Reprint of 1895 edition, London. This important early biography originally appeared in 1895
in two volumes. The first volume contains WMR's
By D. G. Rossetti. 1854.
Frances M.L. Rossetti.
MANUS ANIMAM PINXIT
Letters A.—To Charlotte Lydia Polidori:—pp. 3, 4, 34, 35, 36, 37,
46, 82, 86, 91,
100-2-10-32-4-6-43-4-8-50-1-9-74-85, 227-37, 315-26-30.
Letters B.—To Francis Mary Lavinia Rossetti:—pp. 5, 10, 12, 16,
19, 30, 32, 43, 85, 97, 99,
101-6-7-8-11-6-26-37-43-7-53-5-8-60-5-8-9-70,
172-3-7-9-81-4-5-7-9-92-3-7,
200-1-6-23-4-6-8-30-1-4-7-40-50-5-63-71-83,
287-9-91-4-6,
300-3-7-8-11-3-5-7-9-20-1-4-7-9-31-3-6-7-8-43-4-7-9-50-1,
352-5-7-8-60-2-4-5-7-71-7-9-81-5-6-7-9-90-1.
Letters C.—To William Michael Rossetti:—pp. 7, 23, 27, 31, 39, 40,
44, 48, 52, 54, 55, 60, 62, 71, 83, 90, 92,
93, 94, 97, 98, 103-4-25-7-8-30,
131-5-6-45-6-8-52-4-5-7-8-61-4-6-8-9-71-3-6-8-92-3-4-5-6-9, 204-7-11-3,
214-8-20-1-2-8-9-30-2-3-6-45-7-8-9-51-2-4-6-8-9-61-2-4-5-6-7-9-70-2-3-4,
275-6-7-8-9-80-2-6-90-3-5-9, 300-1-2-5-6-9-13-4-5-6-7-8-21-5-32-44-5-6,
347-8-9-54-5-6-7-9-60-3-4-8-9-71-6-7-9-80-1-2-7-8-90-3.
Letter D.—To Gaetano Polidori . . . . . .p.
20
Letters E.—To Gabriele Rossetti . . .pp. 22,
26, 114-22
Letters F.—To Christina Georgina Rossetti:—pp. 82, 95, 119-62-3,
171-83, 224,
322-37-53-61-7-83-6-92-4-5.
Letters G.—To Henry Francis Polydore . . pp.
181, 243, 340-2
Letters H.—To Lucy Madox Rossetti . pp.
310-2-39-56-66-9-70-2-3
FAMILY-LETTERS.
My brother, when he wrote this note, was in the fifteenth year of his age. My only object in preserving so boyish an affair is to show that he was then already exercising himself in drawing in a sort of way.
The
must have been patronized (I take it) by the family of the Earl of Wicklow, in which
our aunt, Miss Charlotte Lydia Polidori, was then a governess. A
could not now be copied off a
; but Irish halfpence bearing this device were at that time in frequent circulation in
London.
Our aunt died in January 1890, at the great age of eighty-seven. She was a person of uncommon equanimity and amenity—none more so within my experience—and was an agreeable talker, though without marked intellectual gift. For unselfish complaisance she might be reckoned a model.
Only one letter from Gabriel earlier than this is in my possession. It is dated 10 January 1836, and is addressed to our Father. It is of course mere childishness. I ought not to thrust it upon the reader, and I shall not.
[50Charlotte Street, Portland Place, London.]
1 February1842.
My Dear Aunt Charlotte,I send you twelve drawings for the Bazaar, which I hope will not arrive too late for admission. Julian Peveril,
the Turk , the Pygmy, the Brigand, Barnaby Rudge, the Butterfly, the Huntsman, the Harp, and the Shamrock, arecopies. Quentin Durward, the Highlander, and the Dandy , are originals. The Huntsman and the Highlander areintendedfor Fitzjames and Roderick Dhu, fromThe Lady of the Lake.I should have drawn some more, for I have remaining three cards and two pieces of cardboard; but I was fearful that they should reach you too late.
I hope that, should you answer this letter, you will favour me with a “full, true, and particular account” of the proceedings, how many and which of my drawings were sold, and the price which they fetched.
Having nothing more to say, I remain,
My dear Aunt Charlotte,
Your affectionate Nephew,
. Gabriel C. Rossetti
P.S.—The Harp (but this is a strict secret) is copied off a halfpenny.
In this letter my brother copied out the whole of Walter Scott's poem. I have omitted all
except the first stanza. His coloured drawing of
A music-master (a family friend, Signor Rovedino) was eventually called in for our elder sister Maria, whose destined career was that of a governess or teacher. She had a very fine voice and elocution in speaking, which might have developed into a good contralto voice in singing; but she (like all the family except our Father) had little musical aptitude, and never did anything in that way.
[50Charlotte Street.]
Thursday2June1842.
My Dear Aunt Charlotte,Perhaps you remember that, one day when you were admiring the drawings which I sent to the Bazaar, I said that I would draw you one. In fulfilment of this promise I send you the accompanying figure, hoping that it will meet with your approbation. It is pronounced by every one to be the
best figure I have ever drawn, and I trust that such will also be your opinion. It is intended as an illustration of the following verses by Sir Walter Scott:—
<hi rend="center"> <hi rend="sc">The Cavalier</hi>.</hi> “While the dawn on the mountain was misty and grey My true love has mounted his steed and away: Over hill, over valley, o'er dale and o'er down, Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the Crown!” * * * * * *P.S.—Mamma sends you her love, and wishes me to tell you that she has just been talking to Papa of procuring a music-master for Maria, and that he says he will
see about it(?).P.P.S.—The figure is
entirely original.
This letter must have been written about the time when my brother, had he returned to King's
College School after the summer vacation of 1842, would have been wending thither; but,
instead of that, he relinquished ordinary school attendance, and began studying for the
profession of painting. He had now just gone to Chalfont-St.-Giles in Buckinghamshire, where
our maternal uncle Mr. Henry Francis Polydore, whom he accompanied, had lately settled, to
practise as a solicitor. Chalfont was the village or townlet to which Milton retired during
the plague of London.
was the volume which some client of his had from time to time to kiss, in taking an
oath. Our uncle —who had turned his surname of Polidori into the Anglicized form
Polydore for professional convenience—died in January 1885; a very strict devout
Roman Catholic, and the most scrupulously conscientious of men—somewhat
parsimonious (in proportion to his lifelong restricted means), and more than duly fidgeting to
himself and others. He was a fairly diligent book-reader, without either ambition or aptitude
towards authorship.
Chalfont-St.-Giles.
Thursday1September1842.
My Dear Mamma,We arrived safely at Chalfont at 12 o'clock yesterday. The village is larger than I expected. The first thing we did
on our arrival was to demolish some bread and butter, of which I at least was much in want. We then, with considerable difficulty, opened Uncle Henry's trunks, and, after depositing a part of their contents in a chest of drawers, we sallied forth to reconnoitre. I saw Milton's house, which is unquestionably the ugliest and dirtiest building in the whole village. It is now occupied by a tailor. . . . Yesterday I commenced reading
, by Dr. Birch, which valuable work forms part and parcel of Uncle Henry's library. However, I have abandoned the task in despair. I then began <hi rend="i">The Infidel's Doom</hi> , which shared the same fate, and am now engaged on Defoe's <hi rend="i">The Castle of Otranto</hi> . This morning we deposited Uncle Henry's books (exclusive of the law books, which are in the parlour) in a closet in Uncle Henry's bedroom, which, in common with all the other closets in this house, possesses a lock but no key. <hi rend="i">History of the Plague</hi> I do not think that I shall go to church on Sunday, for in the first place I do not know where I can sit, and in the second place I find that we are so stared at wherever we go that I do not much relish the idea of sitting for two hours the lodestone of attraction in the very centre of the aborigines, on whose minds curiosity appears to have taken a firm hold.
I have just had some luncheon, of which however Uncle Henry did not partake, asserting that he was unwell, and would take some pills for his luncheon. Milk is an extremely rare article here; so much so that it was with great difficulty that we obtained a pint this morning and half a pint yesterday, and it still remains in doubt whether we shall be able to procure half a pint this evening for tea. I “in longing expectation wait” the appearance of my dinner; for which however I need not yet look, since it is now nearly 3 o'clock, which is the nominal dinner-hour, but, the fire having gone out, Uncle Henry prophesies that it will not come till 4.
I remain, dear Mamma,
Your affectionate Son,
. Gabriel RossettiP.S.—I intend to make, for Maria's accommodation, a sketch of the church, which I think pretty, but which Uncle Henry condemns as exceedingly flat and ugly.
P.P.S.—I am sure that by this time you must be tormenting yourself because I forgot to take a Prayer-Book; however, you may set your mind at rest on that subject, since Uncle Henry's Swearing-book combines both Bible and Prayer- Book, out of which I can read the Psalms and Lessons on Sunday in case I stay at home.
This letter is, so far as I know, the earliest that I ever received from my brother. I had
now, succeeding him, left London to spend a few days with our uncle in Chalfont-St.-Giles. The
opening observations, as to my discomforts with my uncle, will be rightly understood as mere
“chaff.” There was nothing to complain of in his modest (then bachelor)
establishment.
means an expression of our other uncle Philip Robert Polidori —a rather
odd not strong-witted person. My brother and I (for books, prints, etc., were then and for
several years afterwards all in common between us) were at that time taking-in a serial
edition of the
[50 Charlotte Street.]
Wednesday evening, 28December1842.
My Dear William,I took up my pen, fully intending to commence by
hopingthat you found yourself comfortable at Chalfont-St.- Giles; but I rejected the idea almost as soon as formed, for sad experience has taught me that over the portal of“the lawyer” (to make use of a Philippic expression) might well be inscribed, in the words of the poet, “ All hope abandon, ye who enter here.” I make no enquiries as to the particulars of your sufferings and agony both in the 7 1/2 miles' walk to, and in the residence at, said Chalfont. I do not ask how you relished the “odours of Edom” which emanate (at least according to Uncle Henry) from your downy couch. . . . I do not, I say, ask all this, because I know that I shall have an opportunity of receiving answers to these enquiries, and as many more as I please to make, within a short time after you have perused this precious epistle. I would not mind staking any sum, if I had any sum to stake (for Heaven knows my Christmas-box has been long since landed safely on the classic shores of pot), that you and our mutual relative have ere this had recourse for amusement to the pages of Horace or Virgil. With the former the above-mentioned relative has disgusted me by constantly showing me that he does understand it, and then telling me that I do not. Of the latter we have my favourite poet's opinion—“That Virgil's songs are good, except that horrid one Beginning with .” Formosum pastor CorydonSo said Byron—so say not I. The Eclogue which he seems to dislike is the very one by construing which from beginning to end (having learnt it at school in capacity of an imposition) I can defeat the malice of Uncle Henry when he defies me so to do.
I have already told you that my Christmas-box has taken up its residence at pot. I will now proceed to acquaint you with the means by which it found its way to that “
undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns.” To you probably this will be interesting news—to Uncle Henry it will be one continued nuisance. I well know his abhorrence of a long list of purchases.I will begin, then, with the prints I have bought for my
—viz., a proof of <hi rend="i">Waverley Novels</hi> <hi rend="i">The Pass of Aberfoil</hi> —<hi rend="i">Stand</hi> , which you already know, and for which I gave 9d.;Leslie's <hi rend="i">Charles and Lady Bellenden</hi> , and<hi rend="i">McIvor and the Grey Spirit</hi> (1s. 6d. the couple);<hi rend="i">Sir W. Scott in his study</hi> (4d.); a splendid engraving of<hi rend="i"> The Fortress</hi> , which I suppose to be the Fortress of Man in<hi rend="i">Peveril</hi> (6d.); Gilbert's<hi rend="i">Richard trampling on the Austrian Flag</hi> , which, on a second inspection, I find to be not nearly so good as I expected, but which is nevertheless very good, like everything of Gilbert's (1d.); and lastly, Warren's<hi rend="i">Escape</hi> , from the, which I intend to introduce into <hi rend="i">Protestant Annual</hi> , and of which, as well as of <hi rend="i">The Pirate</hi> , plenty of copies are to be had at the Publisher's in Oxford Street. I have purchased a proof of <hi rend="i">The Widow Maclure's Son</hi> <hi rend="i">The Shipwreck in</hi> <xref doc="a.byron001.rad" link="dead"> <title level="wrk"> <hi rend="i">Don Juan</hi> , which you already know, and which I got (at Palser's) for 1s., the original price being 1s. 6d.; also (at Reynolds's) a print of<hi rend="i">The Widow</hi> by Boxall (2d.); also a scene in the, which I have put into my Shakespear (3 <hi rend="i">Merry Wives of Windsor</hi> d.). I have likewise procured 4 parts of theitself. I had almost forgotten to tell you of one more purchase which I have made—viz., <hi rend="i">Shakespear</hi> , by the editors of <hi rend="i">A Shillingsworth of Nonsense</hi> , which you have no doubt seen, and which is indeed a shillingsworth of the vilest twaddle that was ever written down. It possesses however one redeeming quality which, in my eyes at least, more than compensates for all its defects—it contains 48 splendid wood-engravings by Phiz. <hi rend="i">Punch</hi> So much for every one of my purchases, so much for every farthing of my money, and so much for
almostevery syllable of my letter; except that Mamma and all send you their loves, and that Dr. Locock, whom we visited again this morning, says that I must not recommence my studies till after New Year's Day; and so
Believe me,
My dear William,
Yours affectionately,
. G. Rossetti
P.S.—I forgot to tell you that, if you want to get splendid prints dirt-cheap, now's your time. Reynolds told me that
he would have (to-morrow most probably) a set of Finden's engravings (either the <hi rend="i">Tableaux</hi> or the series of<hi rend="i">Groups from Different Nations</hi> ; I believe the latter) for rather more thanthree shillings! I intended to have bought them myself, only I found after I had bought the<hi rend="i">Shakespear</hi> that my pockets were a vacuum.
When this letter was written our Mother was at Hastings, along with our Father, in an endeavour—for a long while fruitless—to cure him of a severe attack of bronchitis.
No. 15 Park Village East, Regent's Park (now No. 30), was the residence of our grandfather
Gaetano Polidori and his family. Our Uncle Henry had then abandoned Chalfont-St.-Giles, and
was pursuing his profession at 15 Park Village East. The phrase about the
sounds like and is irony. Mr. Leader is Mr. Charles Temple Leader, a Radical M.P. of
those days, afterwards a conspicuous English resident in Florence. He is still alive, I think,
at a great age. Sangiovanni had taken, from a natural bent of genius, to the modelling of
picturesque clay figures—brigands, contadini, Albanians, etc.
was the Cavalier Mortara, an exceedingly frequent visitor at our parents'
house—brother of a Conte Mortara, a bibliophile of some name. The
means our aunt Miss Charlotte Polidori.
50Charlotte Street.
Sunday2June1843.
My Dear Mamma,“Better late than never,” as the cat said to the kitten when the latter relinquished the Wellington boot in despair. And now, having sent preliminaries to pot in one pithy and well-concocted sentence, I shall proceed forthwith to news.
Yesterday Aunt Margaret, William, and myself, betook ourselves in the afternoon to 15 Park Village East, having been thereunto invited. The first thing I did on my arrival was to enter the office of Uncle Henry. The air therein was
however so suffocating, owing to the press of clients, that I effected a hasty retreat, leaving William to the full enjoyment of the black hole of Calcutta. I then proceeded to the parlour, where I dawdled about till teatime. . . . I finished yesterday the first volume of
<hi rend="i">Ten Thousand a Year</hi> , the commencement of which, as Aunt Margaret intends to testify in her next epistle, is very unpromising. As it proceeds however it becomes splendid; and, having completed the volume, I laid it down with the impression that it was equal to Dickens. To-morrow I hope to begin the second volume. William is also perusing<hi rend="i">Charles O'Malley</hi> , which he finds very entertaining.Dr. Heimann has called several times since your departure, and testifies great interest in Papa's health. He was here yesterday to give us our lesson. He intends to take us out with him, and will write a note to fix the day. He surveyed our libraries, and was glad to see that Maria possessed
<hi rend="i">Keble</hi>, which he has read, and admires exceedingly (!) Mr. Leader called to-day; and, on hearing that Papa was in the country, seemed pleased, and asked us for his address, which we gave him. The visits of enquiring friends since your disappearance have been so numerous that it would be impossible to remember them. Suffice it to say that all the “amici” small and great have been here. Sangiovanni says that he intends to write(!) The Cavaliere wishes that your correspondence was more voluminous, and says that the Signora Carlotta, having nothing else to do, should write letters.ad infinitum I have nearly finished studying the bones, and my next drawing will most probably be an anatomy-figure.
Everybody at 15 Park Village East and at 50 Charlotte Street sends his or her love to everybody at 9 High Street, Hastings. And so, having nothing more to say,
Believe me,
My dear Mamma,
Your affectionate Son,
. Gabriel Rossetti
Our Father, still in quest of health, had now gone to Paris with our Mother. The experiment, after a moderate interval of time, proved very satisfactory.
I do not remember much now about
of which my brother speaks. It cannot have included any of the artist-students,
predestined to renown, with whom he was afterwards closely associated.
50Charlotte Street.7 July1843.
My Dear Mamma,On Monday last (the first day of opening) I visited the exhibition at Westminster Hall of the cartoons for decorating the New Houses of Parliament. When I say cartoons I mean of course the large drawings executed in chalks which are afterwards to be painted in fresco on the walls. It is indeed a splendid sight; by far the most interesting exhibition in fact at which I have ever been, more so even than the Royal Academy. The
tout ensembleon first entrance is most imposing. The figures are, almost without exception, as large as life, and in many instances considerably larger; added to which Westminster Hall is of itself a most magnificent structure. The subjects are taken chiefly from English history, and a great part of them relate to the times of the ancient Britons and the introduction of Christianity. A full third of the exhibition (not to say more) is occupied by subjects from Milton. There are also a great many from Shakespear and Spenser, a few foreign subjects, and one or two national allegories. Scriptural subjects were I believe excluded; however that may be, not one has made its appearance on the walls. The plan of the exhibition was as follows: Whatever cartoons were sent in (so long as they belonged to the class of subjects specified in the prospectuses— viz., history or some great English author) the Committee promised to exhibit them; and, in proof of the strict manner in which they have kept their word, a quantity of abominations have been hung up which are a disgrace to British Art,and to exclude which it appears to me that the Committee should have deviated from the general rule. There is one especially, representing the signing of Magna Charta, which I am convinced must either be the work of some child of six or seven years old, or else that it must have been sent in by somebody for a joke, to prove to what lengths the Committee would go in keeping their engagement. But to return to the regulations. All the cartoons having been sent in and hung up in Westminster Hall, a day was set apart, previous to the exhibition being opened to the public, in order that the Committee, with Mr. Eastlake at their head, might take a private view, and decide upon those which were to receive the prizes. Accordingly on the day when I went, which was, as I have before stated, the first day of the exhibition, the fortunate competitors were already known. I forgot to say that it was one of the rules that every cartoon should be accompanied on sending in by the artist's name, but that only those of the successful candidates should be published in the printed catalogue. Thus I was only able to recognize a few of the rejected, either by the style being known to me or by the reports of others. The prizes are universally acknowledged to have been most justly awarded. There is only one which appears to me an exception to this rule, and this one is, I am sorry to say, no other than Mr. Severn's. The subject is <hi rend="i">Queen Elinor sucking the Poison from her Husband's Arm</hi> . It is almost completely wanting in expression; which can however scarcely be avoided, as the artist has been so injudicious as too choose the moment when Edward becomes insensible. The drawing is generally good, but this also is in some parts sadly defective. Mr. Cary has exhibited one, the subject of which is from Spenser. It possesses considerable merit, but not enough to receive a prize.I will now mention a few of those which particularly elicited my admiration. The three which are perhaps generally thought the most of are:
<hi rend="i">The Landing of Julius Cæsar in Britain and his Opposition by the Natives</hi> , by Armitage;<hi rend="i">Caractacus led captive through the Streets of Rome</hi> , by Watts; and<hi rend="i">Boadicea<epage/> <page n="14" image="a."/> addressing her Army before her last Battle with the Romans</hi> , by Selous. Among these, that which I like the best, and indeed more than any other in the exhibition, is theCaractacus,the artist of which, a young man by name Watts, has been, ever since he took to the arts, struggling with the greatest poverty. He is however as good as he is talented, and has been for many years, in spite of his miserable circumstances, the sole support of his mother. Good fortune has however found him out at last in the shape of a £300 prize, which will be followed by much greater remuneration as soon as his picture (of which, as I said before, the cartoon is but a rough sketch) shall have been painted. All this I learnt from one of the models who sat to him, and with whom he agreed that, if his cartoon gained a prize, he (Watts) would pay the model three times the usual sum, but that, if it was rejected, he should not be considered in any way his debtor, since it was utterly impossible that he should pay, owing to the wretched state of his finances. The model will now reap a rich harvest from the £300 prize.I find that I have not room to dilate any further on the merits of the individual cartoons, as I had intended, and so I must finish with a few general remarks. Taken on the whole, this exhibition may be considered as a proof that High Art and high talent are not confined to the Continent. The common accusation brought against British painters cannot be brought forward here with any show of reason. The accusation to which I allude is that the English clothe their figures too much; that they conceal their ignorance of anatomy by working up satin and jewels and cloth of gold to the highest state of finish; and thus, by forcing the spectator as it were to admire these outside ornaments, cause him to overlook the want of correct drawing. Here, however, such artifices are utterly out of the question. In the first place, the absence of colour renders it impossible that such stratagems should be resorted to; and in the second place, the subjects (principally taken from Milton and the early English history) make the naked figure positively necessary,
and thus cut off effectually any such means of escape. There is also another very gratifying feature in this exhibition. Almost all the successful competitors are young men who now appear for the first time before the public, thus directly giving the lie to the vile snarling assertion that British Art is slowly but surely falling, never more to rise. After the first fortnight (during which the price of admission is one shilling) the exhibition will be opened gratuitously—a step which, it is feared, will prove somewhat rash on the part of the Committee, as they have not an Italian public to deal with but an English one. I shall now relinquish this topic, fearing that I may perhaps have tired you, although it is so interesting to me that I can scarcely imagine that it is not equally so to everybody else. I will now proceed to what little other news I have in store.
