Hortus Inclusus | Page 2

are the fruit of the most beautiful friendship I have ever
been permitted to witness, a friendship so unique in some aspects of it,
so sacred in all, that I may only give it the praise of silence. I count
myself happy to have been allowed to throw open to all wise and quiet
souls the portals of this Armida's Garden, where there are no spells
save those woven by love, and no magic save that of grace and
kindliness. Here my pleasant share in this little book would have ended,
but Mr. Ruskin has desired me to add a few words, giving my own
description of Susie, and speaking of my relationship to them both. To
him I owe the guidance of my life,--all its best impulses, all its
worthiest efforts; to her some of its happiest hours, and the blessings
alike of incentive and reproof. In reading over Mr. Ruskin's Preface, I

note that, either by grace of purpose or happy chance, he has left me
one point untouched in our dear friend's character. Her letters inserted
here give some evidence of it, but I should like to place on record how
her intense delight in sweet and simple things has blossomed into a
kind of mental frolic and dainty wit, so that even now in the calm
autumn of her days, her friends are not only lessoned by her ripened
wisdom, but cheered and recreated by her quaint and sprightly humor.
In the Royal Order of Gardens, as Bacon puts it, there was always a
quiet resting-place called the Pleasaunce; there the daisies grew
unchecked, and the grass was ever the greenest. Such a Pleasaunce do
these Letters seem to me. Here and there, indeed, there are shadows on
the grass, but no shadow ever falls between the two dear friends who
walk together hand in hand along its pleasant paths. So may they walk
in peace till they stand at the gate of another Garden, where
"Co' fiori eterni, eterno il frutto dura."
A. F. NEAUM CRAG, LOUGHRIGG, AMBLESIDE.

PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.
Since these letters were published fourteen years ago, both Mr. Ruskin
and Miss Beever have passed to the country he longed to find, "where
the flowers do not fade." In this new Edition some of the earlier letters
have been withdrawn, and others, of possibly wider interest, are
inserted in their place. I have also added a reproduction of Mr. Ruskin's
last letter to Miss Beever. It was written about the 20th October, 1893,
and was read to her on her death-bed. He was then himself in broken
health, and it took him three weary hours to write this little note of
eight lines. I believe this to be the last complete letter that ever came
from his pen. Miss Beever sent it to me with the wish "that some day I
might use it," and I now fulfill that wish by inserting it here as the
pathetic close to a correspondence, in which there was so much of a
gay and playful nature; commending it to the "memorial sympathy"
claimed by him for his earlier letters. The word "Phoca" is a signature

often used by him in writing to his old friend.
I have been asked to add illustrations to this Edition; and some fresh
explanatory notes and dates will also be found.
A. F.
NEAUM CRAG, AMBLESIDE, 1902.

HORTUS INCLUSUS.
* * * * *
BRANTWOOD, 16th March, 1874.
MY DEAREST SUSIE,--
In a state of great defeat and torment, this morning--having much to do
with the weather and--not living on milk, I have been greatly helped
by--one of my own books![1] It is the best I ever wrote--the last which
I took thorough loving pains with--and the first which I did with full
knowledge of sorrow.
Will you please read in it--first--from 65 at the bottom of page 79[2] as
far as and not farther than, 67 in page 81. That is what helped me this
morning.
Then, if you want to know precisely the state I am in, read the account
of the Myth of Tantalus, beginning at 20--p. 24 and going on to
25--page 31.
It is a hard task to set you, my dear little Susie; but when you get old,
you will be glad to have done it, and another day, you must look at
page 94, and then you must return me my book, for it's my noted copy
and I'm using it.
The life of Tantalus doesn't often admit of crying: but I had a real

cry--with quite wet tears yesterday morning, over what--to me is the
prettiest bit in all Shakespeare
"Pray, be content; Mother, I am going to the market-place-- Chide me
no more."[3]
And almost next to it, comes (to me,