Rossetti Album (miscellaneous collection, Getty/Wormsley Library) Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 J. Paul Getty Collection, Wormsley Library [Untitled] DGR and others 1835-1933 Literary manuscripts, autograph letters, photographs, and cuttings. The earliest manuscript is a letter from DGR to his aunt Elizabeth, 9 July 1835; the most recent material is Sidney Cockerell's 1933 notes. Cockerell's signature is on the endleaf, “Richmond, Surrey, Dec. 4, 1902”. DGR, CR, WMR, and others, with manuscript notes by WMR. J. Paul Getty Collection, Wormsley Library. This volume was originally compiled by WMR. It was assembled for an album by Sidney Cockerell (1867-1962) and was bound by his brother Douglas in 1902. The album was sold at Sotheby's, 18 July 1972 (lot 424) and thence to the Wormsley Library. Brown goatskin with elaborately gilt tooling on the cover in a repeating design of flowers and leaves incorporating the initials S. C. C. [i.e., Sidney Carlyle Cockerell]; gilt panelled spine. Inside cover is a photograph of the Pierpont Morgan Library Blessed Damozel manuscript. Manuscripts materials, of various sizes, affixed to quarto sheets: blue-gray, 21 x 25.5 cm Commentary
Introduction

The album has a number of important DGR manuscripts, particularly early manuscripts: very early letters to his aunt Elizabeth Polidori, to his mother, and to his brother; letters to Ford Madox Brown; an early draft of the unfinished tale “St Agnes of Intercession” (here titled “St. Agnes of Recompensation”); and other important manuscripts from various periods of DGR's life.

Not everything in the notebook is transcribed in this file, and none of the materials have been made available for digital reproduction.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Production History

Reception History

Iconographic

Printing History

Pictorial

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

Photograph of DGR and Ruskin in DGR's garden, 2 February 1862 a photograph by Lewis Carroll, “A Game of Chess with Dante Rossetti” ; DGR and his mother playing chess in DGR's garden, with CR and Maria Rossetti watching DGR's letter to his aunt Eliza Polidori, “July 9 1835” DGR's letter to his mother, dated “Wednesday 22 Jan./45”. Reproduction of DGR's drawing “D.G. Rossetti sitting to Elizabeth Siddal” , dated September 1853. DGR's letter to Ford Madox Brown (conjecturally dated 12 April, 1852 by McGann and 4 December, 1852 by Fredeman).

14 Chatham Place Blackfriars Saturday morning

My dear Brown, I have asked Hannay to come round to-morrow evening. He and you were the only defaulters on Thursday except John Seddon, who it seems is out of town.

Can you come in tomorrow instead?

Do if you can. I will try and get William also, though I heard last night at Millais's that he was rather unwell.

What do you think? My sketches are kicked out at that precious place in Pall Mall. I am of course more than ever resolved to paint my picture of the pigs. Alas! my dear Brown, we are but too transcendent spirits—far, far, in advance of the age.

Do not bring up this subject to-morrow if Hannay or anyone else is present, as it is of no use trumpeting one's grievances. But do come.

