In the following pages, the writer for the most part deals with small subjects in an unelaborate manner. He leaves the highways of literature, and strays into the fields and lanes, picking here a flower and there a leaf, and not going far at any time. There is no endeavour to explore with system, or to extend any excursion beyond a modest ramble. The author wanders at haphazard into paths which have attracted him, and along which, he hopes, the reader may be willing to bear him company.
e not what skies are the clearest, What scenes are the fairest of all; The skies and the scenes that are dearest For ever, are those that recall To the thoughts of the hopelessly-hearted The light of the dreams that deride, With the form of the dear and departed, Their loneliness, weary and wide.'
It may be assumed that 'Salsette and Elephanta' has been read by all who care about the undertaking. It was recited in the theatre at Oxford, printed in the same year (1839), and reprinted exactly forty years afterwards. It is a by no means unattractive piece of rhetoric.
Another of the annuals to which Mr. Ruskin contributed in those days was the Keepsake, in which he figured in 1845, under the editorship of the Countess of Blessington, with Landor, Monckton Milnes, Lord John Manners, and the future Lord Beaconsfield as fellow-contributors. He was also welcomed to the pages of Heath's Book of Beauty. Five years later he collected his fugitive pieces, and, adding a few new ones, inclu