or 'Deucalion,']
and the less I do the less I find I can do it; and yesterday, for the
first time these twenty years, I hadn't so much as a 'plan' in my head
all day." Arrived at Brantwood, as rest was useless, he tried work. Mr.
Willett had asked him to reprint "The Two Paths," and he got that ready
for press, and wrote a short preface. At Venice, Mr. J.R. Anderson had
been working out for him the myths illustrated by Carpaccio in the
Chapel of S. Giorgio de' Schiavoni; and the book had been waiting for
Ruskin's introduction until he was surprised by the publication of an
almost identical inquiry by M. Clermont-Ganneau. He tried to fulfil his
duty to his pupil by writing the preface immediately; most sorrowfully
feeling the inadequacy of his strength for the tasks he had laid upon
it. He wrote:

"My own feeling, now, is that everything which has hitherto
happened to me, and been done by me, whether well or ill, has been
fitting me to take greater fortune more prudently, and to do better
work more thoroughly. And just when I seem to be coming out of
school,--very sorry to have been such a foolish boy, yet having
taken a prize or two, and expecting now to enter upon some more
serious business than cricket,--I am dismissed by the Master I
hoped to serve, with a--'That's all I want of you, sir.'"

In such times he found relief by reverting to the past. He wrote in the
beginning of February a paper for the _University Magazine_ on "My First
Editor," W.H. Harrison, and forgot himself--almost--in bright
reminiscences of youthful days and early associations. Next, as Mr.
Marcus Huish, who had shown great friendliness and generosity in
providing prints for the Sheffield museum, was now proposing to hold an
Exhibition of Mr. Ruskin's "Turners" at the Fine Art Galleries in New
Bond Street, it was necessary to arrange the exhibits and to prepare the
catalogue. For the next fortnight he struggled on with this labour, and
with his last "Fors"--the last he was to write in the long series of
more than seven years.[40] How little the thousands who read the preface
to his catalogue, with its sad sketch of Turner's fate, and what they
supposed to be its "customary burst of terminal eloquence," understood
that it was indeed the cry of one who had been wounded in the house of
his friends, and was now believing every day that dawned on him to be
his last. He told of Turner's youthful picture of the