Your friend, Dante G. Rossetti

 Three DGR letters: two to his mother, one to Gambart. Half sheet manuscript, 18 x 11 cm, signed, with watermark: PERIN/OLD STYLE. This manuscript was printer's copy for the text printed in the 1874 <hi rend="i">Athenaeum</hi> . <hi rend="c">II.—Spring.</hi> Soft-littered is the new-year's lambing-fold, And in the hollowed haystack at its side The shepherd lies o' nights now, wakeful-eyed At the ewes' travailing call through the dark cold. The young rooks cheep 'mid the thick caw o' the old: And near unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground, By her spring-cry the moorhen's nest is found, Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold. Chill are the gusts to which the pastures cower, And chill the current where the young reeds stand As green and close as the young wheat on land: Yet here the cuckoo and the cuckoo flower Pledge Plight to the heart Spring's perfect gradual hour Whose breath shall soothe you like your dear one's hand. Dante G. Rossetti DGR letter to his aunt Eliza Polidori, dated “4 Aug. 1871.” DGR letter to Phillip Webb with drawing of a design for a fireplace, ca. 1871. DGR letter to WMR, 24 Dec. 1874. CR letter to unknown correspondent regarding the correspondent's recent lecture. DGR letter to CR, dated 16 July 1880; unwatermarked, paper 18 x 11 cm. The last page of the letter has DGR's fair copy of his sonnet on Chatterton. THOMAS CHATTERTON With Shakspeare's manhood at a boy's wild heart,— Through Hamlet's doubt to Shakspeare near allied, And kin to Milton through his Satan's pride,— At Death's sole door he stooped, and craved a dart; And to the dear new bower of England's art,— Even to that shrine Time else had deified, The unuttered heart that soared against his side,— Drove the fell point, and smote life's seals apart. Thy nested home-loves, noble Chatterton; The angel-trodden stair thy soul could trace Up Redcliffe's spire; and in the world's armed space Thy gallant sword-play:—these to many an one Are sweet for ever; as thy grave unknown And love-dream of thine unrecorded face. D. G. R. 1880 Two letters from DGR to Ford Madox Brown, 23 August 1864 and 5 December 1864. Two loose notebook leaves: unlined unwatermarked paper, 22 x 18 cm, with DGR's fair copy of “Aspecta Medusa”; on the verso of the leaf with the poem are various notes, including a note descriptive of the picture DGR was execute in 1867, <hi rend="i">Sir Tristram and La Belle Yseult Drinking the Love Potion</hi> . <foreign lang="latin">Aspecta Medusa</foreign> Andromeda, by Perseus saved and wed, Hankered each day to see the Gorgon's head: Till o'er a fount he held it, bade her lean, And mirrored in the wave was safely seen That death she lived by. Let not thine eyes know Any forbidden thing itself, although It once should save as well as kill: but be Its shadow upon life enough for thee. DGR's fair copy holograph manuscript of “One Girl” , the second tercet clearly scripted later than the first; with DGR's copy of Sappho's original Greek text and his literal translation thus: Like the sweet apple that reddens upon the top twig Atop upon the topmost,—and the apple-gatherers have overlooked— yet not altogether overlooked but they were not able to get at it. This manuscript seems to pre-date the other fair copy in theFitzwilliam Museum. One Girl. (From Sappho) I. Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough, A-top on the topmost twig,—which the pluckers forgot, somehow,— Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till now. II. Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is found, Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear and wound, Until the purple blossom is trodden into the ground. DGR's holograph copy of his poem “Fior di Maggio”, on a fragment of manuscript torn from a notebook (18 x 7cm). Fior di Maggio O May sits crowned with hawthorn flower And is Love's month they say, And Love's the fruit that's ripened best By ladies' eyes in May. Or O hawthorn is the May's own flower And May love's month they say And love etc. Leaf with minor corrections of pages 409-410 of <xref doc="a.1-1861.raw"> <hi rend="i">The Early Italian Poets</hi> </xref> . DGR's fair copy of his translation of the Wednesday sonnet from Folgore San Gemignano's “Seven Sonnets. Of the Week” . And every Wednesday, as the swift days move, Pheasant and peacock-shooting out of doors You'll have, and multitude of hares to course, And after you come home, good cheer enough; And sweetest ladies at the board above, Children of kings and counts and senators; And comely-favoured youthful bachelors To serve them, bearing garlands, for true love. And still let cups of gold and silver ware, Runlets of vernage-wine and wine of Greece, Comfits and cakes be found at bidding there; And let your gifts of birds and game increase: And let all those who in your banquet share Sit with bright faces perfectly at ease. DGR's holograph copy of “Autumn Song”, on a half sheet 11 x 18 cm. Song Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf How the heart feels a languid grief Laid on it for a covering, And how sleep seems a goodly thing In Autumn at the fall of the leaf? And how the swift beat of the brain Falters because it is in vain, In Autumn at the fall of the leaf Knowest thou not? and how the chief Of joys seems—not to suffer pain? Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf How the soul feels like a dried sheaf Bound up at length for harvesting, And how death seems a comely thing In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