I have, since I wrote last, drawn some more
bones , as well as anentire skeleton . I am now engaged on anoutline of the Hercules . There have been two meetings of the Sketching Club since your departure, for which I have made three drawings, one of which was the, and the other two were of the same subject—viz., The old Soldier relating his battles to the Parson, from <hi rend="i">Death of Marmion</hi> . One of the two which I made for this subject is the most finished and perhaps the best pen-and-ink drawing which I have ever executed. I have given them both to the Cavaliere, who seemed to like them very much. The next subject is to be the <hi rend="i">The Deserted Village</hi> Parting of two Lovers , unspecified and indefinite, which I intend to treat in several different manners, and to get up in prime style.I have just finished
<hi rend="i">Ten Thousand a Year</hi> , which is indeed one of the most splendid works (not to saythemost splendid) which I ever read. It is a most interesting story, and evidently written by a religious person. It relates almost entirely to a series of law proceedings (not, however, dry and disgusting ones), in which the author seems so much at home that I am convinced he must belong to the profession whichhas “proved a step-mother” to Uncle Henry. . . . Will you give my love to Papa with thanks for all his kind messages? After which having no more to say,
Believe me,
My dear Mamma,
Your affectionate Son,
. Gabriel C.D. Rossetti
To discuss the cost of an easel as a somewhat grave matter, and finally to price the article at five shillings, as in the ensuing letter, indicates (the reader may readily infer) that cash was not superfluous in our household at this period.
Pistrucci, from whom my brother adopted a design of the
.
must have been singularly weak-minded or mealy-mouthed in acknowledging any part of
it to be
.
50Charlotte Street.
14 August1843.
My Dear Mamma,We received this morning Papa's letter of the 12th, which caused us, as you may well imagine, the greatest pleasure. Dr. Heimann, however, who came to-day to give
us our lesson (not having been able to do so on Saturday), was much concerned on hearing of Papa's intention to leave Paris so soon, since he fears that a London winter may be productive of a relapse. He strongly recommended us on this account to prevent, if possible, so early a return. Dr. Heimann has manifested throughout a great interest in Papa's health. VOL. II 2 You wish me to inform you of my progress in drawing, and of the time at which I hope to become a student of the Academy. Upon the first point I answer that I have finished the outline of the Hercules, and drawn the anatomy- figure. I am now engaged on a finished drawing of the Antinous, which, supposing it to prove good enough, I may perhaps send in to the Academy. The next opportunity for so doing will be at Christmas, when I may probably try, though certainly not unless I feel sure of success, for a rejection is a thing I should by no means relish. Besides this there are other matters to be attended to; for, even granted that in the first instance I am admitted, still this is not all. Every successful candidate is required to execute a second drawing, in order to prove that the merit of the first is entirely his own. Added to which he must make drawings of the anatomy-figure and of the skeleton, in any of which if he fail he ceases to be a student; and very few have the courage to venture on a second trial after the disgrace of a rejection. Having considered these things, I shall certainly decline making the attempt at Christmas unless by that time I shall be fully competent to the ordeal; my knowledge of anatomy, in spite of my efforts at improvement, being at present less than imperfect. I intend to commence drawing at home from those casts which I possess, and thus endeavour to get into the habit of working without assistance of any kind. For this purpose I shall want an easel, since I have lately been so accustomed to use one that I find it impossible now to draw otherwise. It is a thing that I must have sooner or later, and it is not so expensive as I supposed, since I find that a very decent one can be got for five shillings.
The Sketching Club continues, and I derive great improvement from it. The subjects I have drawn since I last wrote to you are:
, for which I made no less than six different drawings, which may perhaps take rank as my best sketches; <hi rend="i">The Parting of Two (indefinite) Lovers</hi> , which, being lazy, I am ashamed to confess I copied from Pistrucci; and <hi rend="i">The Death of Virginia</hi> , which I have prepared for the day after to-morrow, being the next club-day. It will then be my turn to propose the new subject, and I have fixed upon <hi rend="i">Orlando and Adam in the Forest</hi> Minotti firing the Trainfrom the. <hi rend="i">Siege of Corinth</hi> The
continues swimmingly. It improves with every number. Of the number on which William and myself are at present employed I am particularly proud. It contains some of my choicest specimens of sketching. Its pages are likewise adorned with two poetic effusions by Christina, the one entitled <hi rend="i">Illustrated Scrap-book</hi> and the other <hi rend="i">Rosalind</hi> , both of which are very good, especially the latter, which elicited the warm admiration of Dr. Heimann. Maria has also authorized me to insert in the victorious <hi rend="i">Corydon's Resolution</hi> her <hi rend="i">Scrap-book</hi> , originally written for the fallen <hi rend="i">Vision of Human Life</hi> , the ”weekly efforts” contained in which have I fear given their last gasp, since not a single perfect number has appeared since your departure. <hi rend="i">Hodge-podge</hi> William has written an enormous quantity of
, which increases in interest as it proceeds. His description of the battle of Hastings and death of Harold is acknowledged by every one to be excellent. <hi rend="i">Ulfred the Saxon</hi> I have not written anything new lately except a third chapter of
; an unfortunate work, the tribulations whereof have been so many and so great that, if the approbation of others were the only encouragement to an author to continue his literary labours, the romance in question would long since have found its way behind the grate. The new chapter has not been more fortunate than its predecessors, since Maria eschews it and obstinately refuses to hear it, under the impression that it is <hi rend="i">Sorrentino</hi> “horrible”. No one however pretends to deny that it is my, an opinion inchef-d'œuvre which I hope you will coincide after having perused it. The charge of indecency can no longer be laid upon the former portion with any show of reason, since I have purged and purified it most effectually, and burnt up the chaff with unquenchable fire. On the completion of this work I intend offering it to some publisher, for, defying all accusations of vanity and self-esteem, I cannot help considering that it is equal to very many of the senseless productions which daily issue from the press. I have finished reading
<hi rend="i">Earnest Maltravers</hi> , which is indeed a splendid work. I also began<hi rend="i">Alice, or The Mysteries</hi> , but could get no further than the first two or three chapters, so stupid did I find it. As to the indecent books which you speak of in your last letter to me (and of which report I find that Aunt Margaret was the origin), I am completely in the dark, since I have not read a single volume, except those of which I have spoken to you, from the day of your departure up to the time at which she wrote. I really wish that Aunt Margaret would refrain from circulating such falsehoods.— On enquiry I have succeeded in eliciting that the origin of all this was my having hinted at a vague intention of purchasing at some indefinite period the works of Shelley—which I should peruse solely on account of the splendid versification, and not from any love of his atheistical sentiments.
This letter was written from Boulogne. To keep my brother's health in good condition, our
parents sent him, on two occasions, to spend a few weeks with some old friends at Boulogne,
Signor Maenza and his wife—he an Italian, she an Englishwoman. Maenza was a
political refugee, a man of character and honour; an artist in the way of water-colour
sketching etc., who taught drawing, and I suppose Italian as well. He died in 1870, his wife
towards 1880. My brother's affectionate regard for them found steady practical expression up
to the last. Peppino, mentioned in the letter, was the only son of the Maenzas—a
student of painting, who never made
This letter from my brother follows on the same sheet on which Signor Maenza had written to
our father. He describes Gabriel as having “a pleasant smile, and a
well-developed and agreeable mind. I have already given a look at his sketches, and assure
you that he promises highly.
”
Although I have spoken of my brother, in the Memoir, as “Dante,” I always call him “Gabriel” in these notes attached to his letters, as that was the only name by which he was designated in the family, and generally by his closer intimates.
6Rue De La Coupe, Boulogne-Sur-Mer.
20 October1843.
Dear Mamma,I arrived here yesterday a little before six, after having suffered considerably during the voyage. Fortunately for me the weather has suddenly become fine, after having been very rough for a considerable time. I like Boulogne exceedingly, but I am, if possible, yet more pleased with the Maenza family. They are some of the kindest people I ever knew. I find that Peppino's tastes coincide in every respect with mine. He draws splendidly, and is very fond of poetry, especially Byron.
This is the only letter from Gabriel to my grandfather which I find extant: there can never have been many.
I have no recollection of the
which my brother announces: probably it perished abortive. The
is clearly
6Rue De La Coupe, Boulogne.
Thursday26October1843.
My Dear Grandfather,It is now exactly a week since I arrived in Boulogne. I like the place exceedingly. The views are most beautiful,
and the sailors and fishermen, with their wives and children, extremely picturesque. . . . My gigantic literary pursuits . . . have prompted me to write a new Romance, which I have already commenced, and which Peppino has undertaken to illustrate. I have made several purchases here, both of books and prints. Among others I have bought Bulwer's
, <hi rend="i">Leila, or the Siege of Granada</hi> , and <hi rend="i">Calderon the Courtier</hi> , all in one volume—which I purchased, entirely new and uncut, for two shillings; their price in England, exclusive of the last-named work, being fourteen shillings. I shall however be obliged to smuggle it in under my coat, since I hear that they do not allow French editions of English works to enter the latter country. The other day I went out with Peppino for the purpose of taking a view, but the wind was so high that we found it impossible to draw, and were forced to retreat from the scene of action. <hi rend="i">The Lady of Lyons</hi> Mr. Maenza has been reading Papa's
, which he admires very much. My <hi rend="i">Beatrice</hi> has also been read, and received the necessary amount of compliments. I find that Mr. M[aenza] is a great admirer of English literature, and is particularly well-acquainted with Byron. I have been reading here <hi rend="i">Ballad</hi> by that author, which is a strange drama relative to the Siege of Rome by Bourbon the Constable of France. It is perhaps not equal to many of his works, but nevertheless contains some sublime passages, particularly a quantity of songs and choruses. They have some most splendid books in this house, one of which is a Molière, illustrated by Tony Johannot in a manner so exquisitely comic that it almost made me split my sides with laughing. <hi rend="i">The Deformed Transformed</hi> <hi rend="i">La Bourgeois Gentilhomme</hi> and<hi rend="i">Monsieur de Pourceaugnac</hi> are particularly fine.* * * * * *
Believe me, my dear Grandfather,
Your affectionate Grandson,
. Gabriel Chas. Rossetti
6Rue De La Coupe, Boulogne-Sur-Mer.
1 November1843.
My Dear Father,I was much grieved yesterday evening on receiving Mamma's letter, and no less ashamed of myself for my unpardonable neglect in not enquiring after your health. I assure you, and I hope you will believe me, that it seems as unkind to myself, now that I reflect upon it, as it possibly can to you. Nevertheless I cannot imagine that you, who have hitherto enjoyed such excellent sight, are now about to be deprived of it. Had this defect of vision come over you when in a perfect state of health, I should certainly have entertained great fears that you were about to become blind; but, as it is, I cannot but hope, and even trust, that it is merely a temporary consequence of the weakness attendant on your long illness. Did you represent this to Mr. Lawrence, and if so did he not lay some weight upon it?
Mr. Maenza agrees with me on this point. He told me of a woman he knew—and who is still living in Boulogne—who had been given over by the doctors as completely blind, but who, in spite of this, recovered naturally in a short time, and sees now, and has for years, as well as he does.
Nevertheless this belief which I venture to entertain cannot prevent me from feeling great anxiety and uneasiness on your account. You say that William is unhappy; can you believe that I am less so? I assure you that Mamma's letter has made me very dull; it does not contain one single piece of good news. . . . The only good I can gather from the letter is that, as Mamma does not mention the state of your health in other respects, I presume that the illness has entirely left you.
As to my own health, which you so kindly enquire after, I am convinced that you will scarcely recognize me on my return. . . . I now feel better than ever I did in my life. Mrs. Maenza says she should not know me for the same
person, and that she is convinced you will find me considerably grown as well as improved in looks! I walk generally for nearly half the day, the views hereabouts being enough to drag out of his bed the greatest sluggard who ever snored. I intend to coy some of Mr. M[aenza]'s landscapes, since I have picked up a little taste that way. To conclude: the whole family join in affectionate regards and confident hopes for your recovery with
Your affectionate Son,
. Gabriel Chas. Rossetti
This letter (it will be perceived by the date and the altered address) belongs to the second visit which my brother paid to Boulogne. The sketch which Peppino made
of him in 1843 is still extant—an unsightly and unresembling sketch, with an almost
mulatto cast of countenance.
is (as shown before)
—the drama of
only because it was then unevadable, as being played all over Europe.“accursed”
was the“Sue's novel”
was a“The Voyage”
was a Sicilian, Calfapietra, a very agreeable companionable man, who had damaged himself by gambling before coming to England.“The Barone”
35Grande Rue [Boulogne].
Saturday[1December1844].
My Dear William,I received yesterday evening your unsightly missive containing the two
, which were much admired. They greeted Mr. Maenza and myself on our return from an evening walk, during which we met the postman, who informed us that he had left a “ <hi rend="i">Chuzzlewits</hi> ” at our house, which proved on inspection to be your epistolary eyesore.gros paquet The only passages in Byron's mad drama which have left any impression on my mind are the battle-choruses, which are sublime, and the last scene, which is lively and spirited. It was never finished.
I walk out here a great deal, gloating over all manner of Gavarnis, Johannots, Nanteuils, and other delicacies. I have got a large advertisement of the
<hi rend="i">Beautés de l'Opéra</hi> , containing a cut by the last-named artist, as fine as anything in the<hi rend="i">Tasso</hi> . I begin already to feel better here. The weather is cold, but clear and beautiful. None of the filthy vapours— half-fog, half-smoke—through which you are doubtless endeavouring to decipher my epistle, while a poetical mind might figure forth the sun ”taking a sight” at you—his face twisted into that comical expression which Phiz is in the habit of inflicting upon him.Our house is in a most beautiful situation. The window of what Mrs. Wood would call our “
salon” looks out upon the market, which Mamma doubtless remembers, and whose pretty groups of pretty girls are at this moment regaling my eye.Boulogne is certainly, as Mr. Maenza says, a splendid place for an artist. The evening before last Mr. Maenza and I walked about the principal church of the town during mass or vespers or whatever they call it. What between the fine old Gothic interior, adorned with pictures and images of saints—the music and the chanting—the magnificent groups of old fishwomen, whose intense devotion has in it something sublime—and the ”dim religious light” of the lamps placed against the Gothic pillars, which glimmered faintly up and struggled through the gathering darkness—the scene was so solemn and impressive that Maria (whom I wished for much) might have gone a Protestant, but would most certainly have returned a Catholic.
I was talking with Mr. Maenza the other day about Papa's poems, and I mentioned among others
, which I find he has not seen. Would Papa be so kind (if he does not mind the postage) as to forward me a copy, should any remain? <hi rend="i">Minaccioso l'Arcangel di Guerra</hi> Franconi is here, with his
, which we intend visiting —perhaps to-night. Conspicuous likewise among the fashionable arrivals stands that wandering Spaniard, that dramatic cholera, the accursed De Bazan. manègeDo
nottell me howSue's novel goes on, since I do not wish to have it stale on my return. Does Papa continue to like it, and was he not pleased with the scene where Gabriel “flayres uppe” so strong?Is the
finished? If so, not a word about the end. <hi rend="i">Barbe-bleue</hi> Tell the Cavaliere (whom I often remember) that I left his parcel at Lady Hartwell's door, and should have delivered it in person but for the best of reasons—that she was not at home.
I am glad that Papa's eyes are no worse. How is Grandpapa, how is Aunt Charlotte, and how are all the family?
I have bought several things here. Among others I picked up yesterday for fifteen sous (7 1/2
d. English) no less than five coloured Gavarnis, being three<hi rend="i">Enfants Terribles</hi> , one<hi rend="i">Fourberies de Femmes</hi> , and one<hi rend="i">Étudiants de Paris</hi> —all splendid specimens, and which usually sell at a franc apiece. I have likewise got six numbers of Johannot's<hi rend="i">Don Quixote</hi> , which is actually being re-issued at four sous the number! I have likewise got several of the, and ordered the rest. I have got several other things, but must defer mentioning them for want of space. <hi rend="i">Voyage</hi> Remember me most extra especially to those real friends the Heimanns, and tell the Doctor that I shall write to him as soon as I have the slightest pretence for so doing.
Love to all the family, including the Barone and Cavaliere, and (if you see them) Sangiovanni and Pistrucci.
Mr. and Mrs. Maenza salute you all warmly.
Your affectionate Brother,
. Gabriel Chas. RossettiP.S.—Looking over some of Peppino's sketches to-day I found one which he made of me last year, and which I begged for Mamma, thinking she might care to have it.
The letter from Signor Maenza, which accompanied this one from my brother, speaks of the
latter as “much grown
” since 1843. “His
conversation is lively, and his mind acts like a thunderbolt as soon as anything of high
compass is spoken of. He will do, I am certain, all that is to be expected from an elevated
spirit.
” There is another letter from Maenza, written on 25 January 1845,
when Gabriel was returning to London, saying, “His imagination promises
much, and I am persuaded that he will reach the goal aright.
” He then
recommends that my brother should take—which he never did—to fencing or
gymnastics, “to check the sedentary habits to which he is greatly
inclined.
” An account follows, showing that the payment for house and board
was £1 per week.
35 Grande Rue [Boulogne].
Thursday10December1844.
My Dear Father,I hope that you will excuse my writing this letter in English, but my Italian is so “
stentato ” [strained] that, although perhaps, when finished, it may be passably decent, still the labour of composing in a language in which I am so imperfect is an agony that I would willingly avoid.I was much grieved to hear that your sight had deteriorated, especially as I had hoped that what remained was almost secure. Have you consulted the German you mentioned? and, if so, would you tell William or somebody to write to me as soon as possible on the subject? Mr. Maenza, who will contribute his part to this letter, is of opinion that Paris is the best place for the treatment of your malady. I fear you must have thought me very remiss in not writing sooner. I should have done so, had I had anything to say which I thought would interest you. In fact I have not much even now, and only write to avoid the appearance of having forgotten you.
My health continues good, with the exception of the toothache—which however confines itself to meal-times. I go out as much as the cold permits me, which, between wind and frost, is biting in these parts. There are no beastly
stifling fogs however, and the sun looks out brightly every day at noon. We are anxiously expecting Peppino, whom we hope to see in about a week. His letters lead us to think that he has become more settled and steady. His last, which Mr. M[aenza] received a few days ago, was very sentimental, and spoke of some most amiable private pupil, “ with whom” (to use his own words), “through the kindness of the mother, I am very intimate.”After much racking of the brains I am sorry to find that this first piece of news is likewise the last. I have therefore only to forward you Mrs. Maenza's kind remembrances (letting Mr. M[aenza] speak for himself), and [to beg] that you will deliver that valuable article, my love, to all friends at home, keeping a large portion for yourself and Mamma.
means the last numbers of an illustrated serial we were then taking in,“Diables”
must point to the fact that our elder sister, then a governess in the country, was
expected home at this time.
[Boulogne]Tuesday17December1844.
My Dear Brother,Following your example, I hasten, as in duty bound, to acquit me of the commission contained in your last. I have enquired at the two principal shops in the town for Ragon's
, and find that neither of them has got it. Ask Cavalier Mortara whether or not he wishes me to order it from Paris. <hi rend="i">Cours Philosophique</hi> I am glad to say that the weather has changed since Saturday, and that the cold is no longer so severe. On Sunday I spent a most agreeable day in the country at the house of a friend who lives about five or six miles from Boulogne
in a most delightful situation, and close to a village which contains some of the most splendid sketches imaginable. I have been reading George Sand's
and Paul de Kock's <hi rend="i">Horace</hi> . As regards the first, it certainly contains some splendid and even sublime pieces of writing; but it is full of Saint Simonisme, communism, and sermons of all kinds, which render it both tedious and disgusting. Besides which, there is a great deal of French sentimentalism, and not a single possible character or probable incident. <hi rend="i">Ce Monsieur</hi> , as you may imagine, is glorious from title-page to finis. After all, Paul de Kock is unquestionably the most amusing and the most natural of the novelists. The interest of his works never flags for a moment, and even his pathetic scenes are perfectly true and unaffected. To-day or to-morrow I shall get another by the same author. Should you wish to see a more extended critique on these two works, you may look for it in a letter which I wrote yesterday to Dr. Heimann, wherein I have set forth my opinion at greater length. <hi rend="i">Ce Monsieur</hi> I will tell you a few of my purchases. Imprimis seven heads in lithography by Gavarni, which I got cheap at the same shop as the others I told you of. Item,
. This little book contains all our old friends, Blue-beard, Cinderella, etc., which I find were originally written by one Charles Perrault, born in 1633. It is full of most exquisite cuts, by Nanteuil, Devéria, Giraud, and, though last not least, a man of the name of Thomas, who is as fine as anybody I know. The misfortune is that, as they are published very cheap in order I suppose to be within the reach of every child, the cuts are printed on the same paper as a little book called the <hi rend="i">Contes des Fées par Perrault</hi> , which, as you doubtless remember, I bought last year, and many of the impressions are consequently completely ruined. Nevertheless they will be a capital acquisition for our scrap-book. Item, twelve more numbers of <hi rend="i">Tour de Nesle</hi> . Item, some numbers of the <hi rend="i">Don Quixote</hi> , full of first-rate Chams, Grandvilles, and Daumiers, and containing even a few most sublime Gavarnis. <hi rend="i">Musée Philipon</hi> There are a few other things, to see which you must, in the words of Scripture, “
tarry till I come.”By-the-bye, you give me a long account of some Phizes; but you omit something even more interesting—namely, a description of the last
and <hi rend="i">Diables</hi> . <hi rend="i">Juif</hi> Have you seen lately anything of our friend Gilbert, or procured any of his works? I hope his style continues in good health.
