John Ruskin was a Victorian writer in the most literal sense. Born three months before the future queen in 1819, he predeceased her in 1900 by just over a year. 2019 therefore marks a double bicentenary, but there are no prizes for guessing which has attracted more notice. In contrast to the respect accorded to him in his lifetime, amounting in some cases to veneration, Ruskin is little read now, and most of his work is out of print. Admittedly, the undertaking resembles one of his beloved Alpine ascents: the Library Edition of his collected works, published between 1903 and 1912, fills thirty-nine stout volumes. Until silenced in 1889 by a final bout of mental illness, which had been preceded by several breakdowns, he was a compulsive writer. “If I had been Robinson Crusoe,” he engagingly confessed, “I should have written books for Friday!” Much of his private writing, in the form of diaries and letters, was destroyed after his death by his executors, and not all that survives has been published. In these circumstances, the appearance of Richard Lansdown’s new, extensive (but very expensive) anthology of Ruskin’s prose is to be warmly welcomed.1It comes with a chronology, useful biographical notes on the artists and architects Ruskin discusses, helpful annotation which makes links between the selected texts and others not included, and an introduction which does its best to present Ruskin on his own terms while arguing for his continuing social and political relevance. (His literary