I AM kindly permitted by the Council of the Society for Psychical Research to reprint here the beautiful tribute by F. W. H. Myers, which appeared in their Journal for March, 1900; and has been reprinted in Mr. Myers’s Fragments of Prose and Poetry, pp. 89-94.

Ruskin, then, has sunk to rest. The bracken and bilberries of the Lake-land which he loved so well have hidden the mortal shape of the greatest man of letters, the loftiest influence which earth still retained;—have enwrapped “the man dear to the Muses, and by the Nymphs not unbeloved"—

We may rejoice that the long waiting is over; but memory all the more “goes slipping back to that delightful time” when he was with us in his force and fire; when it was still granted to hearken to his utterance; to feel the germ of virtue quickened by his benignant soul. For those who had the privilege of knowing Ruskin, the author came second to the man; and in this brief notice of his Honorary Membership of our Society I may perhaps be pardoned if I dwell in reminiscence, without attempting any formal review.

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.

But Ruskin’s task,—however it might be pursued in forgetfulness of that unrememberable home,—was surely still the task (as Bacon called it) “to prepare and adorn the bride-chamber of the mind and the universe”; and that melior natura which seemed to be Ruskin’s, as it was Bacon’s, divinity has never shone more radiantly upon the inward shrine of any lover of men. It was half in jest that I would complain to him that to Earth he gave up what was meant for Infinity, and bent a cosmic passion upon this round wet pebble of rock and sea. “Ah, my friend!” he answered once when I spoke of life to come, “if you could only give me fifty years longer of this life on earth, I would ask for nothing more!” And half that season was granted to him, and all in vain;—for what Tithonus may tread for ever unweary the “gleaming halls of Morn”?

Then as that fervent life wore on, Ruskin turned more and more from the outward pageant to the human passion; from Alp and sunset to the sterner beauty of moral law. From the publication of Unto This Last, one may trace that slow-growing revolt against the Age which led him to preach in the end with such despairing emphasis the duty of protest, of renunciation, of sheer self-severance from most of the tendencies of modern life. The strength of this emotion in him was made, I remember, strangely plain on one occasion, when some of those who cared most for him had clubbed together, at Lord Mount-Temple’s suggestion, to surprise him, on his recovery from a serious illness, with the present of a picture of Turner’s, which he had once possessed and still dearly loved, but of which he had despoiled himself to meet some generous impulse. Never were givers more taken aback by the issue of their gift. For the sudden sight of the lovely landscape hung in his bedroom drew from him a letter of almost heart-broken pain,—at the thought that those whom he would so fain have helped,—who were thus willing to do this thing, or almost anything, to please him,—were yet not willing to do that other thing for their own souls’ sake;—to come out from the iniquity,—to shake off the baseness of the age,—to bind themselves in the St. George’s Guild with that small remnant who clung to things pure and true.

Indeed, there was something naÏve, something childlike, in his Brotherhoods, his Leagues, his solemn Covenants against the onflowing tide of things;—but a stern reality beneath all this became strongly present to us then;—a deep compassion for the lonely heart, which so much needed love, yet could scarcely accept a fellowship in love which was not also a fellowship in all that he held for virtue.

There are some who fear lest too pervading a belief in that other world may make men indifferent to the loveliness and irresponsive to the woes of this. Yet must that needs be so? or might we not treat even this world’s problems with steadier heart, could we regain,—from some surer foothold in the Invisible,—that ancient serenity of the Saints? Watching that ardent soul, whose very raptures trembled on the brink of pain, I have thought that even from Ruskin’s delight in Nature something of a bitter yearning might have been soothed away, could he have seen in stream and moorland, nay even in

could he have seen, I say, in these, as Plato saw in Castaly or in Hymettus, only the transitory adumbration and perishing symbol of somewhat more enduring and more fair. Nay, even from his compassion for stunted and erring souls might not the burning pain have gone, could he have seen those souls as Er the Paphlagonian saw them, marshalled in an everlasting order, of which but a moment’s glimpse is shown;—till even “this last” of men shall follow out, through all vicissitude, his endless and his mounting way?

And turning then, with heart full of such-like fancies, to that well-loved Leader’s fate;—imagining his baffled isolation, and the disheartenment of solitary years;—I have pictured him waiting in the Coniston woodlands, as Œdipus in Colonus’ grove,—waiting in mournful memory, in uncomplaining calm—till he should hear at last the august summons,—nay, sounded it not like the loving banter?—of the unguessed accompanying God. “Come, Œdipus, why linger on our journey? Thou hast kept me waiting long.”