Get in Wellington Street the
for Sunday 8 December, being the one before last. I could not procure a copy in this place, they being all sold. It contains some capital Chams, some excellent Bertalls, and two or three landscapes by Calame of <hi rend="i">Illustration</hi> rathera sublime character.You remember two or three cuts in our portfolio signed P.S.G. The name, I find, is Saint-Germain. The other day I actually saw, in a barber's shop on the port, some of the finest cuts from Vernet's
(among others, the Kremlin and the Battle of Wagram) cut out and pasted on some bottles of eau-de-Cologne. My blood boils within me as I write it. <hi rend="i">Napoleon</hi> The other night I went to Franconi's to see the horsemanship. It certainly beats our Astley's. Franconi is the very image of the Duke of Wellington. There was a horse which danced the polka.
I have got the rest of the
with the exception of one number. Unfortunately I do not know which it is. On my return however I shall endeavour to find out by reference to the numbers I bought last year, and shall order it accordingly. <hi rend="i">Voyage</hi> I trust that Papa's sight has improved, or at least remains stationary. Mr. Maenza greatly admired the
, and was particularly delighted with the lines commencing “ <hi rend="i">Canto Marziale</hi> ” I have a favour to ask for him as soon as I return to London.Sette siri ci colman di mali. It is that Papa will make me a present of a for —, <hi rend="i">Salterio</hi> 1who admires his
1The name has been torn off—perhaps Siesto.poetry exceedingly, and begged me, if possible, to coax him out of a copy. We are still expecting Peppino. I anticipate his advent with great pleasure, since he will be a wonderful acquisition in the way of cheerfulness.
Love to all, especially Mamma. Love likewise from Mr. and Mrs. Maenza.
Your most affectionate Brother,
Gabriel Chas. Rossetti.
P.S.—Is Maria yet arrived?
My brother had just had at Boulogne an attack of small-pox, to which the opening passage in this letter refers. It left no trace behind.
[Boulogne.]Wednesday22January1845.
My Dearest Mother,About a couple of hours ago I received your letter, and hasten to answer it. My health improves daily, so much so that yesterday and to-day I have been able to go out. The pustules have almost entirely disappeared, my eyes have not suffered in the least, and I feel much stronger. There is not the least necessity for my staying here after the present week. I shall return (by Folkestone, which the Doctor tells me is necessary) on Saturday or Sunday. He (Dr. R.) says there is not the slightest danger of contagion.
* * * * * *I am sorry to say that we are all invalids here, inasmuch as Mrs. Maenza has a violent cold, and Mr. Maenza (who has been unwell in one way or another ever since my arrival) has been seized to-day with a pain in the leg, which troubles him much and almost prevents his walking. Both wish to be remembered to you, and the former says that she should have made it a duty to answer your letter, had she not been ill.
Did you not think Peppino greatly improved? We have
agreed to keep up a weekly correspondence, in which I intend to spur him on to follow up his plan of making a water-colour for the exhibition. It is perfectly shameful that with his talents, which (in portrait, landscape, and in fact in everything except original composition) are of a very high order, he should consent to remain buried in a country- school. Being afraid, dear Mamma, that any news I might have to tell would not be of a nature to interest
you, I shall address it instead to William; hoping to see you all very soon, and begging you to believe me
Your affectionate Son,
Gabriel Chas. Rossetti.
“The prospect of employment which had opened for me” was that which
continued to abide with me up to the close of August 1894, when I retired from the public
service. I entered the Excise Office (then in Old Broad Street, City, now Inland Revenue
Office in Somerset House) as an extra clerk on 6 February 1845—being in my
sixteenth year. The
though I dare say they were well up to the average, or even beyond that. Perhaps my
brother contrasted these powers with his own— which in that direction were never
strong.
[Boulogne.22 ]January1845.
Dear William,I was rejoiced to hear of the prospect of employment which has opened for you. Let us hope that it will be permanent.
Did Peppino show you his Gavarni book? If so,
on my return. If not, you will soon be able to console yourself with the store of treasures to be laid before your admiring eyes on the aforesaid occasion. vous m'en direz des nouvellesI have read several books lately, the principal ones being:
, by Paul de Kock; <hi rend="i">M. Dupont</hi> , by Langon and Touchard; and <hi rend="i">Les Jolies Filles</hi> and other tales, by Prosper Mérimée. The first is excellent, of course, though not so good as some by the same author. The second is a combination of extreme stupidity with the highest pitch of disgusting obscenity. <hi rend="i">Colomba</hi> As regards
, it is perfectly sublime. There is about it a manly and vigorous style which has seldom indeed been equalled. It contains likewise some Corsican ballads, exactly in the style of the old English poetry; one of which in particular pleased me so much that I took the trouble of translating it. It is, I am sorry to say, a fragment, consisting of a very few verses. Among the other tales in the same volume there is a supernatural one, called <hi rend="i">Colomba</hi> , which is unutterably fine. <hi rend="i">La Vénus d'Ille</hi> I have read several other things: among the rest, a poem by Barthélémy entitled
, carried through three cantos with a most amusing cheek. <hi rend="i">L'Art de Fumer</hi> I have bagged a few sketches of Peppino's, with which I am sure you will be greatly pleased. Certainly, as long as he keeps to Nature, his powers are perfectly gigantic.
Having no more room, believe me
Your affectionate Brother,
Gabriel Chas. Rossetti.
There are some rather strong utterances in this epistle.
was Lady Charles Thynne, a sister-in-law of the Marchioness Dowager of Bath.
(Maria) had become governess in the family of Lady Charles. She pretty soon gave up
acting as a regular governess, and lived at home, giving lessons at the houses of pupils.
Our Mother, with Christina, was at Herne Bay when this letter was written; other members of the family had been along with her, but were now back.
[] Towards August1847.
Dear Mamma,Accompanying this is a letter from Mr. L., which has just come in time to send. The stupid seal alluded to we retain, as unworthy of carriage expenses. As to the nonsense about Christina's
, I should advise her to console herself with the inward sense of superiority (assuring her moreover that she will not be the first who has been driven time after time to the same alternative), and to consign the fool and his folly to that utter mental oblivion to the which, I doubt not, she has long ago consigned all those who have been too much honoured by the gift of her book. <hi rend="i">Verses</hi> I hope you told Lady Charles that that poor Maggy is not to be bullied and badgered out of her life by a lot of beastly brats; and that Lady C[harles] fully understands the same, and has already provided the said Maggy with a bamboo.
You do not say a word of your own return, although you cannot but know how anxious we are on the subject.
Your affectionate Son,
G. C. Rossetti.
While William was away two tickets came from Maroncelli (directed to Christina) for a concert, where Jenny Lind sang her Swedish songs and several other things. As I abhor concerts, I gave them to the Heimanns, who, it appears, were greatly pleased. There was a hymn sung, with choruses, in honour of Pio Nono. I suppose you have not heard that the Austrians have been forced by a general rising to retreat from Ferrara. The papers also affirm, as a certain fact, that the Pope has said that, if this unjustifiable interference is continued, he shall first make a protest to all the Sovereigns of Europe against Austria; that, in case this should fail, he will excommunicate both Emperor and people; and that, when driven to the last extremity, he will himself ride in the van of his own army with the sword and the Cross, and that then five millions of Christians shall rise and follow him.
This letter, and other subsequent letters as well, show that my brother had much reason to
be thankful to our Aunt Charlotte Polidori for liberal assistance afforded to him at
contingencies when he would otherwise have been in straits. Miss Polidori, having a regular
and sufficient income from her exertions as governess, was, during his earlier professional
career, a good deal better off than other members of the family, and was alone capable of
producing a comfortable extra sum in hand. My brother speaks of
, to one or other of whom he thought of applying for practical artistic training,
especially in colouring. One of these, to whom he actually did apply, was Ford Madox Brown,
who thus became his life-long and most affectionate friend. I cannot say who the other may
have been. He admired towards this time the paintings of Mr. C. H. Lear and Mr. W. D. Kennedy,
as testified by some writings of his published by me in his
[50Charlotte Street.] ? February1848.
Dear Aunt Charlotte,It is now several days since I received a very kind letter of yours, but it is not till now that I have been able to decide in my own mind whether or not I had any right to accept the offer it contains. I have at length resolved to do so; and to this resolution I shall add no mere expression of a gratitude which I shall best prove by profiting as much as possible by the opportunity you so generously place within my reach. Nor do I forget that this is not the first time I have been equally indebted to you.
The motive which has induced me to lay myself under so great an obligation to you is the knowledge that, unless I obtain by some means the advantage which you have offered me, my artistic career will be incalculably retarded, if not
altogether frustrated. Every time I attempt to express my ideas in colour I find myself baffled, not by want of ability— I feel this, and why should I not say it?—but by ignorance of certain apparently insignificant technicalities which, with the guidance of an experienced artist, might soon be acquired. Such an artist it is not very easy to find, out of the ranks of those whose fame either makes them careless of obtaining pupils, or renders their charges for instruction exorbitant. I have got however two men in my eye who, possessing abilities equal to the most celebrated, have by some unaccountable accident not obtained, except among their brother artists, that renown which they merited. These therefore would, I should think, be the persons to apply to; and, as soon as I have communicated with either of them (which I shall proceed to do immediately), I will write you the result.
I remain, my dear Aunt,
Your grateful Nephew,
GABRIEL C. ROSSETTI.
This letter—of superior interest as showing my brother's first acquaintance with
Mr. Brown—calls for little elucidation. The
must have been the
[50Charlotte Street.] April1848.
My Dear Aunt,I dare say you will have thought my long silence strange enough. The fact is that, when I wrote to Mr. Ford Brown (one of the artists to whom I alluded in my last), I affixed to my note the address which I found in the Exhibition Catalogue; but it turns out that he has moved since the last time he exhibited, so that my letter probably wandered about before reaching him. When he got it however he called on me, and requested that I would go down to his
studio (which is in Clipstone Street), and see a work he is engaged upon. I accordingly went, and he entered on the subject of my becoming his pupil. He says that he is not in the habit of giving instruction in a professional way; but that any assistance he can afford me he shall be exceedingly happy to impart as a friend, and that, even if I wish to go through a regular course of study under his direction—so long as he perceives that I have sufficient talent to make success probable—he most kindly consents to receive me, still as a friend. At the same time he advises me to join an evening academy held in Maddox Street, where students can draw from the living model at, I believe, a trifling expense. I shall of course follow his advice, and to that effect will avail myself of your kind offer—for which, believe me, I am none the less grateful because a fortunate chance (which could not have occurred without it) enables me to dispense with the full extent of the obligation. On Monday evening next I shall join the academy in question. At the same time I shall of course settle respecting terms etc., whereof I will immediately render you cognizant.
Meanwhile, believe me, my dear Aunt, with renewed thanks,
Your affectionate Nephew,
. G. C. Rossetti
My brother, in tendering some of his poems to Leigh Hunt for perusal, acted simply from a
belief in the critical acumen and sympathy of that veteran writer. Hunt's book of
[50Charlotte Street.12 ]April1848.
Dear Aunt Charlotte,For the whole of the past week I have been afflicted with a return of my old atrocious boils, which has effectually precluded the possibility of my stirring out. Of this, however, I dare say you have already been informed by Mamma, who thinks everybody's illnesses of consequence except her own. It was therefore not till last night that I was enabled to join the Maddox Street Academy, according to the recommendation of Mr. Ford Brown. I find that the terms are half-a-guinea monthly—rather more than I had been led to believe. However, as you had made me so kind an offer, I thought that I should not be exceeding the bounds of moderation in joining, which I did. In order to pay for the first month I was obliged to inform Mamma of our correspondence and its object; so that it will now be as well to forward to her, instead of to me, the half-guinea in question, which she disbursed. For all this I will not repeat my thanks, because it would perhaps appear an affectation, but I hope you will believe me nevertheless not ungrateful. The academy is a capital one. The hours are from seven to ten in the evening, and the model sits four times a week.
Notwithstanding illness, I have been for some days in a state of considerable exhilaration. Not long ago I sent some poems of mine to Leigh Hunt, requesting him to read them, and tell me if they were worth anything. His answer is so flattering that I cannot quote any part of it, lest it should seem like conceit. Moreover, he requests me, as soon as he has moved into another house (by reason of which removal he is at present in some bustle and confusion), to “
give him the pleasure of my acquaintance”!!!!
The poem which my brother sent to our Aunt in this instance must, I think, have been
.
must have applied in chief to
[50Charlotte Street.]]. Sunday[? June1848
Dear Aunt Charlotte,Ever since I received your last letter (which I fear is very long ago) I have kept it lying on my table as a memento. The fact is that I should have answered it long ago, had I not wished my answer to be accompanied by the poem which I enclose, and which wanted a few finishing touches, which I have at last found time to give it. It is the one of my precious performances which is, I think, the most likely to please you as to style and subject. All the others are of course completely at your service, and shall be sent, if you so desire, immediately upon an intimation from you to that effect. I only refrain from doing so till then because I do not wish you to pay a heavy postage for things of such a little value. I hope you will not be displeased at my adding that I should not wish the verses to be seen by any one but yourself, as I think an unpublished poet is always rather a ridiculous character to appear in before strangers.
Where Hunt, in his kind letter, speaks of my “
Dantesque heavens,” he refers to one or two of the poems the scene of which is laid in the celestial regions, and which are written in a kind of Gothic manner which I suppose he is pleased to think belongs to the school of Dante. The other word about which you ask me I read as you do— viz., “round.”I continue going to the Life-school in Maddox Street, where I enjoy my studies much. During the day I paint at Mr. Brown's, who is an invaluable acquisition to me as regards the art, and moreover a most delightful friend. We are already quite confidential. His kindness, and the trouble he takes about me, are really astonishing; I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve them. Yesterday I showed him some of my poetical productions, which he seemed to
By D. G. Rossetti. 1848.
William M. Rossetti.
like much, especially the one I send you. Indeed I think myself that it is perhaps my best thing as yet, being more simple and like nature.
When this letter was written, I was staying at Brighton with our Mother, Christina, and our
Grandfather Polidori. The picture on which my brother was then engaged was his first exhibited
oil- picture,
means the first volume of Lord Houghton's Keats”
means Charles Wells's drama of“Joseph and the Stories”
, etc., must (need I say?) be understood as intentional nonsense, or
burlesque.
was an effusion of the same class, meant as a skit upon songs (such as
refers to certain meetings—monthly or the like—which the members of our family, with a very few intimates, held at this time, for reading recent verse-compositions, etc. These meetings rapidly died out.“Our next literary meeting”
[50Charlotte Street.20 ]August1848.
Dear William,I write to you because I have a half-hour to spare and nothing else to do. If, being in the same predicament, you happen to answer, tell me what you do at dreary snobbish Brighton; and, if you have written anything, send me a copy. I have not scribbled a line, but think of shirking the studio to-day, and doing so. I have made a
study for the colour of mypicture , but, not being quite satisfied therewith, am tryinga second . I have also made anude study for the figure of St. Anne . Hunt and I are now settled down quite comfortably, and he is engaged on the preliminaries for his picture of. <hi rend="i">Rienzi</hi> I have not yet had time to get quite through the first volume of
, which is exceedingly interesting. He seems to have been a glorious fellow, and says in one place (to my great delight) that, having just looked over a folio of the first and second schools of Italian painting, he has come to <hi rend="i">Keats</hi> the conclusion that the early men surpassed even Raphael himself! I picked up the other day for sixpence a book I had long wished to see, called
. It is well worth a perusal, and makes mention of <hi rend="i">An Exposition of the False Medium and Barriers precluding Men of Genius from the Public</hi> and the <hi rend="i">Joseph</hi> . The date of publication is 1833. <hi rend="i">Stories</hi> Hunt and I went the other night to Woolner's, where we composed a poem of twenty-four stanzas on the alternate system. I transcribe the last stanza, which was mine, to show you the style of thing:—
“'Twas thus, thus is, and thus shall be: The Beautiful—the Good— Still mirror to the Human Soul Its own intensitude!” I saw
your Mackay song , which is not at all bad. The other thing very poor. . . .Our next literary meeting, as you will remember, comes off next Saturday. If you can be there, it will be all the better. Does Christina write? Love to Mamma etc.
Sincerely yours,
G. C. Rossetti.
My brother and I at this time—and in a minor degree our sister
Christina—were much addicted to writing sonnets tobouts rimés
Hancock was a young sculptor of some repute. It seems that I had seen in Brighton some one whom I supposed to be Munro the sculptor.
50Charlotte Street.August30, 1848.
Dear William,First, of the sonnets. I grinned tremendously over Christina's
, which however is forcible, and has something good in it. Her other is first-rate. Pray impress upon her that this, and the one commencing <hi rend="i">Plague</hi> “Methinks the ills of life”, are as good as anything she has written, and well worthy of revision. Of your own,and <hi rend="i">The Completed Soul</hi> (as I should laconize it) are admirable. <hi rend="i">The Shadow of the Flower</hi> “I drink deep-throated of the life of life,” splendid., and <hi rend="i">The Great Gulf Betwixt</hi> , are also very good, though a shade less so. I do not think you have improved <hi rend="i">The Holy of Holies</hi> ; touching which, moreover, I hereby solemnly declare that <hi rend="i">The One Dark Shade</hi> “The trees waving which breezes seem to woo”is no verse at all, and should say “The waving trees.” Let me earnestly assure you that thisis the fact. As for, you will never make sense of that till you cut away the simile about the poet. If you have written anything since, send it in your answer, which make as speedy as possible, as I am awfully low and want something to stir me up. <hi rend="i">Thither</hi> I have not read a line of anything since I wrote, and of course therefore have not finished
. I dare say, after all, you will have read it before I shall. The only book I have picked up is L. E. L.'s <hi rend="i">Keats</hi> , for which I gave ninepence. By-the-bye, have you got her <hi rend="i">Improvisatrice</hi> and <hi rend="i">Violet</hi> with you? I cannot find them in our library. <hi rend="i">Bracelet</hi> There was no meeting of the Literary Society on Saturday. Collinson was at the Isle of Wight (whither I did
notgo with him), Hancock also out of town, and Deverell of course anywhere but where he ought to be. He explained his former absence by saying two engagements kept him away, he having otherwise prepared a dramatic scene for the occasion. This I have not yet inspected; but he sent me the other day a poem, something about a distressingly ideal poet yearning for the insane, which is not quite so incongruous, and contained one or two good things.Munro has
notbeen to Brighton; but the other day, in London, he fancied he sawyouon the top of an omnibus. As he is a Scotchman, this is dangerous, or rather encouraging. There can be no doubt that one at least is to die. Pray to God that it may be you.
Aproposof death, Hunt and I are going to get up among our acquaintance a Mutual Suicide Association, by the regulations whereof any member, being weary of life, may call at any time upon another to cut his throat for him. It is all of course to be done very quietly, without weeping or gnashing of teeth. I, for instance, am to go in and say, “I say, Hunt, just stop painting that head a minute, and cut my throat”; to which he will respond by telling the model to keep the position as he shall only be a moment, and having done his duty, will proceed with the painting.The Cyclographic gets on fast. From discontent it has already reached conspiracy. There will soon be a blow-up somewhere.
Hunt and I have prepared a list of Immortals, forming our creed, and to be pasted up in our study for the affixing of all decent fellows' signatures. It has already caused considerable horror among our acquaintance. I suppose we shall have to keep a hair-brush. The list contains four distinct classes of Immortality; in the first of which three stars are attached to each name, in the second two, in the third one, and in the fourth none. The first class consists only of Jesus Christ and Shakespear. We are also about to transcribe various passages from our poets, together with forcible and correct sentiments, to be stuck up about the walls.
The night before last I sat up and made a
design of Coleridge's, which is certainly the best thing I have done. It took me from eleven to six in the morning. I have also designed very carefully <hi rend="i">Genevieve</hi> , which has come well. I made the other day a small <hi rend="i">Hist, said Kate the Queen</hi> sketch for the, which I mean to do larger, as it is a fine subject in spite of the muffs. I have not written a line. <hi rend="i">Death of Marmion</hi> I went the other night to see
at Covent Garden. Grisi is most tremendous, and Alboni's song, with the funeral chaunt between the stanzas, very fine—in fact, the whole of the last scene is tremendous, as is also the denunciation at the end of the first act. In this Grisi screamed continuously for about two minutes, and was immense. We must go and see it together. Love to all. <hi rend="i">Lucrezia</hi>
Your affectionate Brother,
G.C.R.
Clifton was a painstaking but not powerful painter, a member of the Cyclographic
Society.—Collinson's poem of
[] Towards September1848.
Dear Mamma,William having suggested that you might perhaps like a note from me, I hasten to send you the same, which I would have done before, had I possessed any news which I thought would interest you. At present indeed I have not a jot more than then, except of that class which William gloats over, and all others scorn. This accordingly I must proceed to retail.
