“This ‘Fors Clavigera,’ Letter 5th, which I have just finished reading, is incomparable; a quasi-sacred consolation to me, which almost brings tears into my eyes!  Every word of it is as if spoken, not out of my poor heart only, but out of the eternal skies; words winged with Empyrean wisdom, piercing as lightning,—­and which I really do not remember to have heard the like of. Continue, while you have such utterances in you, to give them voice.  They will find and force entrance into human hearts, whatever the ‘angle of incidence’ may be; that is to say, whether, for the degraded and in human Blockheadism we, so-called ‘men,’ have mostly now become, you come in upon them at the broadside, at the top, or even at the bottom.  Euge, Euge!—­Yours ever,

“T.  Carlyle.”

Others, like Sir Arthur Helps, joined in this encouragement.  But the old struggle with the newspapers began over again.

They united in considering the whole business insane, though they did not doubt his sincerity when Ruskin put down his own money, the tenth of what he had, as he recommended his adherents to do.  By the end of the year he had set aside L7,000 toward establishing a company to be called of “St. George,” as representing at once England and agriculture.  Sir Thomas Dyke Acland and the Right Hon. W. Cowper-Temple (afterwards Lord Mount Temple), though not pledging themselves to approval of the scheme, undertook the trusteeship of the fund.  A few friends subscribed; in June, 1872, after a year and a half of “Fors,” the first stranger sent in his contribution, and at the end of three years L236 13s. were collected, to add to his L7,000, and a few acres of land were given.

Meanwhile Ruskin practised what he preached.  He did not preach renunciation; he was not a Pessimist any more than an Optimist.  Sometimes he felt he was not doing enough; he knew very well that others thought so.  I remember his saying, in his rooms at Oxford in one of those years:  “Here I am, trying to reform the world, and I suppose I ought to begin with myself, I am trying to do St. Benedict’s work, and I ought to be a saint.  And yet I am living between a Turkey carpet and a Titian, and drinking as much tea”—­taking his second cup—­“as I can swig!”

That was the way he put it to an undergraduate; to a lady friend he wrote later on, “I’m reading history of early saints, too, for my Amiens book, and feel that I ought to be scratched, or starved, or boiled, or something unpleasant; and I don’t know if I’m a saint or a sinner in the least, in mediaeval language.  How did the saints feel themselves, I wonder, about their saintship!”