Sept. 1848

 DGR's holograph of “English May”, on a half sheet of typical lined notebook paper (17.5 x 22 cm) English May Would God your health were as this month of May Should be, were this not England,—and your face Abroad, to give the gracious sunshine grace And laugh beneath the budding hawthorn-spray. But here the hedgerows pine from green to grey While yet May's lyre is tuning, and her song Is weak in shade that should in sun be strong; And your pulse springs not to so faint a lay. If in my life be breath of Italy, Would God that I might yield it all to you! So, when such grafted warmth had burgeoned through The languor of your Maytime's hawthorn-tree, My spirit at rest should walk unseen and see The garland of your beauty bloom anew. Two photographs: a postcard reproduction of <hi rend="i">Found</hi> and a print of William Downey's photograph of Fanny Cornforth. Two half-sheet holograph manuscripts with the sonnets “Pleasure and Memory” and “Found” (each 18 x 11.2 cm). Pleasure and Memory The cuckoo-throb, the heartbeat of the Spring; The rosebud's blush that leaves it as it grows Into the full-eyed fair unblushing rose; The summer clouds that visit every wing With fires of sunrise and of sunsetting; The furtive flickering streams to light re-born 'Mid airs new-fledged and valorous lusts of morn, While all the daughters of the daybreak sing:— These pleasure loves, and memory: and when flown All joys, and through dark forest-boughs in flight The wind swoops onward brandishing the light, Even yet the rose-tree's verdure left alone Will flush all ruddy though the rose be gone; With ditties and with dirges infinite. Found “There is a budding morrow in midnight:”— So sang our Keats, our English nightingale. And here, as lamps across the bridge turn pale In London's smokeless resurrection-light, Dark breaks to dawn. But o'er the deadly blight Of Love deflowered and sorrow of none avail, Which makes this man gasp and this woman quail, Can day from darkness ever again take flight? Ah! gave not these two hearts their mutual pledge, Under one mantle sheltered 'neath the hedge In gloaming courtship? And, O God! to-day He only knows he holds her;—but what part Can life now take? She cries in her shut locked heart,— “Leave me—I do not know you—go away!” DGR's early copy, perhaps a draft, of his unfinished tale “St. Agnes of Intercession” — on six leaves of unwatermarked plain blue paper. The addition to the title is made in pencil. St Agnes <add>of Recompensation</add>

Among my earliest recollections, none is stronger than that of my father standing before the fire when he came home in the London winter evening, and singing to us, in his sweet generous tones: some- time ancient ditties of our own country—such songs as one might translate from the birds, and the brooks might set to music; sometimes foreign songs those with which foreign travel had familiarized his youth,—among them the great tunes which have rung the world's changes since '89. I used to sit on the carpet hearth-rug, listening to him, and look between his knees into the fire till it burned my face, while the shapes sights swarming up in it seemed changed and changed with the music: till the music and the fire and my heart burned together, and I would take paper and pencil, and try to fix the shapes that rose within me. For my hope was to be a painter.

The first book I remember to have read of my own accord was an old-fashioned work on Art which my mother had,—“Hamilton's English Conoscente.” It was a kind of continental tour,—sufficiently Della-Cruscan, from what I can recall of it,—and contained notices of works of art which the author had seen abroad, with engravings after some of them. These were in the English fashion of that day, executed in dots and printed with red ink; tasteless enough, no doubt, but I yearned towards them, and would toil over them for days. One especially possessed for me a strong and indefinable charm: it it was a Saint Agnes in glory, by Bucciolo d'Orli Angiolieri. This plate I could copy from the first with much more success than I could any of the others; indeed, it was mainly my love of the figure, and a desire to obtain some knowledge regarding it, which impelled me, by one magnanimous effort upon the “Conoscente,” to master in a few days more of the difficult art of reading than my mother's laborious inculcations had accomplished during a year or two. However, what I managed to spell and puzzle out related chiefly to the executive qualities of the picture, which could be little understood by a mere boy child; of the artist himself, or the meaning of his work, the author of the book appeared to know scarcely anything.

