Ruskin as a child often visited Coniston, and in 1830 at the age of eleven made his first written mention of the place in a MS. journal now in the Museum. In his Iteriad, a rhymed description of the tour of that date, he gave the first hint of his wish to live in the Lake District, and in the winter of 1832-33, at the age of nearly fourteen, he wrote the well-known verses which stood first in the earliest collection of his poems:—
I weary for the torrent foaming,
For shady holm and hill;
My mind is on the mountain roaming,
My spirit's voice is still.
The crags are lone on Coniston ...
remembering first and foremost, not Snowdon or Scotland, but Coniston. In 1837, as an Oxford man, he was here again, making notes for his earliest prose work, The Poetry of Architecture; and one of the illustrations was a sketch of the Old Hall from the water, the view which became so familiar afterwards from his windows at Brantwood.
Then for a while his interests turned to the cathedrals of France, the palaces and pictures of Italy, and to the loftier scenery of the Alps; but curiously enough he did not like the Matterhorn at first—it was too unlike "Cumberland," he said. In 1847, already a well-known author, he was looking out for a house in the Lake District, and staying at Ambleside. But the March weather was dull, and he had many causes for depression. As he rowed on Windermere he pined for the light and colour of southern skies. "The lake," he wrote home, "when it is quite calm, is wonderfully sad and quiet; no bright colour, no snowy peaks. Black water, as still as death; lonely, rocky islets; leafless woods, or worse than leafless; the brown oak foliage hanging dead upon them; gray sky; far-off, wild, dark, dismal moorlands; no sound except the rustling of the boat among the reeds." Next year he revisited the lakes in spring, and wrote soon after about a wild place he had found:—"Ever since I passed Shap Fells, when a child, I have had an excessive love for this kind of desolation."
It was not, however, until 1867 that he revisited the Lakes. He came to Coniston on August 10th and went up the Old Man, delighted with the ascent. We have already quoted his description of the view.
At last (it was in 1871, at the age of 52, being then Slade Professor at Oxford) he fell into a dangerous illness, and lay between life and death at Matlock. He was heard to say and repeat:—"If only I could lie down beneath the crags of Coniston!"
Before he was fairly well again he heard through his old friend, Mr. T. Richmond, that a house and land at Coniston were for sale. The owner, W. J. Linton, asked £1,500 for the estate, and he bought it at once. In September he travelled here to see his bargain and found the cottage, as it then was, in poor condition; but, as he wrote, some acres "of rock and moor and streamlet, and, I think, the finest view I know in Cumberland—or Lancashire, with the sunset visible over the same."
Next summer the house was ready for him, and thenceforward became his headquarters. From June, 1889, till his death he never left it for a night; indeed, the last time he went so far as the village was on April 7th, 1893, when he attended our Choral Society's concert.
It is needless to tell over again the story of his life at Brantwood; to describe the house that he found a rickety cottage, and left a mansion and a museum of treasures; the gardens, woods, and moor he tended; the surroundings of mountain and streamlet, bird and beast, child-pet and peasant acquaintance, now familiar to the readers of his later books and of the many books that have been written about him. But here it must not be left unsaid that Coniston folk knew him less as the famous author than as the kind and generous friend; eccentric and not easily understood, but always to be trusted for help; giving with equal readiness to all the churches, to the schools and Institute; and to these last giving not only his money, but his strength and sympathy. It was he who started the first carving classes, and promoted the linen industry; he lectured in the village (December, 1883) for local charities, and—what was perhaps most effective of all—carried out in practice his principle of employing neighbours rather than strangers, of giving the tradesfolk and labourers of the valley a share in his fortunes and interests. And perhaps in his death he did them almost a greater service. It was in obedience to his wishes that the offer of a funeral in Westminster Abbey was refused, and he was laid to rest—January 25th, 1900—"beneath the crags of Coniston," so linking his name for ever with the place he loved.