I have returned this minute from the Queen's Theatre in Tottenham Street, whither I went with Collinson and Clifton to witness a profoundly intense drama entitled
, wherein are served up a British sailor and other dainties. One of the pirates wore trouser-straps—which I thought was a touch of nature, considering. <hi rend="i">Kæuba the Pirate Vessel</hi> Have you seen Christina's and William's rhyme-sonnets? The second of C[hristina]'s is really good, so is the second of William's. His third is also good, but for the strange word “
queer,” wherein I recognize the influence of Christina's powerful mind. His fourth has some very good lines, but is wretched nonsense as it stands.By-the-bye, I will transcribe you a howling canticle written by me yesterday—in what agony of tears let the style suggest. I hereby declare that if snobbishness consists in the assumption
of false appearances, the most snobbish of all things is poetry.
THE FALL OF THE LEAF.
Know'st thou not at the Fall of the Leaf.
[Here follows the poem, in a less mature form than the
The folio of the great Cyclographic continues its rounds. It is now with Collinson. Calling on him this morning, and finding that he had no sketch ready and did not mean to make one, I designed an
angular saint , which we mean to send round under his name, to the mystification and sore disgust, no doubt, of the members in general. I expect we shall end by getting kicked out. The criticisms are becoming more and more scurrilous. Dennis has helped them materially in their downward course by telling Deverell that his last design is a re-version from Retzsch's outline of the same subject.Collinson has almost finished his poem of
. It is a very first-rate affair. He has augmented it with two new incidents, by which addition it is now made emblematical of the “five sorrowful mysteries” of the Atonement. He thinks of leaving to-morrow for Herne Bay, with the intention of remaining there a few days. I may perhaps accompany him, but have not yet quite decided. <hi rend="i">The Child Jesus</hi> Having exhausted everything, believe me, dear Mamma,
Your affectionate Son,
G. C. Rossetti.
Will you tell William that our literary criticisms have
notyet commenced? I see no reason why he should not retain “grey meadows.”
James Collinson's brother was a bookseller at Mansfield in Nottinghamshire. I was at this
time on a visit to James Collinson and his mother hard by, at Pleasley Hill. The question
whether I had found a castle yet refers to my having projected writing a
[50Charlotte Street.]
Wednesday, 5 P.M. [22November1848].
Dear William,I believe Collinson's brother has a subscription library. It has just struck me that he may possibly possess the
, or at least know where we might be likely to obtain a copy. I therefore write without delay, in order that you may make diligent enquiry on the subject. <hi rend="i">Stories after Nature</hi> I wrote yesterday the subjoined sonnet touching my
picture , for the catalogue. You are going, I believe, to write to Christina, and can then tell me how you like it. I do not quite relish the fourth line, neither am I certain about. You will perhaps remember that in a“strong in grave peace” translation of mine from Mamiani there is the expression. This is not in Mamiani at all, but was my own addition, and therefore of course at my free disposal. I have here used it in allusion to the allegory of the picture.“An angel-watered plant” Have you written anything or found a castle yet? St. Anne's head in my
picture has succeeded beyond my expectations.Commend me to Collinson—that is, if he is in a good humour; and remember that I am
Your affectionate
Gabriel Dante Rossetti.
SONNET.This is that Blessed Mary, pre-elect God's Virgin. Gone is a great while since she Dwelt thus in Nazareth of Galilee. Loving she was, with temperate respect: A profound simpleness of intellect Was hers, and extreme patience. From the knee Faithful and hopeful; wise in charity; Strong in grave peace; in duty circumspect. Thus held she through her girlhood; as it were An angel-watered lily that near God Grows and is quiet. Till one dawn, at home She woke in her white bed, and had no fear At all, yet wept for a brief period; Because the fullness of the time was come.
The work here spoken of as
is again
is now in my possession. The
—refers to the fact that she had (by a sort of sudden impulse, for which
she could not well account) thrown off some verses in a quasi-ballad form; my brother thought
there was
. This was a curious “sport” on her part, and remained solitary;
for she was not in the least a poetical person, either in performance or in temperament. I
will here give the verses, which I found among the papers left by Christina at her
decease:—
He wanders on, he wanders on— I know not where he's gone: I follow him, I follow him, Who has my heart as his. He waxèd hot, he waxèd hot When gently I him told My mother's fears, my mother's fears That he my peace would mar. He called me cold, he called me cold; My hand from his he threw: He would not hear, he would not hear My bitter words of grief. O mother dear, O mother dear, Break not thy heart for me: I'll hasten on, I'll hasten on, And then fall down and die.
The reader may perhaps observe that this is the first letter bearing the signature
. It must therefore have been towards the close of his twenty-first year, or the
beginning of his twenty-second, that he adopted this form of the Christian names, to which he
ever afterwards adhered.
[? 50Charlotte Street.]
Tuesday Morning[?May1849.]
My Dear Aunt,I am much obliged to you for your note of yesterday, which I would have answered before this morning if my time had been less taken up.
As my
picture this year has created some interest, it is desirable that I should come before the public next year as prominently as possible, so as to succeed in establishing at once some degree of reputation. I am therefore about to commence immediately anotherwork , hoping thus to get two done before the next exhibition—one of some size, andanother smaller. For this purpose I am now engaged on making drawings. These things considered, I should be unwilling to endanger my chance of finishing two pictures by employing my time on portraits, unless the latter were really to compensate me by a good remuneration.My terms therefore would be as follows:—
For a small full-length in chalks (18 inches by 15 or thereabouts), £5 5
s.For a small portrait in oil, like the one Collinson did of Christina, £8 8
s.For a larger portrait in oil, the price would be proportionate according to the size.
I do not take miniatures; and, as to the number of sittings, that must of course depend in a great measure on the patience of the sitter. Moreover, as I have not much practice in portraits, I cannot be positive in that matter.
Should these terms prove too high (as I almost anticipate
that they will), I hope that you will not consider me foolish in thus rejecting a linnet in the hand for the sake of two pheasants in the bush. The other day I went to the Free Exhibition, with Millais, Hunt, and two or three other friends; and we remarked one of the critics of the
journal standing before <hi rend="i">Art-Union</hi> my picture for a quarter of an hour at least. I therefore anticipate, on the first of next month, to be either praised or regularly cut up in that paper. As the paper is very influential, I hope it will be the former. I have already been approved by the only two other journals whose opinion goes for anything in matters of art—theand the <hi rend="i">Athenæum</hi> . As soon as the <hi rend="i">Builder</hi> makes its appearance I will take care that you are apprized of its contents in my regard, as I have reason to know of old how much kind interest you take in my unworthy self. <hi rend="i">Art-Union</hi> Mamma and the rest desire me to send you their loves with my own, with which valuable missive I remain
Your affectionate Nephew,
Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Have you written any more poetry?
The main subject of this letter is the projected Præraphaelite magazine, shortly
afterwards entitled
The joke
is taken from one of Hood's funny poems, in which a negro's ghost is made to appear
by daylight—
Herbert, who is spoken of as one of the proprietors ofVOL. II 4
Holman Hunt and my brother had at this time resolved to make a little tour to Paris and Belgium, which soon afterwards came off.
Dickinson means Lowes (or else Robert) Dickinson, members of a flourishing print-selling firm in Bond Street. Mr. Lowes Dickinson is now, as for many years past, a leading portrait-painter. Williams, whom my brother had met at Dickinson's, was Mr. William Smith Williams, the first discoverer of Charlotte Brontë's genius. He was brother-in-law to Charles Wells, and became father-in-law to Mr. Lowes Dickinson.
This letter shows the origin of my brother's poem
.
This refers to a blank-verse narrative poem which I was writing at Ventnor, intending
it for
[London.] Tuesday Night, 18September1849.
Dear William,Feeling utter disgust at everything, I sit down to write to you, hoping thereby to get myself into a philosophical frame of mind. I ought to have written before, having somewhat to say, but in the daytime the awful bore confronted me in too glaring a manner. It doesn't show (so much) at night. This filthy joke is as a mill-stone round the neck of my spirit, to sink it to the lowest abyss of degradation, whence (having no further to descend) it can now indite this epistle in a mood of sullen calmness.
I believe we have found a publisher for the
Magazine — viz., Aylott and Jones, 8 Paternoster Row. I was introduced to them about a week back by a printer, a friend ofHancock's. They seemed perfectly willing to publish for us, and the only reason that we have not yet printed the prospectus with their names attached is that I wished first to be sure that the commission they ask (10 per cent, not on the profits only, but on the entire sale) is a just one. The duty of sifting this matter devolved on the dilatory Deverell —a fact which will fully account for its being yet in abeyance. I hope from day to day however to have the prospectus out. We have made enquiries about the printing of the etchings, which it appears would cost us about 2s. or 2s6d. a hundred, exclusive of the cost of paper. Our proprietors at present amount to nine (including Hancock, who has been enrolled, and Herbert, who I fear is rather a doubtful case). I cannot see why old Collinson should not be made to take a share. Endeavour to impress this on the amount of mind he possesses. I strongly suspect that the cost of printing a number will not be less than nearly £20. North however has given me an estimate of what it would cost with the printer who did his, which brings it only to £13, including even prospectus. He swears positively that it can be done for this, and that a penny more will be cheating. On the other hand, the estimate given by the Tuppers is £13 for printing only, including, I think, paper. I am still waiting for a third estimate which Haynes, Hancock's friend, is to send me. Under these circumstances we must look out for as many proprietors as possible. I attended a meeting last night at Bliss's, where I had meant to bring up the subject and sound him. . . . For my part, I am certain that, as soon as the prospectus is printed, we shall be able, among the lot of us, to secure at least 250 subscribers before the thing is out at all, and this will be something. Tell Collinson, if he is writing to his brother, to ask him about the publishers' percentage. I have no doubt he could enlighten us. <hi rend="i">Signs</hi> Stephens is writing for the first number an article on Early Art which I have not seen. Hunt is at his etching; he is now tremendously agog about the thing. I know not exactly when we shall start on our tour—probably next week. The
fact is, we ought not by rights to go at all. Hunt's background is still detaining him. Brown was in town for a day, but is gone back again. The other night I was at Dickinson's, where I met Williams, who has lent me a tale by Wells not contained in the
; as also a poem by Linton on the affairs of Rome. I have not yet read it. <hi rend="i">Stories after Nature</hi> I have done but little in any way, having wasted several days at the Museum, where I have been reading up all manner of old romaunts, to pitch upon stunning words for poetry. I have found several, and also derived much enjoyment from the things themselves, some of which are tremendously fine. I have copied out an exquisite little ballad, quoted in the preface to one of the collections.
I bought the other day the original editions of the lyrical numbers of the
, which you remember contain variations; also Horne's <hi rend="i">Bells and Pomegranates</hi> (original edition) and <hi rend="i">Orion</hi> ; also (for 5 <hi rend="i">Death of Marlowe</hi> s.) a translation, in two volumes, of the—a book I had long wished to possess. I was however rather disappointed, having expected to find lots of glorious stories for poems. Four or five good ones there are; one of which (which I have entitled <hi rend="i">Gesta Romanorum</hi> <hi rend="i">The Scrip and Staff</hi> ) I have considerably altered, and enclose for your opinion, together with another plot of my own devising. Both of these I contemplate versifying when free of existing nightmares. Tell me what you think thereof; and please to return them with your answer, as I may want them. Let me also have Collinson's verdict. I have only written twelve stanzas ofsince your departure; but hope to get through some more to-night before going to bed. <hi rend="i">Bride-Chamber Talk</hi> I want to know all about your poem—what the plot is, and how much you have written. By-the-bye, I added three stanzas yesterday to
, which I think were wanted as stop-gaps. I wish if possible to have this in No. 1. <hi rend="i">My Sister's Sleep</hi> What is Collinson after? I suppose (ahem!) he works like a horse; of course I mean a Jerusalem pony. I hope to follow up this delicate compliment with a letter as soon
as possible; meanwhile remember my brotherhood to him. Millais is still in the country. Write soon.
Dante G. Rossetti.
P.S.—Going downstairs to get your address, I find Collinson there, whose projected return I had quite forgotten. He has given me a vagueish notion of what you are writing. Let me hear from you
immediately, as Woolner and I are going forthwith into the country somewhere for a few days, and, if accounts are good, the vine-branches of your rhetoric might induce us to go up into the land and possess it with you.
Some sonnets of mine are referred to in this letter.bouts-rimés
bouts-rimés
means “a prospectus of the Thoughts”
included no doubt“Woolner's poems”
[London].Monday[24September1849].
Dear William,Coming to Woolner's at the moment of his receiving your last, I undertake (in consequence of a miserable prostration produced in him by unmanly sloth) to answer it for him.
In the matter of editorship, your objections are, I think, set at rest by the fact that we have excluded from the title the words “Conducted by Artists.” You are thus on exactly the same footing as all other contributors. The publishers (whose names appear in the prospectus) are Messrs. Aylott and Jones, who were found on enquiry to be highly respectable. The prospectus is now at the printer's, and in a day or two I expect to send you a copy. Patmore, to whom it
was shown, seemed considerably impressed in its favour, and was even induced thereby (open thine ears, eyes, or whatever other organs may be most available) to contribute for the first number a little poem of three stanzas called Line 10 from the bottom should end with a period after “grave”. , which I copy here, not to inflict on you the agony of hope deferred. <hi rend="i">The Seasons</hi>
“The crocus, in the shrewd March morn, Thrusts up his saffron spear; And April dots the sombre thorn With gems and loveliest cheer. “Then sleep the Seasons, full of might, While slowly swells the pod, And rounds the peach, and in the night The mushroom bursts the sod. “The Winter falls; the frozen rut Is bound with silver bars; The white drift heaps against the hut; And night is pierced with stars.”
Stunning, is it not? But unluckily we are not to publish his name, which he intends to keep back altogether from all articles until his new volume is out. Woolner showed him some of your sonnets, which he thought first-rate in many respects, but wanting in melody. Thehe said was in all points quite equal to Wordsworth, except in this one. The sonnets on Death he admired as poetry, but totally eschewed as theory, so much so indeed that he says it prevented him from enjoying them in any regard. This of course will not keep you awake at nights, since Shelley was with you, and watches (perhaps) from his grave Mrs. Patmore was greatly pleased with Christina's poems. I do not think that Coventry himself read much of them, but he was delighted with the sonnet <hi rend="i">First Season</hi> . <hi rend="i">Vanity Fair</hi> You seem to be getting on like fury with your poem. How the deuce can you manage to do 103 lines in a day? I agree however with Woolner as regards your surgeon, who is a wretched sneak—quite a sniggering squelch of a fellow. Do something, by all means, to pull him out of his present mire.
For my part I have done scarcely anything—having been sadly knocked about in the matter of this prospectus and other bores. I wrote last night to W. B. Scott, returning him his books, and saying that I should send him a prospectus of the
<hi rend="i">Thoughts</hi> in a few days, with a request for contributions in the poetical or literary line.I believe Hunt and self will start on Monday at the latest, so that I fear I may not see you. If you really think you will be up on Tuesday however, let me know, as I would then manage to defer our departure, and say good-bye to you personally. Moreover I long to hear your poem. I have done nothing to
. There is time however, as I believe the first number is to be delayed yet a month, in order to have it out at Christmas, which every one thinks desirable. <hi rend="i">Hand and Soul</hi> Novemberis at present in the prospectus; but when I get a proof I shall alter it toDecember. I was at Collinson's the other evening, and who seems to have been disgracefully lazy at the Isle of Wight. Seddon, who knows that ilk well, says that you should go on to a place called Niton, about six miles from Ventnor, and by far the best in the Island.With respect to Woolner's poems, I can tell you that Patmore was stunned; the only defect he found being that they were a trifle too much in earnest in the passionate parts, and too
sculpturesquegenerally. He means by this that each stanza stands too much alone, and has its own ideas too much to itself. I think you will agree with me in thinking this objection groundless, or at least irrelevant. Write soon.
D. G. Rossetti.
The project of visiting Brittany,
—i.e., a new edition of
[London.]Tuesday[25September1849].
Dear William,I find that by delaying our departure I should be inconveniencing Hunt. I therefore start with him for France and Belgium on Thursday at half-past one, without going at all into the country with Woolner. Either going or on our return we shall visit Brittany, if possible, for the purpose of seeing Wells about his new edition.
Even should the prospectuses be all printed before I go, I am almost certain of not finding time to send any of them about. Would you therefore undertake this job on your return to town, sending to every friend you can possibly think of, as well as to all literary men and artists of anything like our own views? You must also look sharp about advertising, a certain amount of which is unfortunately indispensable.
I believe there is nothing more to be said. Farewell therefore till such time as I see you again.
Dante G. Rossetti.
Seddon is anxious to know whether you intend joining in the model at his place. When in town, just write him a word or two about this matter. A note to T. Seddon Esq. Jun., Gray's Inn Road, will reach him.
My brother was very averse from the idea of having, after his death, anything published
which he had rejected as juvenile or inferior. When I was compiling his
At the end of the first snatch of blank verse, the last two fine lines may be recognized as
having been utilized, in a somewhat altered form, in the poem which he himself published,
, etc., have
Between London and Paris.
Thursday27September1849.
<hi rend="c">LONDON TO FOLKESTONE</hi>.
(Half-past one to half-past five.)
A Constantkeeping-past of shaken trees,And a bewildered glitter of loose road; Banks of bright growth, with single blades atop Against white sky; and wires—a constant chain— That seem to draw the clouds along with them (Things which one stoops against the light to see Through the low window; shaking by at rest, Or fierce like water as the swiftness grows); And, seen through fences or a bridge far off, Trees that in moving keep their intervals Still one 'twixt bar and bar; and then at times Long reaches of green level, where one cow, Feeding among her fellows that feed on, Lifts her slow neck, and gazes for the sound. There are six of us: I that write away; Hunt reads Dumas, hard-lipped, with heavy jowl And brows hung low, and the long ends of hair Standing out limp. A grazier at one end (Thank luck not my end!) has blocked out the air, And sits in heavy consciousness of guilt. The poor young muff who's face to face with me, Is pitiful in loose collar and black tie, His latchet-button shaking as we go. There are flowers by me, half upon my knees, Owned by a dame who's fair in soul, no doubt: The wind that beats among us carries off Their scent, but still I have them for my eye. Fields mown in ridges; and close garden-crops Of the earth's increase; and a constant sky Still with clear trees that let you see the wind; And snatches of the engine-smoke, by fits Tossed to the wind against the landscape, where Rooks stooping heave their wings upon the day In line 7, “nearly” should read “merely”. Brick walls we pass between, passed so at once That for the suddenness I cannot know Or what, or where begun, or where at end. Sometimes a Station in grey quiet; whence, With a short gathered champing of pent sound, We are let out upon the air again. Now nearly darkness; knees and arms and sides Feel the least touch, and close about the face A wind of noise that is along like God. Pauses of water soon, at intervals, That has the sky in it;—the reflexes O' the trees move towards the bank as we go by, Leaving the water's surface plain. I now Lie back and close my eyes a space; for they Smart from the open forwardness of thought Fronting the wind— —I did not scribble more, Be certain, after this; but yawned, and read, And nearly dozed a little, I believe; Till, stretching up against the carriage-back, I was roused altogether, and looked out To where, upon the desolate verge of light, Yearned, pale and vast, the iron-coloured sea.
FOLKESTONE TO BOULOGNE.
(6to9.—Rough passage.)
“
Darkness, as darkness itself, and as the shadow of death; without any order, and where the light is as darkness.”—. <hi rend="i">Job</hi> “
If ye know them, they are in the valley of the shadow of death.”—. Ibid
Friday28.
<hi rend="c">AT BOULOGNE. UPON THE CLIFFS: NOON</hi>. Thesea is in its listless chime,Like Time's lapse rendered audible; The murmur of the earth's large shell. In a sad blueness beyond rhyme It ends; Sense, without Thought, can pass No stadium further. Since Time was, This sound hath told the lapse of Time. No stagnance that Death wins,—it hath The mournfulness of ancient Life, Always enduring at dull strife. Like the world's heart, in calm and wrath, Its painful pulse is in the sands. Last utterly, the whole sky stands, Grey and not known, along its path.
<hi rend="center"> <hi rend="c">BOULOGNE TO AMIENS AND PARIS</hi>.</hi>
(3to11 P.M.; 3rd class.)Strongextreme speed, that the brain hurries with,Further than trees, and hedges, and green grass Whitened by distance,—further than small pools Held among fields and gardens,—further than Haystacks and windmill-sails and roofs and herds,— The sea's last margin ceases at the sun. The sea has left us, but the sun remains. Sometimes the country spreads aloof in tracts Smooth from the harvest; sometimes sky and land Are shut from the square space the window leaves By a dense crowd of trees, stem behind stem Passing across each other as we pass: Sometimes tall poplar-wands stand white, their heads Outmeasuring the distant hills. Sometimes The ground has a deep greenness; sometimes brown In stubble; and sometimes no ground at all, For the close strength of crops that stand unreaped. The water-plots are sometimes all the sun's,— Sometimes quite green through shadows filling them, Or islanded with growths of reeds,—or else Masked in grey dust like the wide face o' the fields. And still the swiftness lasts; that to our speed The trees seem shaken like a press of spears. There is some count of us:—folks travelling-capped, Priesthood, and lank hard-featured soldiery, Females (no women), blouses, Hunt, and I. We are relayed at Amiens. The steam Snorts, chafes, and bridles, like three-hundred horse, And flings its dusky mane upon the air. Our company is thinned, and lamps alight: But still there are the folks in travelling-caps— No priesthood now, but always soldiery, And babies to make up for show in noise, Females (no women), blouses, Hunt, and I. Our windows at one side are shut for warmth. Upon the other side, a leaden sky, Hung in blank glare, makes all the country dim, Which too seems bald and meagre,—be it truth, Or of the waxing darkness. Here and there The shade takes light, where in thin patches stand The unstirred dregs of water. Hunt can see A moon, he says; but I am too far back. Still the same speed and thunder. We are stopped Again, and speech tells clearer than in day. Hunt has just stretched to tell me that he fears I and my note-book may be taken for The stuff that goes to make an “ émissaire De la perfide .” Let me abate my zeal:There is a stout gendarme within the coach. This cursed pitching is too bad. My teeth Jingle together in it; and my legs (Which I got wet at Boulogne this good day Wading for star-fish) are so chilled that I Would don my coat, were not these seats too hard To spare it from beneath me, and were not The love of ease less than the love of sloth. Hunt has just told me it is nearly eight: We do not reach till half-past ten. Drat verse, And steam, and Paris, and the fins of Time! Marry, for me, look you, I will go sleep. Most of them slept; I could not—held awake By jolting clamour, with shut eyes; my head Willing to nod and fancy itself vague. Only at Stations I looked round me, when Short silence paused among us, and I felt A creeping in my feet from abrupt calm. At such times Hunt would jerk himself, and then Tumble uncouthly forward in his sleep. This lasted near three hours. The darkness now Stayeth behind us on the sullen road, And all this light is Paris. Dieu Merci .