As I became older, my boyish impulse towards art grew into a vital passion; till at last my father took me from school and per- mitted me my own bent of study. There is no need that I should dwell much upon the few next years of my life. The beginnings of Art, entered on at all seriously, present an alternation of extremes:— on the one hand, the most bewildering phases of mental endeavour, on the other, a toil rigidly & exact dealing often with trifles. What was then the precise shape of the cloud within my tabernacle, I could scarcely say now; or whether indeed I knew its form through so thick a veil or could be sure of its presence there at all; and as to which statue at the Museum I drew most — or learned least from,—or which Professor at the Academy “set” the model in the worst taste,—these are things which no one need care to know. I may say here that I was wayward enough in the pursuit, if not in the purpose; that I cared even too little for what could be taught me by others; and that my original designs were much greatly outnumbered my school-drawings.

In most cases where study (such study, at least, as involves any practical elements) has benumbed that subtle transition which brings youth out of boyhood; there is comes a point, after some while, when the mind loses its suppleness, and being riveted merely by the continuance of the mechanical effort, the constrained senses gradually assume their utmost tension, and any urgent impression from without will suffice to scatter the spell. The student looks up: the film of their own fixedness drops at once from before his eyes, and for the first time he sees his life in the face.

In my twentieth year, I might say that between one path of Art and another, I worked hard. One afternoon I was returning, after an unprofitable morning, from a class for the model which I attended; the day was one of those oppressive lulls in autumn, when application, unless under sustained excitement, is all but impossible,—when the senses perceptions seem curdled and the brain full of sand. On ascending the stairs to my room, I heard voices there, and when I entered, found my sister Catharine, with another young lady, busily turning over my sketches and papers, as if in search of something. Catharine laughed, and introduced her companion as Miss Mary Ethell. There might have been a little malice in the laugh, for I remembered to have heard the lady's name before, and to have then made in fun some teasing inquiries about her, as one will of one's sisters' friends. I bowed for the introduction, and stood rebuked. She had her back to the windowwhere the light was strong, and I could not well see her features at the moment; but I made sure she was very beautiful, from the way that she held her hands and her tranquil body. Catharine told me they had been looking together for a book of hers which I had had by me for some time, and which she had promised to Miss Ethell. I joined in the search, the book was found, and soon after they left my room. I had come in utterly spiritless; but now I fell to and worked well for several hours. In the evening, when I went down stairs to the family, I found Miss Ethell still with them; she remained rather late: till she left I did not return to my room, nor, when there, was my work resumed that night. I had thought her more beautiful than at first.

For some months about a year after this I am afraid I neglected my studies almost entirely, except so ,uch of them as became a duty by the compensation it procured: and when that year was upon its close, Mary Ethell and I were promised in marriage.

Her station in life, though not lofty, was one of more ease than my own, and I had the satisfaction of knowing that it was the earnestness of her attachment to me had deterred her parents from placing any obstacle in the way of our union. At the same time All the more rigidly on this account I now long to the task now devolve upon me of obtaining at once such a position which as should raise me from ever having to reproaching myself with the any sacrifice made by her for my sake. It was in this determination that I now set to work with all the energy of which I was capable, upon a picture of some size, involving various aspects of study. The subject was a modern one, and indeed it has often seemed to me that all work, to be truly worthy, should be wrought out of the age itself, as well as out of the soul of its producer, which must needs be a soul of the age. At this picture I laboured unceasingly my days and my nights. And Mary sat to me for the principal female figure. The exhibition to which I sent it opened a few weeks after the completion of my twenty-second year.

