Perhaps he was brutally
murdered, perhaps, too, the night of the deed may have been wild with
thunder and lightning raging in the sky. Probably the weird story, with
all its improbable trappings, was circulated by some one who knew the
truth, but who was interested in concealing it. Who knows?
[Illlustration: HINKSEY, AN OXFORDSHIRE VILLAGE IN WHICH THE ROAD WAS
CONSTRUCTED BY RUSKIN AND A BAND OF OXFORD STUDENTS.]
We were now passing through scenes and pastures, quiet fields and farms,
of which many of Oxford's famous students and scholars had written and
sung. Matthew Arnold had painted these fields and villages, hills and
gliding, reedy streams in some of his poems, and they were the objective
of many of his Rambles:
Hills where Arnold wander'd and all sweet
June meadows, from the troubling world withdrawn.
Here too in one of these small hamlets through which we passed Ruskin
with a gang of his pupils in flannels started roadmaking, and for days
and weeks were to be seen at their arduous task of digging and
excavation, toiling and moiling with pick, spade, and barrow, while
Ruskin stood by, applauding and encouraging them in their task of making
and beautifying the roads of these villages which he loved so well.
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