Paris.Saturday Night, 29.Send me, dear William, by return of post, As much as you can manage of that rhyme Incurred at Ventnor. Bothers and delays Have still prevented me from copying this Till now; now that I do so, let it be Anticipative compensation. Numéro 4 Rue Geoffroy Marie, Faubourg Montmartre, près des Boulevards. Dear William, labelled thus the thing will reach.
This letter is an amusing example of the one-sided and in great part uninformed feeling about works of art which prevailed among the Præraphaelites in their early days. My brother was now in the twenty-second year of his age. In later years he heartily admired Delacroix, and worshipped Michelangelo; while for Hippolyte Flandrin he would have felt little beyond a tepid and critical respect.
The
occurs further on in the letter—viz., slosh. This term (quasi slush) was
applied to paintings of the over-facile and inaccurate kind.
4Rue Geoffroy Marie, Faubourg Montmartre, Paris.
Thursday[4October1849].
Dear William,Send me your poem
immediately, with no more delay than is quite unavoidable. Sit up all night copying, and send it. Copy it on thin large sheets in double columns (like my journal, which I posted the other day for the Isle of Wight, and which no doubt you can get by sending thither), and I have no doubt the postage will not be ruinous. I gather from the outside of your note that you paid 1s. 3d. for it in London; whereas Maria's (being, I presume, unpaid) reached me for sixteen sous. It is therefore evident that, unless the heavy postage was owing to the weight of your letter, it will be advisable to leave me to pay for letters. I presume that my journal (which, by-the-bye, is not inrhymebut in blank verse), as well as a joint letter from Hunt and self to Stephens and Woolner, will reach free of expense, as they were paid for here. Let me know about this, as it is as well to understand the postage. I should have paid forthe first note I sent to Maria, but it was too late in the day to do so. I am obliged to write this on English note-paper, as Hunt has ruined the last sheet of French we possessed by endeavouring to concoct an undecipherable monogram of P.R.B. to be signed to passports etc. The paper however is very thin, and I think will not incur additional postage.
We have made the acquaintance here of two very nice French fellows, named Cotourrier and Levasseur. Perhaps Woolner remembers them as they do him. We climbed with them the other day to the very top of Notre Dame, whence we had a most glorious view of Paris, and shouted in the spirit. The Cathedral itself is inconceivably stunning, and contains most glorious things to put in pictures. While climbing, a sonnet came whole into my head, which however I have almost forgotten, owing to the hurry of the moment and the talk, I suppose. I am trying constantly to remember it, and will copy it in my next note if I succeed.
There is also a little English cove here of the name of Broadie, who is very obliging and really rather clever. We see him a good deal. . . .
I bought yesterday a great number of Gavarni's
Charivarisketches at two sous each. I have no doubt of being able to pick up more. The number of book and print stalls is quite incredible. Hunt and I begin to like Paris immensely—the city itself, I mean.At the Luxembourg there are the following really wonderful pictures—viz., two by Delaroche, two by Robert-Fleury, one by Ingres, one by Hesse; others by Scheffer, Granet, etc., are very good. The rest, with a few mediocre exceptions, we considered trash. Delacroix (except in two pictures which show a kind of savage genius) is a perfect beast, though almost worshipped here. The school of David got at first frightfully abused for making a stand against him on his appearance. They were quite right, being themselves greatly his superiors, and indeed some of them men who I have no doubt would have done much better in better times.
We ran hurriedly through the Louvre yesterday for the first time. Of course detail as yet is impossible, and indeed, to say the truth, there is a monosyllable current amongst us which enables a P.R.B. to dispense almost entirely with details on the subject. There is however a most wonderful copy of a fresco by Angelico, a tremendous Van Eyck, some mighty things by that real stunner Lionardo, some ineffably poetical Mantegnas (as different as day from night from what we have in England), several wonderful Early Christians whom nobody ever heard of, some tremendous portraits by some Venetian whose name I forget, and a stunning
by Titian. Géricault's <hi rend="i">Francis I.</hi> Medusais also very fine on the whole. We have not yet been through all the rooms. In one there is a ceiling by Ingres which contains some exceedingly good things. This fellow is quite unaccountable. One picture of his in the Luxembourg is unsurpassed for exquisite perfection by anything I have ever seen, and he has others there for which I would not give two sous—filthy slosh. I believe we have not yet seen any of Scheffer's best works. Delaroche'sin the Beaux Arts is a marvellous performance. In the same place is a copy of Michelangelo's <hi rend="i">Hémicycle</hi> —an admirable copy, I believe, but one of the most comic performances I ever saw in my life. <hi rend="i">Judgment</hi> Now for the best. Hunt and I solemnly decided that the most perfect works, taken
, that we have seen in our lives, are two pictures by Hippolyte Flandrin (representing Christ's Entry into Jerusalem, and his departure to death) in the Church of S. Germain des Prés. Wonderful! wonderful!! wonderful!!! Tell Hancock of this. in toto
D. G. R.
I ought perhaps to apologize for publishing the earlier portion of this letter, criticizing
as it does with more than brotherly indulgence my blank-verse narrative poem
The informing idea of the poem was to apply to verse-writing the same principle of strict actuality and probability of detail which the Præraphaelites upheld in their pictures. It was in short a Præraphaelite poem. The subject is a conversation about the death of a lady, a surgeon's wife, who had died suddenly in the house of another medical man for whom she had conceived a vehement and unreciprocated passion; and a newspaper report of the coroner's inquest occupies a large space in the composition. At this time the proposed title of the piece was
The
Cottingham, mentioned towards the close of the letter, was an architect of some name. He showed a disposition to purchase something of my brother's, but never did so. Mr. Morrison was, I think, a landscape-painter. Signor Ronna was an Italian refugee in Paris, an old acquaintance of our Father.
were three poor sonnets of my own composition, and a better one by Christina.
Possibly my brother did some also—now lost.
[Rue Geoffroy Marie4, PARIS.
] Monday8October1849.
Dear William,The arrival of your poem yesterday was about the best thing that has happened since my arrival here. I read it at once twice through, to the very great satisfaction of Hunt and myself. The points that we noted in any way especially I will now proceed to communicate. But first of all we both think that a better title might be found. I dare say you will manage to think of one.
I do not know if you remember that at the beginning of the
there are the lines— <hi rend="i">Eve of St. Mark</hi>
“The city streets were cool and fair, From wholesome drench of April rains.” This is like the beginning of your poem; and, though of course the statement of a fact from observation cannot even be a reminiscence of what has been done before, still I think it is perhaps as well not to have at the very outset a line which some people might manage to draw conclusions from. The expression
“fishmight I think be altered to something newer, and even more strikingly truthful.flappingabout”The 2nd paragraph is excellent; the 3rd is good. In the speech of Harling (4th paragraph) I think some little bright detail might still be introduced to increase the force. The 5th is admirable—last line especially so. In the 6th the word
rustlingis rather old, and the last line a trifle common and awkward. In the 7th I see no necessity for second line, which I think makes too much of a trifling point in so serious a poem. Would not“Loosed itself and touched along his forehead”etc. be quite sufficient? Both Hunt and I thought you might alter“Something at a window”. It is rather melodramatic perhaps. “What was at a window” suggested itself to me, but I believe this is too Tennysonian. In the 8th I do not like the position of the man altogether; it seems a little violent. One can fancy some of the Adelphi people doing it. The 9th and 11th will do very well; the 10th is first-rate. In the 12th, I think (as they had been always in correspondence) that Harling might in some way allude to their letters—quite slightly of course, by a word. At present it seems rather abrupt, and at first looks as if they had known nothing whatever of each other for years. In the 13th the“Sir”belongs, as of course you must be aware, to the French school of ultra-metaphysics. 14th to 21st all capital. The last line of the 22nd appears to me scarcely in character with Grey. I have something of the same sort in my, but I will have the <hi rend="i">Bride-Chamber Talk</hi> cheek to say that I think it is there more appropriate to the personage. 23rd excellent. The line composing 24th seems rather common. What do you think of “that his laugh troubled him,” or “It seemed to Harling the laugh was not his”? 25th admirable. Perhaps at the end “I am one” would be more absolutely conversational than VOL. II5“I am such”. 26th capital; 27th first-rate; 28th excellent; 29th and 30th very good, except that the lady would be employed in a more feminine and I believe equally natural manner, were she helping the wounded instead of fighting. 31st and 32nd very good; perhaps the last two lines a little crackjaw. In the 33rd the“divided into oblongs”business reads as trivial. The last line of 34th a little common. 35th very good. Something newer, I think, might be done at the end of 36th. There might be, especially in Grey, a kind of shaking of the jaw and pressing into the clavicle which could be made very fine. 37th excellent; 38th remarkably fine. 39th not quite so good. 40th and on as far as the inquest exceedingly powerful. I think certainly that the piece about the lilac dress and the hair is rather Gallically introduced, and Hunt remarked that the“worn plain”is an expression more likely to be used by a woman than a man.Now for the inquest. I do not think that
“disclosures extraordinary”is the newspaper phrase, but “extraordinary disclosures.” If so, I would be careful to alter this, as it may be taken for a poetical inversion.“The worthy coroner”is a little strong; but I shall not argue this, as no doubt you consider it the hinge of the poem. At“accommodated with a chair”Hunt suggested“a seat”instead, as being a trifle less comic.“A something trembled at her lips”appears to me, on the other hand, too poetical for evidence. In my copy the line“So she assured that should come to pass”has had some syllable omitted by mistake, I suppose. There is one man in England who will understand the phrase“the living-up of her old love”: his name is Alfred Tennyson. If you write for any other Englishman, this must be cut out.“That in the first letter you sent deceased”is rather a harshline. All the passage about the familiarities looks rather ambiguous. I do not know whether you mean it to be so. In the woman's letter, the “looking strange”Hunt suggested might be altered to some impression which she could more clearly realize to herself. I however do not feel certain as to this. The Christ business is very good as it is, and the line about the stone has also something appropriate in it. The following adaptation suggested itself to me, as uniting the qualities of both:—
“And prayed of Christ (he knowing how it was) That, if this thing were sinful unto death, He would himself be first to throw the stone. So then I entered,” etc.
Your inquest is, on the whole, I think, a very clever and finished piece of writing,—wonderfully well-managed in parts and possessing some strong points of character. The woman's letter is exceedingly truthful and fine. The rest of the poem is very first-rate indeed—some passages really stunning. Hunt suggested that
“Who ever heard ofwould more thoroughly explain Grey's intention, and I fancy he is right. True, Luton is a surgeon, but surgeons are constantly called doctors by courtesy. I am not certain whether a few additional lines after the last one would not finish the poem more soberly.Dr. Luton yet?”I will now sum up, with
“the worthy coroner”. I think your poem is very remarkable, and altogether certainly the best thing you have done. It is a painful story, told without compromise, and with very little moral, I believe, beyond commonplaces. Perhaps it is more like Crabbe than any other poet I know of; not lacking no small share of his harsh reality—less healthy, and at times more poetical. I would advise you, if practicable, to show it to any medical man at hand—Dr. Hare, for instance. He might discover some absurdity which escapes us, or suggest something of value to the story.Now for myself. I am ashamed to declare I have nothing
yet to offer you in return for your 700 lines but —real humbugs, which it is almost absurd to send, lest they should be taken for a compensation. Moreover one or two of them are sloshy in the rhymes of the first half. I think however I could find authorities among the early Italians. Here is the one which came into my head on the staircase of Notre Dame, and which I have since remembered, though I fancy with some deterioration. “quelques méchants sonnets”
As one who, groping in a narrow stair, Hath a strong sound of bells upon his ears, Which, being at a distance off, appears Quite close to him because of the pent air; So with this France. She stumbles file and square, Darkling and without space for breath: each one Who hears the thunder says, “It shall anon Be in among her ranks to scatter her.” This may be; and it may be that the storm Is spent in rain upon the unscathed seas, Or wasteth other countries ere it die: Till she,—having climbed always through the swarm Of darkness and of hurtling sound,—from these Shall step forth on the light in a still sky. I forget whether I told you that it was the ringing of the bells as we climbed the staircase which gave me this valuable inspiration.
The other day we walked to the Place de la Bastille. Hunt and Broadie smoked their cigars, while I, in a fine frenzy conjured up by association and historical knowledge, leaned against the Column of July, and composed the following sonnet:—
How dear the sky hath been above this place! Small treasures of this sky that we see here, Seen weak through prison-bars from year to year— Eyed with a painful prayer upon God's grace To save, and tears which stayed along the face Lifted till the sun went. How passing dear At night when through those bars a wind left clear The skies and moonlight made a mournful space! This was until, one night, the secret kept Safe in low vault and stealthy corridor Was blown abroad on a swift wind of flame. Above, God's sky and God are still the same; It may be that as many tears are wept Beneath, and that man is but as of yore.
I find I must adopt the plan of writing only on one side for it is candle-light now, and I cannot see distinctly.
The other day, pondering on the rate of locomotion which the style of the old masters induces in us at the Louvre, I scribbled as follows:—
Woolner and Stephens, Collinson, Millais, And my first brother, each and every one, What portion is theirs now beneath the sun Which, even as here, in England makes to-day? For most of them life runs not the same way Always, but leaves the thought at loss: I know Merely that Woolner keeps not even the show Of work, nor is enough awake for play. Meanwhile Hunt and myself race at full speed Along the Louvre, and yawn from school to school, Wishing worn-out those masters known as old. And no man asks of Browning; though indeed (as the book travels with me) any fool Who would might hear Sordello's story told. There are very few good things at the Louvre besides what I mentioned in my last. There is a wonderful head by Raphael however; another wonderful head by I know not whom; and a pastoral—at least, a kind of pastoral—by Giorgione, which is so intensely fine that I condescended to sit down before it and write a sonnet. You must have heard me rave about the engraving before, and I fancy have seen it yourself. There is a woman, naked, at one side, who is dipping a glass vessel into a well; and in the centre two men and another naked woman, who seem to have paused for a moment in playing on the musical instruments which they hold. Here is my sonnet:—
Water, for anguish of the solstice,—yea, Over the vessel's mouth still widening, Listlessly dipped to let the water in With low vague gurgle. Blue, and deep away, The heat lies silent at the brink of day. The hand trails weak upon the viol-string That sobs; and the brown faces cease to sing, Mournful with complete pleasure. Her eyes stray In distance; through her lips the pipe doth creep And leaves them pouting: the green shadowed grass Is cool against her naked flesh. Let be: Do not now speak unto her lest she weep,— Nor name this ever. Be it as it was: Silence of heat, and solemn poetry. Last night we went to Valentino's to see the cancan. As the groups whirled past us, one after another, in an ecstasy of sound and motion, I became possessed with a tender rapture and recorded it in rhyme as follows:—
(N.B.—The numerical characteristics refer to the.) danseuses
The first, a mare; the second, 'twixt bow-wow And pussy-cat, a cross; the third, a beast To baffle Buffon; the fourth, not the least In hideousness, nor last; the fifth, a cow; The sixth, Chimera; the seventh, Sphinx;. . . Come now, Onewoman, France, ere this frog-hop have ceased,And it shall be enough. A toothsome feast Of blackguardism . . . and bald row, No doubt for such as love those same. For me, I confess, William, and avow to thee, (Soft in thine ear) that such sweet female whims * * * * * *Are not a passion of mine naturally. * * * * * *This sonnet is rather emphatic, I know; but, I assure you, excusable under the circumstances. My dear sir, we have not seen six pretty faces since we have been at Paris, and those such as would not be in the least remarkable in London. As for the ball last night, it was matter for spueing; there is a slang idiocy about the
, viler than gentism. And habituésthe females . . . my God! As for Gavarni, he is a liar and the father of it. I bought some more of his things the other day, and have got a great number now—more than I care to count. I wish, if you have leisure, you would go to Brown's study, and look up, among our portfolios there, all such Gavarnis as they may contain—since on my arrival in London I will get them bound into a volume with those I have bought here; and it is as well they should not go knocking about among all the jumble of those same portfolios any longer, as the paper of them is somewhat frail.
Hunt and I have likewise bought three stunning etchings by Albert Durer, and one or two other little things.
The other night we went to the Gaîté to see a piece called
, which is an adaptation of Soulié's <hi rend="i">La Sonnette du Diable</hi> . It was most execrably played, and so stupefied us that we lost ourselves in coming home. <hi rend="i">Mémoires</hi>
P.S.—The other night we were inexpressibly astounded by Rachel, in a piece by Scribe called
. <hi rend="i">Adrienne Lecouvreur</hi> I am indeed rejoiced to hear that Papa is so much better. I shall write to him immediately almost; also to Cottingham, with whom I ought by rights to have communicated before leaving London.
Stephens must have forgotten that he himself and Hunt, as well as I, were at first all agog for the title of
P.R.B. Journal, though we afterwards all abandoned it. As for the sonnets on Keats, I cannot see any call for their appearance in No. 1. As for our title, I think “towards” is much the better—“toward” being altogether between you, me, and Tennyson; and it is well to seem as little affected as possible.I suppose you have by this time got over the insane exultation incident on finding
, which Williams brought, together with the Joseph and his Brethren rend="i" , the night before we left. The latter I have taken with me, as they might possibly be wanted somehow in case we see Wells. Love to our family, the P.R.B., and all. We have not yet delivered <hi rend="i">Stories</hi> the letters of Messrs. Brown and Morrison, nor the one from Papa to Ronna; but shall do so as soon as possible. I hope Brown is well, and trust to write to him very shortly. The word “bewrays”, which follows “a lot of scientific and industrial silliness”, should read “betrays”.
The too ready, I always thought. In the prose part of his present letter, the phrase “
” bewrays another weak point—his constitutional indifference, or
indeed dislike, to anything that had not an artistic or imaginative appeal. However, the
phrase must not be taken overmuch au pied de la lettre
(named in one of the blank-verse pieces) means “Memling”: my
brother at this date supposed
to be the correct name—and indeed I fancy the right spelling was then a
matter of dispute.
Lyell, named as the destined recipient of a prospectus of
was the notorious affair which brought Mr. and Mrs. Manning to the scaffold. My
brother always, or at any rate until the last few years of his life, took a certain interest
in “horrid murders.”
<hi rend="center"> <hi rend="c">LAST VISIT TO THE LOUVRE</hi>.</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="center"> <hi rend="c">THE CRY OF THE P.R.B., AFTER A CAREFUL EXAMINATION OF THE</hi> </hi> <lb/> <hi rend="center"> <hi rend="c">CANVASES OF RUBENS, CORREGGIO</hi>, <foreign lang="latin"> <hi rend="i">et hoc genus omne</hi> </foreign>.</hi>
God of Nature's truth, Non noi pittori!If these, not we! Be it not said, when one Of us goes hence: “As these did, he hath done; His feet sought out their footprints from his youth.” Because, dear God! the flesh Thou madest smooth These carked and fretted, that it seemed to run With ulcers; and the daylight of thy sun They parcelled into blots and glares, uncouth With stagnant grouts of paint. Men say that these Had further sight than man's, but that God saw Their works were good. God that didst know them foul! In such a blindness, blinder than the owl, Leave us! Our sight can reach unto thy seas And hills; and 'tis enough for tears of awe.
<hi rend="center"> <hi rend="c">LAST VISIT TO THE LUXEMBOURG</hi>.</hi> <lb/> <lb/> <hi rend="center"> <hi rend="sc">Roger Rescuing Angelica; By Ingres</hi>.</hi>
I.
A Remotesky, that meeteth the sea's brim;One rock-point standing buffeted alone, Vexed at its base with a foul beast unknown, Hell-spurge of geomaunt and teraphim: A knight, and a winged creature bearing him, Reared at the rock: a woman fettered there, Leaning into the hollow with loose hair And throat let back and heartsick trail of limb. The sky is harsh, and the sea shrewd and salt. Under his lord the griffin-horse ramps blind With rigid wings and tail. The spear's lithe stem Stands in the roaring of those jaws; behind, The evil length of body chafes at halt. She doth not hear nor see—she knows of them.
II.
Clench thine eyes now,—'tis the last instant, girl: Draw in thy senses, loose thy knees, and shake: Set thy breath fast: thy life is keen awake,— Thou mayst not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl Of its foam drenched thee? or the waves that curl And split—bleak spray wherein thy temples ache? Or was it his thy champion's blood, to flake That flesh which has the colour of fine pearl? Now silence: for the sea's is such a sound As irks not silence, and except the sea All is now still. Now the dead thing doth cease To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her; and she, Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there bound, Again a woman in her nakedness.