 DGR's holograph copy of his review of Hake's <hi rend="i">Madeline and other poems</hi> , on two foolscap sheets watermarked “ETOWGOOD”. Early DGR holograph of “Mater Pulchrae Delectionis”, signed and dated (1847); paper watermarked “1846”, 19 x 23.3cm Mater Pulchrae Delectionis Mother of the Fair Delight, From the azure standing white And looking golden in the light;— With the shadow of the Heaven-roof Upon thy hands lifted aloof And a mystic quiet in thine eyes Born of the hush of Paradise, Seated beside the Ancient Three Thyself a woman Trinity Being the dear daughter of God And the sorrows we have seemeth to last,— Though the future falls not to the past In the race that the Great Cycle runs, Bethink thee of that olden once Wherein to such as death may strike Thou wert a sister, sisterlike: Yea, even thou, who reignest now Where the angels are they that bow,— Thou hardly to be looked upon By saints whose steps tread through the Sun,— Thou, the most queenly, jubilant Of the leaves of the Threefold Plant,— Headstone of this humanity Groundstone of the great Mystery, Fashioned like us, yet more than we. I think that at the farthest top My love just sees thee standing up Where the light of the throne is bright: Unto the left, unto the right, The cherubim, order'd and join'd, Slope inward to a golden point, And from between the seraphim The glory cometh like a hymn; All is aquiet, nothing stirs; The peace of nineteen hundred years Is within thee and without thee; And the Godshine falls about thee; And thy face looks from the veil Sweetly, and solemnly, and well, Like to a thought of Raphaël. Oh if that look can stoop so far, Let it reach down from star to star And try to see us where we are; For the griefs we weep came like swift death, But the slow comfort loitereth. Sometimes it even seems to us That we are overbold, when thus We cry, and hope we shall be heard;— Being much less than a short word,— Mere shadow that abideth not,— Dusty nothing, soon forgot. O Lady Mary be not loth To listen, thou whom the stars clothe! Bend thine ear, and pour back thy hair, And let our voice come to thee there Where, seeing, thou mayst not be seen; Help us a little, Mary queen! Into the shadow thrust thy face, Bowing thee from the glory-place, Saint Mary the Virgin, full of grace! By G. C. D. R.1847 DGR's early draft holograph of the first sonnet of the “Filii Filia” pair, with WMR's notes on the verso. Unwatermarked paper 18 x 11.2cm. The received revision of line 14 is written in pencil at the upper right corner of the manuscript; and the revisions in lines 9, 10, and 12 are all in pencil as well. An Annunciation<lb/>(Early <del>Florentine/Flemish</del> German)<lb/>seen in a sale room The lilies stand before her like a screen Through which, upon this warm and solemn day, God can be heard. And surely hears. For there she kneels to pray To whom our prayers belong—Mary the Queen— She was Faith's Present, parting what had been From what began with her, and is for aye. On either hand, God's twofold system lay: With meek bowed face a Virgin prayed between. So prays she, and the Dove flies over in to her, And she has turned. In At the low porch is one Who looks as though deep awe made him to smile. Heavy with heat, the plants give yield shadow there; The loud flies cross each other in the sun; And stretching back, the poplars form an aisle. And the aisled pillars meet the poplar-aisle. Nov. 1847 The page has WMR's note on DGR's poem on the overleaf: “This is one of the earliest of DGR's published poems—my impression is that it must be his first original sonnet, barring some of those written bouts rimes.”. DGR's holograph fair copy of “A Sea-Spell”, on half-sheet (18.11.2cm). A Sea-Spell Her lute hangs shadowed in the apple-tree, While flashing fingers weave the sweet-strung spell Between its chords; and as the wild notes swell, The sea-bird for those branches leaves the sea. But to what sound her listening ear stoops she? What netherworld gulf-whispers doth she hear, In answering echoes from what planisphere, Along the wind, along the estuary? She sinks into her spell: and when full soon Her lips move and she soars into her song, What creatures of the midmost main shall throng In furrowed surf-clouds to the summoning rune; Till he, the fated mariner, hears her cry, And