Die Grüfte thaten sich seufzend auf, Der Sender unter dem Baldachin, Der Hunger erlitten, Verkennung, Pein, Der alte Hass und der alte Groll, Hat unversöhnt noch die Hände Es bebte die Orgel, wie Pulsschlag laut, Wie Martyr und Henker da wiederkam, Und Arme umschlangen die Säulen, wie Daran gefesselt von eignen Haar. Dann ward es wieder so still und gross, Mein Herz ist wie die Westminsterabtei, Da treten die Lichtgestalten heran, Mir brausts, durchs Herze und singt so mild, Sie athmen warm, während Bild um Bild, Mit fernen Grüssen sich fanden. Mein Herz ist wie Westminster, so hoch, Da Keiner verschollen, und Nichts verschwand, Mit meinen Armen umschling ich bang Die zittern. Sie wissen wo's Herze brach, Bucarest, den 9ten Januar, 1900. CARMEN SYLVA. MR. RUSKIN AT FARNLEY THE recent death of Mr. Ruskin has brought to my mind certain notes I took of his later visit to Farnley, and has made me try and remember all I had heard of the visit he paid many years ago, and these notes, with my recollections and a few letters from him, should, I think, make an interesting record of his connection with Farnley. I have no means of knowing how Mr. Ruskin became acquainted with our late uncle, Francis Hawksworth Fawkes of Farnley, the son of Turner's friend, but his first visit to Farnley was about the year 1851. All that is known about the visit is a matter of tradition, but I remember my uncle telling me that Mr. and Mrs. Ruskin stayed there for a month at least, and that every night he used to take one of the water colours up to his bedroom to look at it the first thing in the morning, and there are many notes about the Turner drawings in Modern Painters. There are also memories of the beauty and charm of the bride, as she then was, and of how she used to wade barefoot in the stream like a real Scotch lassie. There must have been during that month much of interesting talk, but I was never able to glean much about it from my uncle. I am bound to say that though he was pleased with his great appreciation of Turner, he had not the feeling of reverence for the author of Modern Painters that I have always had; however, they were very friendly, as the following letter will show, written from Venice: Venice: 8th February, 1852. Dear Mr. Fawkes,-I have been long wishing to write to you, and more to hear from you; but since I left London I have been far from well, and able to write only few letters, but I cannot stay longer without knowing, first how you are, and secondly, that you were not offended at my inscribing my pamphlet to you, of which, not having heard from you since, I have been in some little fear. There was so much in it about your collection that I did not like it to appear without some special acknowledgment of your kindness, but if you do not wish your name to be associated with the opinions expressed in other parts of the pamphlet, I will withdraw it in future editions. But I want first of all to know how you are, for you must have felt very deeply what has occurred since last I saw you. For myself, I had been expecting it, and yet it has cast more shadow than I thought over these lagoons which he painted so often-what must it over your secret walks and glens? I have heard nothing definite of what he has done-probably you have heard more than I. I was in hopes at first, from a vague report of the will, that all the pictures, sketches and drawings had been left to form a grand gallery; now they tell me it is the finished pictures only. Alas! these are finished in a double sense— nothing but chilled fragments of paint on rotten canvas. The Claudites will have a triumph when they get into the National Gallery. I am longing to get home to see what has been found in his cellars and drawers, but I have a great deal to do here yet-perhaps I shall have to run home and return. Are you thinking of coming to town this season, or were you discouraged by the unfortunate result of last year?—nay, I am sure you will be up if only to see the Queen Anne Street pictures once more on the old walls, and I should be grieved if I did not meet you there. I was very sorry that I did not see Lady Barnes when she came to town. We were just leaving when she arrived. I was, besides, in much confusion, not only leaving for the Continent, but leaving the town house-I hope the last, as it was the first town house in which I shall ever live. The man who breakfasts with a brick wall opposite to him when he may have a green field, deserves to be bricked up in it. You will not be much interested in anything that I can tell you about Venice; you have enough to entertain you at home-the brave doings of our clever Ministry. I think, however, I shall make Effie write you an account of one of Marshal Radetzky's balls, which I broke through my vows of retirement to take her to the other day at Verona. There was much of interest in it, but chiefly seeing the old Marshal