<hi rend="center"> <hi rend="c">LAST SONNETS AT PARIS</hi>.</hi>
I.
Chinsthat might serve the new Jerusalem;Streets footsore; minute whisking milliners, Dubbed graceful, but at whom one's eye demurs, Knowing of England; ladies, much the same; Bland smiling dogs with manes—a few of them At pains to look like sporting characters; Vast humming tabbies smothered in their furs; Groseille, orgeat, meringues à la crême— Good things to study; ditto bad—the maps Of sloshy colour in the Louvre; cinq-francsThe largest coin; and at the restaurants Large Ibrahim Pachas in Turkish caps To pocket them. Un million d'habitants:Cast up, they'll make an Englishman—perhaps. II.
Tiled floors in bedrooms; trees (now run to seed— Such seed as the wind takes) of Liberty; Squares with new names that no one seems to see; Scrambling Briarean passages, which lead To the first place you came from; urgent need Of unperturbed nasal philosophy; Through Paris (what with church and gallery) Some forty first-rate paintings,—or indeed Fifty mayhap; fine churches; splendid inns; Fierce sentinels (toy-size without the stands) Who spit their oaths at you and grind their r's If at a fountain you would wash your hands; One Frenchman (this is fact) who thinks he spars:— Can even good dinners cover all these sins? III.Yet in the mighty French metropolis Our time has not gone from us utterly In waste. The wise man saith, “An ample fee For toil, to work thine end.” Aye that it is. Should England ask, “Was narrow prejudice Stretched to its utmost point unflinchingly, Even unto lying, at all times, by ye?” We can say firmly: “Lord, thou knowest this Our soil may own us.” Having but small French Hunt passed for a stern Spartan all the while, Uncompromising, of few words: for me— I think I was accounted generally A fool, and just a little cracked. Thy smile May light on us, Britannia, healthy wench.
<hi rend="center"> <hi rend="c">FROM PARIS TO BRUSSELS.</hi> </hi> <lb/> <hi rend="center">(11 P.M. 15 <hi rend="i">October to half-past</hi> 1 P.M. 16.)</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="center"> <hi rend="sc">Proem at the Paris Station</hi>.</hi>
InFrance (to baffle thieves and murderers)A journey takes two days of passport work At least. The plan's sometimes a tedious one, But bears its fruit. Because, the other day, In passing by the Morgue, we saw a man (The thing is common, and we never should Have known of it, only we passed that way) Who had been stabbed and tumbled in the Seine, Where he had stayed some days. The face was black, And, like a negro's, swollen; all the flesh Had furred, and broken into a green mould. Now, very likely, he who did the job Was standing among those who stood with us, To look upon the corpse. You fancy him— Smoking an early pipe, and watching, as An artist, the effect of his last work. This always if it had not struck him that 'Twere best to leave while yet the body took Its crust of rot beneath the Seine. It may: But, if it did not, he can now remain Without much fear. Only, if he should wantTo travel, and have not his passport yet, (Deep dogs these French police!) he may be caught. Therefore you see (lest, being murderers, We should not have the sense to go before The thing were known, or to stay afterwards) There is good reason why—having resolved To start for Belgium—we were kept three days To learn about the passports first, then do As we had learned. This notwithstanding, in The fullness of the time 'tis come to pass.
<hi rend="center"> <hi rend="c">ON THE ROAD</hi>.</hi>
October, and eleven after dark:Both mist and night. Among us in the coach Packed heat on which the windows have been shut: Our backs unto the motion—Hunt's and mine. The last lamps of the Paris Station move Slow with wide haloes past the clouded pane; The road in secret empty darkness. One Who sits beside me, now I turn, has pulled A nightcap to his eyes. A woman here, Knees to my knees—a twenty-nine-year-old— Smiles at the mouth I open, seeing him: I look her gravely in the jaws, and write. Already while I write heads have been leaned Upon the wall,—the lamp that's overhead Dropping its shadow to the waist and hands. Some time 'twixt sleep and wake. A dead pause then, With giddy humming silence in the ears. It is a Station. Eyes are opening now, And mouths collecting their propriety. From one of our two windows, now drawn up, A lady leans, hawks a clear throat, and spits. Hunt lifts his head from my cramped shoulder where It has been lying—long stray hairs from it Crawling upon my face and teazing me. Ten minutes' law. Our feet are in the road. A weak thin dimness at the sky, whose chill Lies vague and hard. The mist of crimson heat Hangs, a spread glare, about our engine's bulk. I shall get in again, and sleep this time. A heavy clamour that fills up the brain Like thought grown burdensome; and in the ears Speed that seems striving to o'ertake itself; And in the pulses torpid life, which shakes As water to a stir of wind beneath. Poor Hunt, who has the toothache and can't smoke, Has asked me twice for brandy. I would sleep; But man proposes, and no more. I sit With open eyes, and a head quite awake, But which keeps catching itself lolled aside And looking sentimental. In the coach, If any one tries talking, the voice jolts, And stuns the ear that stoops for it. Amiens. Half-an-hour's rest. Another shivering walk Along the station, waiting for the bell. Ding-dong. Now this time, by the Lord, I'll sleep. I must have slept some while. Now that I wake, Day is beginning in a kind of haze White with grey trees. The hours have had their lapse. A sky too dull for cloud. A country lain In fields, where teams drag up the furrow yet; Or else a level of trees, the furthest ones Seen like faint clouds at the horizon's point. Quite a clear distance, though in vapour. Mills That turn with the dry wind. Large stacks of hay Made to look bleak. Dead autumn, and no sun. The smoke upon our course is borne so near Along the earth, the earth appears to steam. Blanc-Misseron, the last French Station, passed. We are in Belgium. It is just the same:— Nothing to write of, and no good in verse. Curse the big mounds of sand-weed! curse the miles Of barren chill,—the twentyfold relays! Curse every beastly Station on the road! As well to write as swear. Hunt was just now Making great eyes because outside the pane One of the stokers passed whom he declared A stunner. A vile mummy with a bag Is squatted next me: a disgusting girl Broad opposite. We have a poet, though, Who is a gentleman, and looks like one; Only he seems ashamed of writing verse, And heads each new page with “ .” Mon cher AmiHunt's stunner has just come into the coach And set us hard agrin from ear to ear. Another Station. There's a stupid horn Set wheezing. Now I should just like to know —Just merely for the whim—what good that is. These Stations for the most part are a kind Of London coal-merchant's back premises; Whitewashed, but as by hands of coal-heavers; Grimy themselves, and always circled in With foul coke-loads that make the nose aroint. Here is a Belgian village,—no, a town Moated and buttressed. Next, a water-track Lying with draggled reeds in a flat slime. Next, the old country, always all the same. Now by Hans Hemmling and by John Van Eyck, You'll find, till something's new, I wrote no more.
(4 HOURS.)There is small change of country; but the sun Is out, and it seems shame this were not said: For upon all the grass the warmth has caught; And betwixt distant whitened poplar-stems Makes greener darkness; and in dells of trees Shows spaces of a verdure that was hid; And the sky has its blue floated with white, And crossed with falls of the sun's glory aslant To lay upon the waters of the world; And from the road men stand with shaded eyes To look; and flowers in gardens have grown strong And our own shadows here within the coach Are brighter; and all colour has more bloom. So, after the sore torments of the route:— Toothache, and headache, and the ache of wind, And huddled sleep, and smarting wakefulness, And night, and day, and hunger sick at food, And twentyfold relays, and packages To be unlocked, and passports to be found, And heavy well-kept landscape;—we were glad Because we entered Brussels in the sun.
L'Envoi: Brussels, Hotel Du Midi: 18October.
It'scopied out at last: very poor stuffWrit in the cold, with pauses of the cramp. Direct, dear William, to the Poste Restante At Ghent—here written Gand. . . . We go to Antwerp first, but shall not stay; After, to Ghent and Bruges; and after that To Ostend, and thence home. To Waterloo Was yesterday. Thither, and there, and back, I managed to scrawl something,—most of it Bad, and the sonnet at the close mere slosh. 'Twas only made because I was knocked up, And it helped yawning. Take it, and the rest.
<hi rend="center"> <hi rend="c">ON THE ROAD TO WATERLOO</hi>: 17 <hi rend="sc">October</hi>.</hi> <lb/> <lb/> <hi rend="center">(<foreign lang="italian"> <hi rend="sc">En Vigilante</hi> </foreign>, 2 <hi rend="sc">Hours</hi>.)</hi>
Itis grey tingling azure overheadWith silver drift. Beneath, where from the green The trees are reared, the distance stands between At peace: and on this side the whole is spread For sowing and for harvest, subjected Clear to the sky and wind. The sun's slow height Holds it through noon, and at the furthest night It lies to the moist starshine and is fed. Sometimes there is no country seen (for miles You think) because of the near roadside path Dense with long forest. Where the waters run They have the sky sunk into them—a bath Of still blue heat; and in their flow, at whiles, There is a blinding vortex of the sun.
<hi rend="center"> <hi rend="c">A HALF-WAY PAUSE</hi>.</hi>
Theturn of noontide has begun.In the weak breeze the sunshine yields. There is a bell upon the fields. On the long hedgerow's tangled run A low white cottage intervenes: Against the wall a blind man leans, And sways his face to have the sun. Our horses' hoofs stir in the road, Quiet and sharp. Light hath a song Whose silence, being heard, seems long The point of noon maketh abode, And will not be at once gone through. The sky's deep colour saddens you, And the heat weighs a dreamy load.
ON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
Sothen, the name which travels side by sideWith English life from childhood—Waterloo— Means this. The sun is setting. “Their strife grew Till the sunset, and ended,” says our guide. It lacked the “chord” by stage-use sanctified, Yet I believe one should have thrilled. For me, I grinned not, and 'twas something;—certainly These held their point, and did not turn but died: So much is very well. “Under each span Of these ploughed fields” ('tis the guide still) “There rot Three nations' slain, a thousand-thousandfold.” Am I to weep? Good sirs, the earth is old: Of the whole earth there is no single spot But hath among its dust the dust of man.
<hi rend="center"> <hi rend="c">RETURNING TO BRUSSELS</hi>.</hi>
Upona Flemish road, when noon was deep,I passed a little consecrated shrine, Where, among simple pictures ranged in line, The blessed Mary holds her child asleep. To kneel here, shepherd-maidens leave their sheep When they feel grave because of the sunshine, And again kneel here in the day's decline; And here, when their life ails them, come to weep. Night being full, I passed on the same road By the same shrine; within, a lamp was lit Which through the silence of clear darkness glowed. Thus, when life's heat is past and doubts arise Darkling, the lamp of Faith must strengthen it, Which sometimes will not light and sometimes dies.
[18 October1849.]
Dear William,I have been thinking whether Brussels offers materials for a sonnet, but have come to the conclusion that not even thus much is to be got out of its utter muffishness. I will therefore fill this last column with as much prose as I can afford you. However, the verse must stand for a letter this time; though, with the exception of two or three of the sonnets, I fear it is not even so good as what I have already sent you. The fact is, a journey in fair and foul weather are two very different things, and the verse gets its measure of
accordingly. But I will not grunt about past evils, for the weather, these days in Brussels, has been like the finest summer. estroThere is a most servile aping of the French here, notwithstanding that they seem to be held in hatred. The English are victimized to a beastly extent everywhere. One of the great nuisances at this place, as also at Waterloo, is the plague
of guides, from which there is no escape. The one we had at Waterloo completely baulked me of all the sonnets I had promised myself, so that all I accomplished was the embryo bottled up in the preceding column. Between you and me, William, Waterloo is simply a bore. I believe we saw all the town to-day, except a lot of scientific and industrial silliness, and one room at the Museum which we perceived was full of Rubenses, and so held aloof. There are a few very fine early German pictures, among them a wonderful Van Eyck. I believe we shall see no end of these stunning things at Antwerp, Ghent, etc.; and, as I am convinced they will drag me into rhyme, I almost fear that I shall not do much, if anything, to
till my return. Before leaving Paris, we went to the Hôtel de Cluny, a first-rate place, which will be of great use to me in finishing this poem. Could I do it on the spot, I fancy I should be a made man. I fear there is no chance now of going to Brittany. <hi rend="i">Bride-Chamber Talk</hi> All further matters concerning your poem we can discuss on my return, which will be much shorter work. I will only mention one thing which forgot to include in my last. I think the penultimate line of the poem would perhaps be more forcible if it stood thus: “I can wait, John, but is not
the wholedue?”You can have no conception of the intense sweating exasperation incident on passport-hunting. We had three days of it before leaving Paris.
You talk about printing my blessed journal. I fear this would never do. There is too much of a kind of exclusive matter belonging only to ourselves; and moreover, among the things I have written since leaving London, there are only three sonnets which have received any consideration— viz., the
two on Ingres' picture , and the one—all in the present letter. On the Road to Waterloo I believe it is very probable that you will receive before my return a large volume of old
containing Gavarni's sketches, which I left with Broadie at Paris, to be <hi rend="i">Charivaris</hi> bound and forwarded to you, in order to escape paying double duty both in Belgium and England. They will be bound anyhow, provisorily, merely that they may go in the book- form, and not have to pay a penny apiece, as prints, at the Custom-House. VOL. II. 6Of the two prospectuses you sent me, I gave one to Broadie, and the other has somehow got all covered with ink. I must therefore let the sending to Lyell and Cottingham stand over for the present. We can discuss advertising at length when we are all together. I quite agree with you about the inadvisability of getting any more proprietors as yet. . . .
It appears to me quite unnecessary to begin sending about prospectuses at present in any great quantity.
You speak of the uncertainty of Haynes' estimate coinciding with Tupper's. If Tupper is more moderate, let us print by all means with him.
Will you tell Papa that while in Paris I called with his letter for Ronna at the address which it bears, and saw a crusty old woman who said he had been gone some time and she did not know whither, but that if I called next day perhaps some one would be there who knew? The quarter of Paris however was one we never had occasion to be in, and which is infamously paved. The consequence was that we put off calling again till it was too late. Owing to the number of things we were obliged to run after, several other letters with which we had been entrusted shared the same fate.
To Papa, Mamma, and Collinson, I intend to write as soon as possible. I hope they have made allowances hitherto. A letter is also due to Christina which still lies unattempted. I have likewise to answer Woolner, and to redeem my promise to Hancock.
Write at once, and if you have done anything send it: if not, something of Christina's. Remember me warmly to all friends, who by my good fortune are too numerous to particularize. I trust Papa's health holds good. By-the-bye, I hear nothing of the Bermondsey murder.
[London.? ]January1850.
My Dear Aunt,I am quite ashamed, and have been ashamed from day to day for a long while, of not having ever thanked you yet for the kind present you made me some while back. I can scarcely hope that you will believe me nevertheless to be none the less thankful for not having said so, and can scarcely with any countenance assure you that such is the case. The fact is, and I am sorry for it, that my laziness is so great as to account for many things which it cannot excuse. I need not tell you how timely your gift was.
I am now beginning a large picture containing about thirty figures, and concerning the love of a page for a queen, as treated of in one of Browning's songs—a subject which I have pitched upon principally for its presumptive saleableness. I find unluckily that the class of pictures which has my natural preference is not for the market.
I have nearly finished the sketch in colour for my picture, have made many of the studies, and am beginning to draw it in on the canvas; so that I am at least setting to work in time; but it will be a long job.
I trust that this note will find you in a state of robust muscularity.
This laughable sonnet was sent in a letter to our sister Christina, then in Brighton,
towards 20 January 1850. The letter has perished, but the sonnet survives, and may serve as a
small pen-and-ink sketch of my brother's domicile at that now remote date. He had taken a
first-floor studio in a house in Newman Street in which a dancing-academy was held; this he
terms
. Hancock's
are not an arbitrary make-rhyme to Beatrice (according to the Italian pronunciation
of that name), but a tolerably true definition of his voice, which was small and high-pitched.
He was now doing a statue of Dante's Beatrice, as seen by the poet in the Garden of Eden. The
was taken from a work which he had produced, and which had gained an
[20 ]January1850.The hop-shop is shut up: the night doth wear. Here, early, Collinson this evening fell “Into the gulfs of sleep”; and Deverell Has turned upon the pivot of his chair The whole of this night long; and Hancock there Has laboured to repeat, in accents screechy, “ Guardami ben, ben son, ben son Beatrice ”;And Bernhard Smith still beamed, serene and square. By eight, the coffee was all drunk. At nine We gave the cat some milk. Our talk did shelve, Ere ten, to gasps and stupor. Helpless grief Made, towards eleven, my inmost spirit pine, Knowing North's hour. And Hancock, hard on twelve, Showed an engraving of his bas-relief.
When this letter was written I was in Edinburgh for a brief holiday. My brother knew nothing
then of the Scottish capital; nor I think did he ever do more than pass through it. The phrase
must be a jocular allusion to press- attacks on Millais's picture termed
has been already mentioned—
means
[London.]Tuesday3September1850.
Dear William,Your letter received two days back (and which I should have answered before) is the most pitiful apocalypse of dreariness that I remember to have seen. What can you be doing? Of what avail are mere gateways and staircases and gables, be they even of Millaian squalor? Verily they shall not suffice.
I would advise you, if you wish “to elude madness,” to make with some speed for the Lakes or the Highlands, and shake off the dust of Edinburgh, which is just a place where people tell lies in Scotch.
Or, should you remain, being stiff-necked, and have not reached that state of whining impotence which precludes you from society, I shall be able in a day or two to send you some letters from Stephens and Hannay for fellows in Auld Reekie, the fallacious expectance whereof has indeed caused this letter to be delayed.
I have no news scarcely. . . .
Having found it impossible to get the Browning picture ready for next exhibition, I have
designed the subject I mentioned to you from, and shall begin to paint it in a very few days. I think it will come well. I have also made one or two other sketches for different subjects. <hi rend="i">Much Ado about Nothing</hi> Mamma the other day pitched somehow on a paper called
which contains a flare-up review of <hi rend="i">The Guardian</hi> . It is the number for 28 August. <hi rend="i"/>The Gurm I went the other night to see the
, which is much more poetical on the stage than I anticipated. Miss Glyn is godlike. <hi rend="i">Legend of Florence</hi> Why do you not write something? By which I mean neither an incubus nor a succubus. I have just read your review in
of the British Institution, many parts of which I do not understand. What do you mean by the <hi rend="i">The Critic</hi> “enforcement of magnificence having a tendency to impair the more essential development of feeling?” This smacks villainously of Malvolio's vein.Can you explain the following?—
She knew it not,—most perfect pain To learn; and this she knew not. Strife For me, calm hers, as from the first. 'Twas but another bubble burst Upon the curdling draught of life:— My silent patience mine again. As who, of forms that crowd unknown Within a dusky mirror's shade, Deems such an one himself, and makes Some sign; but, when that image shakes No whit, he finds his thought betrayed, And must seek elsewhere for his own.
This may not reach you, as I have lost your letter, and am uncertain of your number.
D. G. R.
Mamma sent Cayley's MS., which I suppose you have got.
My brother had gone on 23 October with Mr. Holman Hunt to Sevenoaks to discover and paint a
suitable background for a picture. He painted on a
Mrs. Hearnden's, High Street, SevenOaks, Kent.[24 ]October1850.
Dear Mamma,. . I reached here yesterday evening, and seem to have come in for the most rascally fortnight of the year. The wet seems regularly established, being nevertheless anything but respectable on that account. I went out this morning with Hunt in search of an eligible spot, and found what I wanted; but was unable to make more than a sketch, since, after an interval of extreme anguish, Hunt and myself were obliged to beat a retreat, soaked to the bone.
I find I shall never be able to get on without a change of nether garments, which article of dress proved this morning
unable to withstand a three hours' cataract. Will you therefore take the trouble to send me somehow my other breeches (the pair with straps), and to wrap in them any Italian grammar you can spare, as Hunt wishes to avail himself of my lore in that language? I find that two other indispensable articles will be a pair of goloshes and a rug to wrap round the legs, both of which I shall be able to procure here at no very desperate outlay. I am become loathsomely matutine, and was up this morning at seven.
Love to all at home from myself, and best remembrances from Hunt and Stephens.
The address given to this letter, 17 Red Lion Square, was that of Walter Deverell's studio.
My brother worked there for a short time between his leaving Newman Street and settling in
Chatham Place. The date of the letter is approximately fixed by the reference to Lord
Compton's succession to the Marquisate of Northampton— an event which took place on
17 January 1851. I cannot say which was the picture that the Marquis thought of
buying—possibly the
There follows a reference to a small picture which had been begun as a substitute for a
large one abandoned. The large one is no doubt first owner
however was Mr. McCracken of Belfast.
.” This phrase relates to the picture of
I cannot now well understand my brother's statement that his
,” especially as coupled with the reference to its
.” To the best of my recollection the very
,” in the same connexion with
.” This does not however clearly imply that he was actually thus writing;
nor have I the least recollection that he was— save only that he did, in 1851 or
'52, a little of the translating-work for a book which was published in the
latter year, the
17Red Lion Square [London].
Thursday[?February1851].
My Dear Aunt Charlotte,Having been staying for two days at Chelsea with my friend Hunt, I got your first missive only last night at about eleven, and your second this morning. I am very sorry that your generosity to me should have resulted in any uneasiness to yourself.
I shall not dwell, as I know you do not wish it, upon my obligation to you for this new act of kindness. Indeed, I should scarcely know how to express my thanks for so many repeated proofs of affectionate interest on your part, whom I now see so little of, and who know so little of me that can render me deserving in your eyes.
