[Footnote 43:  The face most familiar at Brantwood in those times was “Laurie’s.”  A strange, bright, gifted boy—­admirable draughtsman, ingenious mechanician, marvellous actor; the imaginer of the quaintest and drollest humours that ever entered the head of man; devoted to boats and boating, but unselfishly ready to share all labours and contribute to all diversions; painstaking and perfect in his work, and brilliant in his wit,—­Laurence Hilliard was dearly loved by his friends, and is still loved by them dearly.  He was Ruskin’s chief secretary at Brantwood from Jan., 1876 to 1882, when the death of his father, and ill-health, led him to resign the post, which was then filled by Miss Sara D. Anderson.  Hilliard continued to live at Coniston, and was just beginning to succeed as a painter of still life and landscape when he died of pleurisy on board a friend’s yacht in the Aegean, April 11th, 1887, aged thirty-two.]

A Brantwood dinner is always ample; there is no asceticism about the place; nor is there any affectation of “intensity” or of conversational cleverness.  The neat things you meant to say are forgotten—­you must be hardened indeed to say them to Mr. Ruskin’s face; but if you were shy, you soon feel that there was no need for shyness; you have fallen among friends; and before dessert comes in, with fine old sherry—­the pride of your host, as he explains—­you feel that nobody understands you so well, and that all his books are nothing to himself.

They don’t sit over their wine, and smoking is not allowed.  Ruskin goes off to his study after dinner—­it is believed for a nap, for he was at work early and has been out all the afternoon.  In the drawing-room you see pictures—­water-colours by Turner and Hunt, drawings by Prout and Ruskin, an early Burne-Jones, a sketch in oil by Gainsborough.  The furniture is the old mahogany of Mr. Ruskin’s childhood, with rare things interspersed—­like the cloisonne vases on the mantelpiece.

Soon after nine Ruskin comes in with an armful of things that are going to the Sheffield museum, and while his cousin makes his tea and salted toast, he explains his last acquirements in minerals or missals, eager that you should see the interest of them; or displays the last studies of Mr. Rooke or Mr. Fairfax Murray, copies from Carpaccio or bits of Gothic architecture.

Then, sitting in the chair in which he preached his baby-sermon, he reads aloud a few chapters of Scott or Miss Edgeworth, or, with judicious omissions, one of the older novelists; or translates, with admirable facility, a scene of Scribe or George Sand.  When his next work comes out you will recognise this evening’s reading in his allusions and quotations, perhaps even in the subjects of his writing, for at this time he is busy on the articles of “Fiction, Fair and Foul.”

After the reading, music; a bit of his own composition, “Old Aegina’s Rock,” or “Cockle-hat and Staff”; his cousin’s Scotch ballads or Christy Minstrel songs; and if you can sing a new ditty, fresh from London, now is your chance.  You are surprised to see the Prophet clapping his hands to “Camptown Races,” or the “Hundred Pipers”—­chorus given with the whole strength of the company; but you are in a house of strange meetings.