and his intense solicitude that everyone, and especially the ladies, should have enough to eat, standing behind their chairs at the supper table, reconnoitring the table as if it had been a field of battle, and running every now and then himself to the kitchen to order up the reserves. I think also I must get you to write to Effie, in order to remind her that she has some friends in England; also I do not know how I am to get her away from here, the Austrians have made such a pet of her that she declares if she ever leaves Venice it must be to go to Vienna. But, at any rate, pray write a single line either to Effie or me, saying how you all are-a letter will always find me sent to the Poste Restante here; I have a direction, but it is a troublesome and long one, and the letter will be quite as safe at the Post Office. I must do the Austrians justice in this respect. My father writes to me twice a week, and I to him every day. I have been five months in Venice and never a letter has missed. I hope this will not be the first to be lost, for I am really getting very anxious to hear from you. Have you done anything to the drawings of birds yet? I am terrified lest any harm happen to them in framing. Pray tell me they are safe, and if the large pictures are still down and you continue to like them so. Effie sends her best love, and says (which my letter above will confirm), first, that she is as wild as ever,' secondly, which is rather inconsistent with my statements, that she hopes to come and have some more walks at Farnley,' which I am exceedingly glad to hear, and lastly, that she hopes to come to be kept in order by you again some day,' which is the most sensible thing I have heard her say for a long time. Our best regards to Mrs. Fawkes. Ever, my dear Mr. Fawkes, Most sincerely yours, Postscript by Mrs. Ruskin : Dear Mr. Fawkes,-Pray don't mind what Mr. Ruskin says about me on the opposite page. I love you and dear Mrs. Fawkes and Farnley as much as ever, and no Austrians or anybody else will make me forget you or your kindness to me. Mr. Ruskin and I often talk of you and Mrs. Fawkes. Ever, believe me, Sincerely yours, EFFIE. The pamphlet alluded to in the letter is the one on PreRaphaelitism, in which there are many descriptions of the Farnley drawings, more especially of the 'Mont Cenis' in a snowstorm and the 'Man-of-War.' The allusion to the drawings of birds is of great interest. There is a book of birds' feathers compiled by a member of the Fawkes family early in the century in the library at Farnley; on one side the feathers from the head, back, breast, etc., fastened down; on the other side of the page, drawings of the bird by various hands; of these some twelve are by Turner, some of them said to be shot by him. Mr. Ruskin was of opinion that the fact of rubbing against the feathers was injurious to these works of art, which were very badly mounted, so they were placed in a book, and many years later we had them window-mounted with great care. Soon after this letter was written, sad events happened which caused the intimacy with Farnley to be broken off, and it was thirty years before any communication passed with Mr. Ruskin. In the year 1881 I was anxious to place a portrait of Mr. Ruskin in the room at Farnley, which tradition says was occupied by Turner, and in which room I placed all the portraits of Turner I could find. I wrote to Mr. Ruskin asking him for his photograph, and I got the following reply: Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire : 4th May, 1881. My dear Madam,-Your letter has given me more pleasure than anything that has chanced to me for many a day-relating to the old times and lost hopes of my life, or at least, laid down hopes, for I can sometimes lift them again, and recover the trust that some day yet Turner may be known by English people for what he was. It is more than delightful to me also to find an English lady still caring for the things and the people that have been. There is no photograph of me that is the least like even what is now left of the youth who loved Turner. The engravings from Richmond's portrait are out of the market, but I have written to him to-day to ask whether, if I were to send the drawing to London, he could trust my photographer to do from it what would satisfy him. If not, I will try and get a little water-colour copy made for you from Richmond's water-colour sketch; this, I think, might fall in better in every way with your pretty plans for the decoration, of the room. May I come to see it when all's done ? With sincere remembrances to Mr. Fawkes, and renewed thanks for your letter, Believe me, dear Madam, This letter was very shortly followed by a most kind letter from Mr. Richmond. 20 York Street: My dear Madam,-My friendship with your father, Baron Cleasby, emboldens me to address you, and I write this to inform you that at the request of my dear |