I am afraid in particular that you must have thought me most ungrateful for not answering during all this time a letter of yours received several months back. The reason why I deferred doing so at the time was that I was then in constant expectation of selling a
small picture of mine which Lord Compton (now, by his father's death, Marquis of Northampton) had requested, through a friend, might be sent to him for examination. I dare say Mamma may have told you aboutthis at the time. I hoped, by delaying my answer to you, to be able to decline your generous offer at the same time that I sincerely thanked you for making it; but unfortunately I heard no further from the Marquis, whose good pleasure I am still waiting for, having only learnt that he wishes to be introduced to me—for which however he has as yet given me no opportunity. Nothing could give me more pleasure than to sell my picture; but I confess that one thing I cannot manage to do is thrusting myself on the acquaintance of a Lord. Just then I was commencing a small picture, having abandoned the one I had been engaged on for some time, on account of its being too large to get done for the Academy. On this smaller picture however I was unwilling to risk any one's money except my own; since, being rather a hurried affair, and got up chiefly to keep my name before the public, it might possibly not sell after all. Therefore, hearing no more from Lord Northampton, and having determined that I would be no further drag upon my parents, I abandoned the
small picture I speak of, and preferred undertaking, for the time being, one or two odd jobs which had turned up, and which might enable me to wait. On these I am still engaged, and they will now before long bring me in sufficient money to discharge what few debts I have remaining after your present; among others, several pounds which I have been forced to borrow of Mamma from time to time. I shall also have a little left for myself; but, I must frankly tell you, far from sufficient to go on with mylarge picture , upon which, through the lapse of time, it is now absolutely necessary that I should get to work again at once.I have been induced to give you all these details concerning my affairs because, unless I should immediately get rid of
my last year's picture , I shall be necessitated, as soon as my present engagement (which consists in making some drawings on wood) leaves me free for my real work, to be obliged to write to you, accepting those means of pursuing my studies which you have so freely offered me. Indeed, were I notto do so, I think I should be guilty of injustice to myself, as well as of ingratitude to you; since I think there can be little doubt at present of my selling a picture, if I have the means to get it properlydone. Indeed, a Mr. Combe of Oxford, a patron of my friend Millais, has expressed a desire to have a picture of mine, and is greatly pleased with the subject of mypresent one . If therefore I could get it satisfactorily advanced, I think it very probable indeed that he might purchase it.I am sure you will agree with me that it is very necessary I should, if possible, occupy myself constantly with my real career as a painter, and put aside that kind of minor employment, either in writing or designing, which, while yielding just the means of daily subsistence, would be causing me to lose entirely what ground I have already gained with the public; which, I may add without vanity, is much more than most young men have gained upon the strength of two
<hi rend="i">[The Girlhood of Mary Virgin]</hi> small pictures. <hi rend="i">[<foreign lang="latin"> <hi rend="i">Ecce Ancilla Domini</hi> </foreign>]</hi> Thus I need not say of what incalculable value to me, at this juncture, will be the means of dispensing with further delay in my picture, nor with how much gratitude to you I shall accept them, from a sense of duty towards myself; seeing that they may probably be instrumental in enabling me before long to be of no further charge to any one. I may add an assurance that I should consider all such sums strictly as a loan, to be returned when the sale of a picture enabled me to do so.
I am sure therefore that, should you hear from me again on this subject within a short period, you will not think the worse of me for thus taking advantage of your generosity.
Believe me always, my dear Aunt,
Your grateful and affectionate Nephew,
D. G. Rossetti.
P.S.—I cashed the cheque as soon as it reached me—
i.e., this morning.
I can remember something of the
” to which the following note refers. It was a public display, conducted
either by Dr. Marshall Hall, or by an over-plausible and fresh-complexioned Irish-American
whom my brother characterized as “the Pink Owl”. The Electro-biology was
in the nature of clairvoyance, or what we now call hypnotism. For anything of this kind,
including table-turning and spirit-rapping, my brother had a rather marked propensity and
willing credence. He did not however believe in the “Pink Owl.”
is Millais.
The
—his picture of
[LONDON.9 ]May1851.
Dear William,I believe Millais, Hunt, and self, are going to-morrow night to have another shy at seeing the Electro-biology. Do you like to come? I suppose I shall be at Johnny's about half after six or so. I shall be at Hannay's late.
I send you a
notice of Poole . Please to print all, or not to print any.
I insert this scrap as giving me the opportunity of mentioning a poet, some of whose pieces
were much admired by my brother in his early manhood, and to the last regarded with esteem and
predilection. The
was Thomas Buchanan Read, an American poet, and a painter by profession as well,
author of
[London.]13 August1851.
Dear W—Some one is at Hannay's to-night whom you will be surprised to see. Come if you can. This is written from there.
The subject from the
,” the sending of which to the Liverpool Exhibition had been suggested,
must be
17 Newman Street [London].Wednesday[? August1851].
My Dear Aunt,Pray accept my acknowledgments for the receipt of the money-order, which came duly to hand this morning.
I have at present two subjects
— en trainone from Dante's, and <hi rend="i">Vita Nuova</hi> one from thePoems of Tibullus . I am still in doubt, though I shall be obliged to decide in a day or two, upon which to turn my principal attention. The latter, as being rather the smaller, would be likely to secure a better place in the Exhibition. I think that, as to sale, the chances are about equal.As regards Lady Bath's idea about sending
my little picture to Liverpool, I should certainly have done so (or else to Manchester or Birmingham) last year, had the thing been of a more popular character. Even were it only alittleless peculiar, I would have done so for the sake of the chance; but, as it is, I know by experience that you might as well expect a Liverpool merchant to communicate with his Chinese correspondent without the intervention of some one who knows the language as imagine that he could look at the picture in question with the remotest glimmering of its purpose. This is the reason which has prevented me from sending it anywhere; particularly as it would be sure to come back with the frame knocked to pieces, and as it is a very bad thing for any artist, without some definite chance of sale,to exhibit any picture a second time, and to let every one know that he has not sold it.
When this note was written I was staying at Newcastle-on-Tyne with Mr. and Mrs. William Bell
Scott. During my absence from London, Gabriel accommodated me by keeping-up the writing that
was due from me for the
which he speaks of was Mr. Ruskin's pamphlet on
was an “Exhibition of the Modern Pictures of all Countries.” My
brother wrote the
,” mentioned in this letter, is my brother's
[London.] Monday25August1851.
My Dear William,I have felt so very ill to-day and yesterday as to have been quite unable to write anything which could be printed about the pamphlet etc. I have lost your note, but believe you said the article should be sent off to-night. I suppose you have not still time to write it yourself. Rintoul however has just sent me an order to go to that blackguard exposure at Lichfield House. I am not well enough to stir out to-night (the order being for to-night only), but will write an article from recollection and catalogue—which Brown has got. This I suppose will be sufficient for the present week. The P.R.B. business will not lose, I think, by waiting till the other papers have had their say.
Will you thank Scott for the
and for his note, which I shall answer immediately? <hi rend="i">Vita Nuova</hi> He is quite right, I know, in all he says of ruggedness etc., and I shall pay every attention to those matters. I have
sent the thing to Mr. Taylor, and it seems there is a chance of its coming out with Murray, which would be a capital advertisement for my next picture.
D. G. R.
Remember me most kindly to your host and hostess.
My brother did write, as proposed, a
[London.]Saturday[30August1851].
Dear William,I hope this will reach you before you leave Newcastle: Rintoul has sent me an order for Pocock's Exhibition of Sketches just opened at the Old Water-colour; also an intimation about some blessed Dioramas; also a notice about an
Art-Union print; also a letter saying that there will probably be more of the same kidney. I wrote a very longnotice (at least I found it very long to write) of the rubbish at Lichfield House, and will see to the Sketches, though I cannot go to-day, as, being the private view, I should be sure to pitch upon some Associate or Academician. I have written to Rintoul saying that the Dioramas can, I suppose, stand over.As I have got the
notice of the sketching geniuses to write, you had better do the Ruskin business yourself. Indeed, as I hear that Egg had been told by some one that I wrote thenotices (regarding which Hunt was obliged to undeceive him by telling him that <hi rend="i">Spectator</hi> youdid), I had rather not have anything to do with it. Do not omit to mention my name however (though of course not obtrusively), and to dwell particularly on the fact that my religious subjects have been entirely independent in treatment of any other corresponding representation, and indeed altogether original in the inventions.I have been queer ever since I wrote to you, and to-day am exceedingly disordered and uncomfortable.
Your affectionate Brother, D. G. R.
Remember me to Mr. and Mrs. Scott.
I had now written for the
can only mean that I had not mentioned any such individual work, for I must assuredly
have given due prominence to Hunt himself in general. My brother's reference to his picture of
the
[London.] September1851.
Dear W—I have read your paper on the P.R.B., and agree with Rintoul that it is too full of details and particular instances. Moreover it dashes too much at once into these, and seems as if you were too well up and habituated to the subject. Are you aware too that you have not referred to any work of Hunt, though giving a minute analysis of one of Millais, and of mine? I would not for the world that the long paragraph about me should appear without any reference to Hunt. Indeed I think it too long in any case, and would seem like personal bias to some. I wish too you would put the one about Millais first; also that you would not attempt to defend my mediævalisms, which
wereabsurd, but rather say that there was enough good in the works to give assurance that these were merely superficial. Mypicture should be described as the<hi rend="i"> Girlhood</hi> , and by no meansEducation.
,” first mentioned in this letter, and more frequently afterwards under her
name Lizzy, was Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal.
My brother's things sent
must have been forwarded, I think, from a house rented by Mr. Bateman, a decorative
artist, who had emigrated to Australia with Mr. Woolner and others. Mrs. and Miss Howitt (the
late Mrs. Howitt-Watts) were then staying in the house, and were on very cordial terms both
with my brother and with Miss Siddal. My brother's proposed trip to Hastings was for the
purpose of rejoining Miss Siddal, who stayed there on various occasions for health's sake.
This amusing letter was written to Christina while she was on a visit to the family of Mr.
Swynfen Jervis, at Darlaston in Staffordshire. It contains a pen-and-ink
; to which Mr. Jervis has appended the words, “Oh ah! S.
J.”
—A mushroom grows at the base of the plinth. In the
background appears a totally unrecognizable scribble of Westminster Abbey. Christina's profile
is caricatured, but expressively so.
[London.4 ]August1852.
My Dear Christina,Maria has just shown me a letter of yours by which I find that you have been perpetrating portraits of some kind. If you answer this note, will you enclose a specimen, as I should like to see some of your handiwork? You must take care however not to rival the Sid, but keep within respectful limits. Since you went away, I have had sent me, among my things from Highgate, a lock of hair shorn from the beloved head of that dear, and radiant as the tresses
of Aurora, a sight of which may perhaps dazzle you on your return. . . . I am rejoiced to hear of your improved health, and hope it may prove lasting. I was lately in company with Mrs. and Miss Howitt, with whom you are a considerable topic. I believe Mamma forwarded you an intelligent Magazine by Mrs. H[owitt] to which you are at liberty to contribute. That lady was much delighted with your printed performances, and wishes greatly to know you. Her daughter . . . has by her, singularly enough, a drawing which she calls
, made by her some years back, which furnishes an exact illustration of your <hi rend="i">The End of the Pilgrimage</hi> . <hi rend="i">Ruined Cross</hi> On the opposite page is an attempt to record, though faintly, that privileged period of your life during which you have sat at the feet of one for whom the ages have probably been waiting. The
cartoon has that vagueness which attends all true poetry. Onhiscountenance is a calm serenity, unchangeable, unmistakable. In yours I think I read awe, mingled however with something of that noble pride which even the companionship of greatness has been known to bestow. Are you here transcribing from his very lips the title-deeds of his immortality, or rather perpetuating by a sister art the aspect of that brow where Poetry has set-up her throne? I know not. The expression of Shakespear's genial features is also perhaps ambiguous, though doubtless not to him. Westminster Abbey, I see, looms in the distance, though with rather an airy character.I shall very possibly be going to Hastings in a few days. Meanwhile, till I hear from you or see you again, believe me, dear Christina,
Your affectionate Brother,
D. G. Rossetti.
I forgot to say that Mamma considers 2
s. 6d. sufficient to give the maid—in which, I may add, I do not coincide. Mamma however saysyoumust judge.
I had gone for two or three days to Holman Hunt's lodgings at Chelsea, near the Old Church,
to sit to him for a head or what not in one of his pictures. My brother at the same time
wanted me to sit to him for something else; I think it was the head of Dante in his
water-colour of
[London.]Friday at breakfast, 13August1852.
Dear W—Now that Chelsea and London are again one continent, I think you could not do better than return to your Lares, who are pining for you with a pencil in one hand and an india-rubber in the other. Or, as I have abandoned poetry, I had better plainly inform you that, almost immediately after your abrupt bolt the other morning, I descended to the parlour with a request in reserve that you would come and sit, but found only that
vacuumwhich Art on this occasion concurred with Nature in abhorring.If you do not come at once, I am really afraid that I shall not be able to do what I want from you, though it is not much, before you start for Hastings or elsewhither as the case may be. So be a good fellow and come, and tell Hunt I shall cut him if he tries to keep you.
Your affectionate executioner,
D. G.
must mean the Church in Wells Street, Oxford Street, at which there were services of
more than common musical beauty, attended at this time by our Mother and sisters, and
sometimes by my brother as well.
was the printing-press which our Grandfather Polidori kept for his private
convenience. It seems that Mr. Tupper the printer was now thinking of buying this
press—perhaps he did so. Teodorico was our cousin Teodorico Pietrocola-Rossetti,
who was settled in London in these years.
[14Chatham Place, Blackfriars Bridge.]
Wednesday[towards end of1852].
My Dear Mamma,. . . I think the other day named by Christina (whose note I cannot find) was Sunday. If I am able to get round to Wells Street in the morning, I shall come to dine with you afterwards, and may possibly see you this evening, if Tupper and I go to Grandpapa's about the press. I trust he continues better.
. . . I did a sketch of Teodorico last night, but suspect that it was a perfect failure. He has got it, and I believe means to show it you. I am getting to work here.
My brother's proposal that I should review in the
Edwards is Mr. Sutherland Edwards, the musical critic and author. Browning's play must have
been
in case he had gone to see the play acted in the company of Mr. Edwards, without mine
as well. He intensely admired Browning and his works, and had no sort of antipathy to Mr.
Edwards; possibly he expected the drama to be spoiled in the acting. But wilfulness and
waywardness governed him in matters of this kind.
[Chatham Place.]Saturday[23April1853].
My Dear William,Let me remind you again to speak to Rintoul, if you have not already done so, about giving you Miss Howitt's
to review. Pray make him do so, as I have promised that you will. I fancy the book may be out by this time, or will be in a day or two. <hi rend="i">Art-student in Munich</hi>
D. G. R.
Edwards came here last night, and has an idea that he can get some orders for the Haymarket on Monday to see
Browning's play. Will you be here at six and go? Do come, as I now regret I engaged to go, and shall be bored to death if you do not.
My Mother was at Frome Selwood, Somerset, when this letter was written; settled there, along
with my Father and Christina, for about a year. The
verses which Christina had sent up were, I fancy, a few which begin
“In my cottage near the Styx”
; for I know that Maria was (as
intimated in this letter) singularly amused by that effusion. It may soon be published. Mr.
Stewart was the medical man who attended our family for several years, succeeded after a while
by his son, whose kind and skilful treatment proved invaluable to my Mother, Christina, and
other members of the family. The
is the
Chatham Place.Thursday[12May1853].
My Dear Mamma,I came down here again yesterday, having stayed till then at home. I got Christina's note, but I am sure that she will prefer that I should write to you instead of answering her. I must owe her a letter till I have more news. I certainly owe her, and may pay her if my “muscles” permit, a copy of verses also for that very undignified one of hers, which however is exceedingly good. The slightest allusion to it, ever since its arrival, brings to light a neatly-paved thoroughfare between Maggie's ears.
My boil has subsided. . . . Mr. Stewart called here yesterday, and said he would send me some other kind of medicine, as the old is finished. He seemed to like the situation much, and did not consider the rent at all high. I showed him that
, having nothing else at hand. He said it would be very pretty when finished, but I suspect was rather impressed by it with the idea that the doctor I most needed resided at Hanwell. I showed him also the <hi rend="i">Annunciation</hi> sketch of Papa , which I have not yet managed to get to the frame-maker, but hope to do so to-day, as Green's man is going to call and fetchMacCracken's picture. Mr. S[tewart] thought the governor extremely like. Since you went I have added the cupboard and a piece of chimney-piece in his background, which improves him much. You will get him before long. If you answer this, pray let me know how the original of the sketch gets on, as we have heard as yet nothing particular about him. I want to get into the country immediately. . . .
Calder Campbell has just been in here, and detained me some time talking, and I must now set about doing something or other. And indeed I have no more news—or rather no news at all, for that is about the contents of this note. However, I know you have the weakness to care about every detail concerning my health, and so have written, though without mood or material for a letter—remaining, my dear Mamma,
Your affectionate Son,
D. G. Rossetti.
Osborne, here mentioned, was a cabman, much employed as a jobbing man in our Grandfather's family. The reason why my brother saw an improved prospect for the sale of his pictures (as notified at the close of his letter) was, I think, that he had now established a connexion with Mr. Francis MacCracken of Belfast—a merchant or packing-agent, who evinced a very great liking for Rossetti's work, bought various examples of it, and would probably have continued his purchases, but he died some three or four years after this date.
[Chatham Place.]
Wednesday[15June1853].
My Dear Aunt Charlotte,I am going to or near Newcastle with our friend Mr. Scott for a week or so, and find on enquiry that there is no valise or carpet-bag, or anything of the sort, I can take, at home. Have you any such thing that you could kindly spare me? I shall not want it for long. Maria will send Osborne to you this afternoon for your answer, and, if you can lend me a carpet-bag, he will bring it me. You may depend on my taking care of it.
This however is not the only request with which I have to trouble you. I am obliged to leave town without more delay, by continually returning illness, which I ought to have tried to shake off before by change of air. I am doing some work which will not take long to finish on my return, and for which I shall get paid immediately. Meanwhile, if you could increase my obligations to you by a loan of ten or twelve pounds, I would engage faithfully to return it as soon as I get the money in question, of which there is no doubt.
Maria good-naturedly says that she will be at Park Village this afternoon, in case you should be there, to speak to you about this—as I have mentioned it to her, and am myself obliged to be at my study. I think I am going to start to-morrow for Tynemouth, which is a watering-place near Newcastle. I hope the sea-air will do me some good, as I have long been in want of it. I shall bathe, and try to set myself up.
I am glad to say that I am now beginning to see my way much more clearly as regards the sale of whatever pictures I do, and shall without doubt be able to repay you before long, should you kindly oblige me just now.
The hope here expressed
refers to certain endeavours in drawing and painting which she was then making. They
might have come to something eventually, but were not pursued far. There is an allusion to the
same matter in a previous letter, F 2.
3 St. Thomas Street, Newcastle-On-Tyne.
Monday[20June1853].
My Dear Mother,I left town on Friday morning at 7, and arrived here between 9 and 10
P.M.with Scott. I have got out as yet but little, compared to what I should have wished, as the weather has not been very pleasant for walking. I do not know exactly what my next move will be, but I do not think of staying here, as it is rather a dreary place, andScott's inertia is so much akin to my own that I am afraid I shall not get much benefit of exercise as long as I am here. I think of going to the sea-side at Tynemouth; but may perhaps adopt the plan of going there in the mornings and coming back here at night, as it seems the journey takes only half an hour, and I need not then bother about a lodging. Mrs. Scott is in town still for the present. I suppose perhaps you have William with you by this time. I should like to know what are his plans during his holiday, as we might perhaps combine sooner or later. I fancy I feel rather better than I did in London; but this atmosphere is so stagnant (intellectually speaking) that I really scarcely know, nor can exert myself to think whether I have anything to say. I do not know though that I should have in any case. I occupy my time chiefly in chaffing Scott about his brother David's works, and made a grand allegorical design yesterday in that worthy's style, which I declared was as fine as anything of his, and which Scott, I believe, considers secretly to be really a grand work, though I myself do not understand it.
I trust the governor's health continues in the improved state which was the last I heard of it, and also that Christina is energetic in her pursuit of art. Perhaps it would be as well for you not to take the trouble of writing to me at present, as I am uncertain as to my movements. I shall get away form here I think before long. I have already caught meteoric glimpses of the bore, and foresee that he will shortly commence tossing his Briarean arms in various directions, if I stay.
3 St. Thomas Street, Newcastle-On-Tyne.
Monday20June1853.
My Dear Aunt Charlotte,I got here on Friday night, and this morning have set about letter-writing. I ought before to have thanked you for the remittance which your kindness supplied so immediately, and which I shall not forget to return as soon as
possible. The carpet-bag was exactly suited to my requirements, which were very small; indeed anything larger would have been quite unnecessary. * * * * * *My friend Mr. Scott, at whose house I am, is a very delightful man, but the family-atmosphere is rather inactive, and his inertia encourages mine. I fancy the sea-air at Tynemouth will be the thing for me.
I send this letter to Maria, as I am uncertain about your exact address. This morning, I have written also to Mamma, to whom I lately sent the
sketch I made of Papa, which I got framed in London. I fancy William must be at Frome by this time.Please remember me kindly to all members of the family whom you may see, and believe me
Your affectionate Nephew,
D. G. Rossetti.
David Scott, R.S.A. (mentioned also in a preceding letter), was the brother, deceased in
1849, of William Bell Scott. Gabriel's observation that he was
represents his opinion only in a certain sense. He saw the singularities and
aberrations of David Scott's genius, but really admired it in a high degree. His deliberate
judgment is expressed in some observations introduced into Gilchrist's
Newcaste-On-Tyne.20 June[1853].
