, but kept up a glad sweet chorus.—The classes will be over in a minute, and then I must go. Forgive this short letter. I will try to write more next time. I often think of you, dear dear little Flo, and love to see “Loke” at the beginning of a letter. It is your own name, and no one else uses it, so it always reminds me of you.