no doubt, why people feared her. When Mr. Secretary Howell, in the
days when he was still the oracle of the Ruskin-Rossetti circle, had
been regaling them with his wonderful tales, after dinner, she would
throw her netting down and say, "How _can you_ two sit there and listen
to such a pack of lies?" She objected strongly, in these later years, to
the theatre; and when sometimes her son would wish to take a party into
town to see the last new piece, her permission had to be asked, and was
not readily granted, unless to Miss Agnew, who was the ambassadress in
such affairs of diplomacy. But while disapproving of some of his worldly
ways, and convinced that she had too much indulged his childhood, the
old lady loved him with all the intensity of the strange fierce lioness
nature, which only one or two had ever had a glimpse of. And when
(December 5th, 1871) she died, trusting to see her husband again--not to
be near him, not to be so high in heaven but content if she might only
_see_ him, she said--her son was left "with a surprising sense of
loneliness." He had loved her truly, obeyed her strictly and tended her
faithfully; and even yet hardly realized how much she had been to him.
He buried her in his father's grave, and wrote upon it, "Here beside my
father's body I have laid my mother's: nor was dearer earth ever
returned to earth, nor purer life recorded in heaven."
CHAPTER II
"FORS" BEGUN (1871-1872)
On January 1st, 1871, was issued a small pamphlet, headed "Fors
Clavigera," in the form of a letter to the working men and labourers of
England, dated from Denmark Hill, and signed "John Ruskin." It was not
published in the usual way, but sold by the author's engraver, Mr.
George Allen, at Heathfield Cottage, Keston, Kent. It was not
advertised; press-copies were sent to the leading papers; and of course
the author's acquaintance knew of its publication. Strangers, who heard
of this curious proceeding, spread the report that in order to get
Ruskin's latest, you had to travel into the country, with your
sevenpence in your hand, and transact your business among Mr. Allen's
beehives. So you had, if you wanted to see what you were buying; for no
arrangements were made for its sale by the booksellers: sevenpence a
copy, carriage paid, no discount, and no abatement on taking a quantity.
By such pilgrimages, but more easily through the post, the new work
filtered out, in monthly instalments, to a limited number o
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