up her rock, bare-breasted, comes to die? DGR's holograph fair copy on half sheet (18 x 11.2cm). A Vision of Fiammetta Behold Fiammetta, shown in Vision here. Gloom-girt 'mid Spring-flushed apple-growth she stands; And as she sways the branches with her hands, Along her arm the sundered bloom falls sheer, In separate petals shed, each like a tear; While from the quivering bough the bird expands His wings. And lo! thy spirit understands Life shaken and shower'd and flown, and Death drawn near. All stirs with change. Her garments beat the air: The angel circling round her aureole Shimmers in flight against the tree's grey bole: While she, with reassuring eyes most fair, A presage and a promise stands; as 'twere On Death's dark storm the rainbow of the Soul. D. G. Rossetti 1878 DGR's fair copy of “The Brothers”, copied on pages 1 and 3 of a small folded sheet (11.5 x 18 cm), with “Hamlet's Soliloquy, by the Laureate” on page 4. The Brothers<lb/>by a Contemptuous Contemporary We are two brothers of one race, Though which acts fairest, who can trace? (Mister Strahan's in a blue blue funk.) Here are some poets and they sell, Therefore revenge becomes me well (For I Tom Maitland too am a skunk.) Strahan pays: it would be a burning shame If his should prove a losing game (Poor dear Strahan in a blue blue funk.) So every blessed bard I'll slate Till no one sells but the Laureate (For I Tom Maitland write like a skunk.) I took a beast of a poet's tome, And nailed a cheque, & brought them home (Dear dear Strahan get well of your funk.) And after supper, in lieu of bed, I warmed wet towels round my head, (And there Tom Maitland sat like a skunk.) Of eyelids kisd and all the rest And rosy cheeks that lie on one's breast (Which put poor Strahan in a blue blue funk.) I told the worst that tongue pen can tell, And did my duty extremely well. (For cant Tom Maitland just be a skunk?) I crowed out loud in the silent night, I made my digs so sharp and bright. (To think that Strahan's in a blue blue funk!) In our Contemptuous Review I stuck the beggar through and through (Yes, Strahan, Tom Maitland can be a skunk!) Today as I'm told these bards were read, But tonight they are so, so jolly dead! (Who says that Strahan's in a blue blue funk?) And now they're wrapped in a printer's sheet, Let's fling them at the Laureate's feet. (Yet what if he say, poor Tom's a skunk?) L'Envoi There was a contemptuous review Of me!—indeed, there were one or two Some time back in my mortal funk. And the same folks praised a beast like this! But by Jove! He'll learn now what it is To be despised by a common skunk. DGR's fair copy holograph of “Hamlet's Soliloquy. By the Laureate”: see editor's note for previous page. Hamlet's Soliloquy. By the Laureate To be or not to be (that is the question) A pill for Strahan's increasing indigestion. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind a bard to suffer The trading tricks of that outrageous buffer Or to take arms against a sea of troubles And keep my copyrights his stipend doubles? DGR's notes and designs for the picture frame for <hi rend="i">Fazio's Mistress</hi> sent to George Boyce, dated Feb. 1861 by DGR. In the page center DGR writes “Square Frame / Bonifazio's Mistress”, and surrounding it on the page are twelve designs for bosses for the picture: iris, poppy, wood sorrel, hemlock, with the names for each written inside the poppy blossom. Page size: 16 x 21 cm. Four draft holograph stanzas (5, 6, 1 and 2) of <xref doc="a.ees001.raw">“A Year and A Day”</xref> by Elizabeth Siddal with two photographs of drawings of her by DGR. Still it is but the memory Of something I have seen In the dreamy summer weather When the green leaves came between The shadow of my dear love's face So far and strange it seems The river ever running down Between its grassy bed The voices of a thousand Birds That sing above my head Shall bring to me a sudden dream When this sad dream is dead E.E.S. How days have grown into a year Sad hours that bring the day. Since I could take my first dear Love And kiss him the old way Still the green leaves touch me on the cheek Dear Christ this month of May I lie among the tall green grass That spreads above my head And covers up my wasted cheek And folds me in its bed Tenderly and lovingly Like grass upon the dead.