The Harvest of RuskinGraham, John W. (John William)
Religion
The Harvest of Ruskin
Graham, John W. (John William)
Ruskin, John, 1819-1900
I met him first in my own earliest home, beneath the spurs of
Skiddaw,--its long slopes “bronzed with deepest radiance,” as the boy
Wordsworth had seen them long since in even such an evening’s glow.
Since early morning Ruskin had lain and wandered in the folds and
hollows of the hill; and he came back grave as from a solemn service
from day-long gazing on the heather and the blue. Later came many
another scene;--pacings in the Old Court of Trinity with Edmund Gurney,
who met those generous paradoxes with humorous play; graver hours at
Oxford, in the sick-room of the Duke of Albany, who, coming back to
earth-life from perilous illness, found nowhere a guidance fitter than
Ruskin’s for eager and royal youth.
But chiefliest I think of him in that home of high thoughts where his
interest in our inquiry first upgrew. For the introduction to the new
hope came to him, as to Edmund Gurney and to myself, through a lady whom
each of us held in equal honour; and it was on the stately lawns of
Broadlands, and in that air as of Sabbatical repose, that Ruskin enjoyed
his one brief season,--since the failure of his youthful Christian
confidence--of blissful trust in the Unseen. To one among that company a
vision came, as of a longed-for meeting of souls beloved in heaven, a
vision whose detail and symbolism carried conviction to Ruskin’s heart.
While that conviction abode with him he was happy as a child; but
presently he suffered what all are like to suffer who do not keep their
minds close pressed to actual evidence by continuous study. That impress
faded; and leaving the unseen world in its old sad uncertainty, he went
back to the mission which was laid on him,--that mission of humanizing
this earth, and being humanized thereby, which our race must needs
accomplish, whatever be the last doom of man.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind;
And even with something of a Mother’s mind
And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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