My Dear William,I have been here since Friday, and do not exactly know what I mean to do. Let me know what your moves are to be, how long your holiday is, etc., in case we should
be able to combine at all—and whether you have any plans about the rent, which is due on the 24th. I think I shall not stay here long, as I find the general stagnation too like the spirit of Banquo, except for a strenuous dog, from whom also I suffer much. David Scott is a tremendous lark.I want to tell you that Lizzy is painting at Blackfriars while I am away. Do not therefore encourage any one to go near the place. I have told her to keep the doors locked, and she will probably sleep there sometimes.
Tell me any news; I have none to tell. I suppose you are probably at Frome. . . .
I have heard several of Scott's poems, some very fine, and am going to do the etching for his
, as I proposed. By-the-bye, I mentioned to him that affair of <hi rend="i">Rosabell</hi> , and that they would have etchings; that Brown was doing one, etc.; and he asked me yesterday whether I thought it could be managed to get them to buy some of those Commonwealth etchings of his. They are really very good, but I do not know whether you could mention it at any time. You will know best. <hi rend="i">The Artist</hi>
Your affectionate Brother,
D. G. Rossetti.
I suppose, if you write to me here, it can be sent on in case I have left.
must be the picture—then I think already begun, but never quite
finished—entitled
Newcastle.Friday[1July1853].
My Dear William,I ought to have answered you before, but have been unable to come to any conclusion as to my plans hitherto.
Yesterday and the day before Scott and I made an excursion
to Wetheral, Carlisle, and Hexham, and I rather think I shall settle at either the first or last for a little while, and begin my picture there. I wrote to MacCracken in answer to what he said about the , and told him that I should have no objection to paint something else instead, mentioning the two pictures I had in contemplation—viz., the <hi rend="i">House of John</hi> , and the <hi rend="i">Magdalen at the door of Simon</hi> town-subject , but without describing the latter, or mentioning price for either. I also offered him the Dantewater-colour , begun in London, for thirty-five guineas. This last he snatches at. . . . I shall send for the drawing from London, and finish it here somewhere.Do you know, I fancy after all I had rather go to Belgium than to Paris, which I expect would turn out a bore. But it strikes me that the best (and this I would
positivelydo for a week or ten days, money permitting) would be to go to Nuremberg, and see the Durers etc. I suppose we could include Cologne in such a trip, but have no idea whether the expense (should you be equally inclined for this as the other) would be greater. I fear however that my delay will cause this to reach town after you have left. In this case you will get it elsewhere, and can then write to me at once where you are and what you mean, and I will answerat oncewith any proposal I may have to join you anywhere. . . .I have done little here. However I have made a little
water-colour of a woman in yellow , which I shall be able to sell, I have no doubt. I have also madesketches for anetching which I mean to do for Scott's book, and for the picture of theMagdalen [Early sketch] . Scott and I have looked through his poems together, and have made some very advantageous amendments between us.especially is quite another thing, and is now called <hi rend="i">Rosabell</hi> . <hi rend="i">Mary Anne</hi> MacCracken has written a long letter inviting me to Belfast, but I have no idea of going. I heard this morning from Deverell that his father is dead.
I do not find myself much better, I think, at Newcastle than in London. This is a beastly place. But in our late
country excursion I felt very different; I shall be much better I am sure if I settle for a little while. Remember me most particularly to all at home if you are still there.
The reference to our Father's face as being only partially visible must be founded on the
fact that he wore a cap with a large projecting shade, to protect his eyesight; the sight of
one eye having been lost for some years, and that of the other being alarmingly precarious.
is a more decidedly jocular allusion—being meant to indicate an expression
(real or supposed) of settled gloom, as illustrated in the letter by a
Red Horse Inn, Stratford-On-Avon.Tuesday Night, 12July[1853].
My Dear Mother,I left the North towards the end of last week after seeing several interesting places. Carlisle and Hexham especially delighted me, with all the country thereabouts. Newcastle however, where I was mainly staying, I found a horrid place, and the weather had been generally very shabby. Indeed till I came down into Warwickshire here I had felt but little better, but do now.
I came straight from Newcastle to Coventry by rail, and since that I have had no more of that disgusting work, but have walked always from place to place. To-day I walked from Kenilworth to Stratford—twelve miles. I never feel in the least tired, as it is quite another thing walking here from what it is in London or about beastly Newcastle. Coventry, Warwick, and Kenilworth, are all very interesting places, and the country about here lovely. After getting to Stratford this evening, I walked out again and saw Shakespear's house, to which I must pay a second visit. I shall stay here one or two days longer, and then back to London to get about work, though I shall probably leave again almost immediately to paint a background in the country. I want to find my way
to Frome, and see your dear face again before long—also as much as is visible of the governor's, and Christina's almost stereotyped smile. I suppose my letter reached Frome too late for William, from whom I have not heard, though no doubt you sent it on. I imagine he must nearly have finished his trip by this time.
MacCracken is in a state of wild excitement about some subjects I have been mentioning to him, and wrote me a long letter with full directions as to how I was to get to Belfast at once, and stay with him a little while, when we could arrange everything. He has closed with an offer I made him of a
sketch , begun in London, for 35 guineas. It is of the same size as those I have sold before for 12, so that this is not amiss. I shall finish it on my return, and send it to him. I shall not go near him for the present, as I think it would be unwise. I have made one or two sketches <hi rend="i">[Giotto Painting the Portrait of Dante]</hi> <hi rend="i">[Girl Trundling an Infant]</hi> while in the country which I shall be able to sell. You will hear from me when I reach London. Meanwhile I am, dear Mamma, <hi rend="i">[Battlements of Wetheral]</hi>
Your affectionate Son,
D. G. Rossetti.
The opening of this letter refers to a carbuncle (or possibly, as he says, a large boil) which my brother had been troubled with. He wrote from No. 38 Arlington Street, Mornington Crescent, which had for more than two years been the residence of our family, but not now of Gabriel himself, who was housed in Chatham Place, Blackfriars.
Arlington Street.
Wednesday[Summer1853].
Dear Mamma,As I have no doubt you have been getting into a state about me, like a dear old thing as you are, I write to-day to tell you that I am come down into the parlour,
and am all right again, except that the thing is not healed up yet. I have no poultice on however to-day, but some ointment. I doubt, after all, whether it has been more than a boil, though a large one. I hear you are reading
Haydon's Life , as I have been, and am now some way through vol. iii. It gets very melancholy reading as it goes on; but altogether the book gives one a very high opinion of him, I think. I cannot see, after all, that he was so conceited as that fellow Tom Taylor wants to make out, with the insolent pity of a little snob. He was always, or nearly so, dissatisfied with his own work, though certainly he was always saying he could see a great thing before him, which thing he reallydidsee. The fact is that, when a man near the top of a hill begins going into raptures about the view which his position commands, it is necessary that one should be something more than an ant even to understand him, since the ant cannot even look high enough to see that the hill is there at all. I hate that sneak Wilkie. After all, Haydon does not seem to have been extravagant, or even very improvident.I shall get back to my study as soon as possible, and hope I shall not have any more plagues to prevent my getting to work. I got a letter from MacCracken towards the end of last week, saying he should be in London the early part of this, and would call at my study. I am convinced he has come chiefly to see Hunt and myself, and I fear he may miss both, as Hunt is at Ewell. However, I shall be back there as soon as I am quite well, and should really like to see him, if possible. Meanwhile I have left a note for him with the housekeeper explaining.
Remember me most affectionately to Papa and to Christina.
The
[14 Chatham Place.]Monday[August1853].
My Dear Mamma,Maggy's going to Frome this morning recalls to me even more strongly than usual how glad I should be myself to see you again, and how I neglect, through wretched laziness as a correspondent, the only means of communicating with you just at present. I need not say how sorry I was to hear that your health had not been quite so good lately. I trust however that you will not long have this additional trouble. I am much better than I have been, though these hot days make one feel sick and queer. My
sketch for MacCracken, which had languished with my health, is very forward now, and I hope soon to get the tin, and soon after that to be able to speak in the same manner of the even more important progress of hispicture , on the subject of which his excitement continues unabated, or rather on the increase. MacCrac was, as perhaps I told you, to have come to London for a few days, but, finding on a sudden that the R.A. had closed, he withheld his (yearned-for) visit.I have seen scarcely any one lately. Read, the American poet whom you wot of, has been here again with his wife and children, on their way to settle in Italy, and consequently bored me for a brief gasping interval. . . .
I am quite sorry to hear of the difficulties which delay the arrival of the
, which must be very disappointing. Pray remember me most affectionately to its author, for report of whose manners and habits the mental eye needs no telescope. <hi rend="i">Arpa Evangelica</hi> I have finished
Haydon's Life , which afforded me very great enjoyment. I am now readingthat of Benvenuto Cellini, which Grandpapa gave me some time back. This also is more interesting, and I am perhaps the more able to enter into the writer's character from the surprising resemblance which I find in it to that of poor Sangiovanni. The book, as you know, is an autobiography, and at every page it is absolutely like hearing Sangiovanni speak. This iscurious to remark, as S[angiovanni]'s speciality in art was much of the same kind as Benvenuto's, and I dare say under equally fortunate conditions might have been developed to as high a degree. I am uncertain as to where I shall move to, or whether at all unless my
picture absolutely requires it. Scott's holiday at Hexham is now nearly over, so that I should probably not go there now, as I have been prevented hitherto; though indeed the old market-town is attractive enough of itself, but the distance is so very great. I hope still to be able at no distant period to snatch a week or so at Frome, when I should be able to examine the neighbourhood as well as to see your dear old eye.* * * * * *
The small matter with which this letter opens appears to have stood thus. My brother had
done, for insertion in our Aunt's workbox, some sketches, which she shortly handed over to
Lady Bath. He then made another
[14 Chatham Place.]Friday[2September1853].
My Dear Aunt,I am very glad the sketches pleased you, and that they served your object by pleasing Lady Bath. But—that the original box may not bewail its honours—I send you a little
sketch for the inside. It is a recollection from Nature —a little girl whom I saw wheeling a baby in just such a barrow. Would it not make a capital picture of the domestic class to represent a half-dozen of girls racing the babies entrusted to their care—babies bewildered, out of breath, upset, sprawling at bottom of barrow, etc. etc.?I think this sketch ought to have another piece of paper pasted
underneathit, or I fear the printing on the box would show through. You should use the paste rather dry also, or the ink may run.* * * * * *As to what I hope to show you, I merely referred to what I am about for Mr. MacCracken of Belfast, of whom you have heard—which performances
<hi rend="i">[The First Anniversary of the Death of Beatrice]</hi> I trust to see finished at some indefinite period. <hi rend="i">[Found]</hi> I have seen extracts from Sir H. Lowe's Journal, but, to tell you the truth, should be rather doubtful, as far as I have seen, whether he might not have treated poor Bony a little better than he did, without injustice to his own Government. I have been reading
Haydon's Autobiography —a most interesting book, which I recommend to you if it should come in your way.
As to
see the Note to C1. The
, were wanted for my brother's picture
(not “calf”); one might infer that he intended the heifer,
bound for butchering, to have a symbolic analogy with the outcast woman of his picture.
always means our sister Maria.
The letter opens by repelling the idea that Gabriel, in his Mother's opinion,
. He received a reply, 3 October, from which I will quote a few maternal words.
“Read my letter again, and you will see that I never said that you thought
it a bore to write to me; but that my letters are so barren that
they might
well prove a bore to you to read. You have always had a fund of affection for me; and the
remembrance of how, when quite little, you came forward in my defence if I was attacked, and
tried to console me if I seemed unhappy, is one of the dearest reminiscences of my
heart.”
Arlington Street.Friday30September[1853].
My Dear Mamma,I received your very welcome note, the only at all unsatisfactory thing in which is your hint that I think it a bore writing to you. Is this really quite fair, when I sent a letter by Maria? and even before that think (though am not certain) that I had been the last to write. At any rate, I know I am a better correspondent to you than to almost any one, as my friends could testify.
I have just come in from taking tea at Park Village, where I am glad to inform you that I found all well, including Grandpapa, who conversed with me on a variety of subjects, though his memory seems now and then to be at fault. Uncle Philip seemed much gratified at your having written to him, and repeated at intervals, with a certain tendency to defiance, that the letter was good English.
I know you will be pleased to hear that I am painting Aunt Charlotte's
portrait , to be given to Grandpapa. I had the second sitting to-day, and have got very forward with it, though at the close of to-day I discovered a radical defect in the nose, and erased that important feature, whereby the portrait no doubt gains a temporary sublimity by resembling many antique statues. I am confident it will be very like when done. I find they have an old frame at Park Village, which I think can be made to suit it.I am progressing with my works for MacCrac, the
water-colour being at last nearly done, as it ought to have been long ago; but I shall never, I suppose, get over the weakness of making a thing as good as I can manage, and must take to charging on that principle. As for the presentdrawing , the stipulated 35 guineas is absurdly under its value now, and I think I must give MacCracken to understand as much.I believe I shall be wanting to paint a brick wall, and a white heifer tied to a cart going to market. Such things are I suppose to be had at Frome, and it has occurred to me
that I should like if possible to come and paint them there. There is a cattle-market, is there not? Have you ever seen such an article as the heifer in question, and have you or Christina any recollection of an eligible and accessible brick wall? I should want to get up and paint it early in the mornings, as the light ought to be that of dawn. It should be not too countrified (yet beautiful in colour), as it is to represent a city-wall. A certain modicum of moss would therefore be admissible, but no prodigality of grass, weeds, ivy, etc. Can you give any information on these heads? I suppose Christina's pictorial eye will by this time have some insight into the beauties of brick walls—the preferability of purplish prevailing tint to yellowish, etc. VOL. II8I suppose Christina has not been working much at the Art? Will you tell her that I am quite ashamed of not being able yet to tell her anything positive about
? I am constantly remembering it when Hannay is not in the way, and always forgetting it when he is. I have now resolved to remember it the next time I see him, and, if I am baulked again, to write to him the next time I think of it. <hi rend="i">Nick</hi> I was rejoiced at the arrival of the
, in thinking how much pleasure it would give Papa, to whom pray give my sincere love. I have been looking through the volume, and hope before long to have read it through. Its whole plan and arrangement seem to me highly artistic and admirable. <hi rend="i">Arpa Evangelica</hi> I have been thinking whether anything is left to say; but can only find that George Tupper is still uncompromising, Reeves strenuous, Coleman sleepless, and MacCrac the same frenzied enthusiast; facts which demand that the present writer should be a philosopher of some eminence, as well as being
Your most affectionate Son,
Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Give my best love to Maggy and Christina, the former of whom no doubt I shall soon see again.
This letter to our Father, and the following one, may as well appear in their original
Italian: I subjoin translations. A suggestion had been made by our Father in a letter dated 4
October, that Lady Bath, the purchaser of “Remember, my much-loved son, that you have only your own ability upon
which to thrive. Remember that you were born with a decided aptitude [for
painting]; and that, even from your earliest years, you made us conceive the
highest hopes that you would prove a great painter. And such you will be, I am
assured.”
Saturday.
My Dearest Father,I learned yesterday with great concern, from Mamma's letter to Maria, that you have had in these last days a severe attack of diarrhœa; but I thank God for the decided improvement of which that letter also assures me. May your health strengthen always from day to day with the fine air of the country, from which I hoped much when you left London.
I would not have delayed so long in answering your dear and affectionate letter, but that I was wishing to speak somewhat, in my reply, about the
, and to read it in full before writing to you. Nor have I yet, being much occupied just now, found time for a deliberate reading. I have read the whole second series, the <hi rend="i">Arpa Evangelica</hi> , which I liked well; but more perhaps than any of the compositions there I like the last composition in the fifth series, <hi rend="i">Solemnities of the Church</hi> , which appeared to me very fine, and which might almost appertain to the argument of the second series. The other evening, in my Grandfather's house, I read with him some of the <hi rend="i">The Penitent Woman on the Crucifix</hi> ; and he particularly indicated to me the poem on the <hi rend="i">Arpa</hi> , and I joined him in admiring it. I have also read the first of the three cantos of <hi rend="i">Fall of Jerusalem</hi> , which seems to me worthy of the other two, which I already knew. <hi rend="i">The Redemption</hi> I trust that perhaps I may soon be able to come and see you at Frome, when I hope to find your health improved, and that of Mamma and Christina vigorous. The
portrait of my Aunt Charlotte will perhaps require one other sitting, but it is already nearly finished; I think it is now very like. I fear there is not any ground to suppose that Lady Bath wants her own portrait, as she has lately had it painted twice —one in miniature, another in oil. Nor perhaps could I just now undertake it, being bound to paint apicture for that Irish gentleman who owns my. For him is likewise the <hi rend="i">Annunciation</hi> water-colour which I am now finishing, and of which Mamma will certainly have spoken to you.Please tell Mamma that I have not forgotten her last letter, and will not fail to reply. Assure her, and also Christina, of my sincere affection, and believe me always
Your very affectionate Son,
D. G. Rossetti.
14 Chatham Place, Blackfriars Bridge.
[ SabatoOctober1853].
Mio Carissimo Padre,
Ho saputo ieri con gran rammarico, dalla lettera di Mamma a Maria, che avete avuto in questi ultimi giorni un severo attacco di diarrea, ma ringrazio Iddio del miglioramento deciso che quella lettera anche mi assicura. Possa la vostra salute invigorirsi sempre di giorno in giorno coll' aria benefica della campagna, dalla quale ho sperato molto quando lasciaste Londra.
Non avrei indugiato tanto nel rispondere alla vostra cara ed affettuosa lettera, se non avessi desiderato di parlare alquanto, nella mia risposta, dell' , e di leggerla tutta prima di scrivervi. Nè ancora, essendo molto occupato in questo momento, ho io trovato tempo per una lettura accurata. Ho letto intiera la seconda serie delle <hi rend="i">Arpa Evangelica</hi> , la quale mi piace assai, ma forse più ancora che qualunque delle composizioni contenute in essa mi piace l'ultima composizione della quinta serie, <hi rend="i">Solennità della Chiesa</hi> , la quale mi è paruta bellissima, e che apparterrebbe quasi all'argomento della seconda serie. L'altra sera, a casa di mio avo, ho letto con lui qualche squarcio dell' <hi rend="i">La Penitente<epage/> <page n="116" image="a."/> sul Crocifisso</hi> , ed esso mi ha indicato specialmente la poesia sulla Caduta di Gerusalemme, ed io mi sono unito con lui nell' ammirarla. Ho letto anche il primo dei tre Canti della <hi rend="i">Arpa</hi> , che mi pare degno dei due altri, i quali io già conosceva. <hi rend="i">Redenzione</hi>
Spero che forse fra poco io potrò venire a visitarvi a Frome, dove spero di trovare ristabilita la vostra salute, e vigorosa quella di Mamma e di Cristina. Il ritratto di mia zia Carlotta richiederà forse un' altra seduta, ma è già quasi finita; mi pare che adesso somigli molto. Temo che non ci sia affatto luogo di credere che Lady Bath vorrà il proprio ritratto, poichè se l'ha fatto dipingere ultimamente due volte, una in miniatura, un' altra ad olio. Nè io forse in questo momento lo protrei intraprendere, avendo l'incombenza di fare un quadro per quel signore irlandese che possiede la mia . Per lui anche è l'acquarella che finisco ora, e di cui Mamma vi avrà certamente parlato. <hi rend="i">Annunziazione</hi>
Vi prego di dire a Mamma che non mi sono scordato della sua ultima lettera, e che non mancherò a risponderci. Assicurate lei, come anche Cristina, del mio sincero affetto, e credetemi sempre
il vostro affettuosissimo figlio,
D. G. Rossetti.
Williams, here named, was a jobbing man, employed in our family to black boots, etc.: he
entertained a special predilection for Gabriel. In earlier years he had been a
police-constable in Wales; he had good natural intelligence, and a characteristic face, which
Gabriel painted as St. Joachim in his
,” Gabriel did not intend any sneer at his friend: only that Woolner was
much more laudable for
By D. G. Rossetti. 1853.
Charlotte L. Polidori.
sturdy independence and resolute decision than for anything to be classed under
the term
.
Thursday evening[Autumn1853].
My Dear Mother,I have been putting off writing to you under the idea that, by doing so, I should be able to speak positively as to my possible visit to Frome; but find myself as yet still unable to do so, and will no longer defer writing.
I have been working a great deal lately, but somehow it seems impossible to finish anything. I have received £20 in advance towards the payment of the
drawing for MacCrac, which is at last nearly done; and have been getting under way with hispicture , which I hope, when once fairly afoot, will soon be very forward, as I have been making careful preparations, and caution at first is always the shortest in the long run. Aunt Charlotte'sportrait is done to all intents and purposes, though I shall have another sitting. I think it is now a great deal like. I showed it to-day to Williams, who was sitting to me, and he recognized it immediately. As soon as I am able to come to Frome I mean to paint a similar portrait of you; and should like also to do one of Papa, but fear he would find the sitting too wearisome. Aunt Charlotte's is done very carefully—the head quite as finished as anything I have painted.You will be glad to hear that I have at last some news of Woolner and B[ernhard] Smith. The former has written to his father, and the latter to his brother. At Edward Smith's last night we had a regular meet for reading the letters. It seems that the two went in succession to all the Diggings, or nearly so, during a period of seven months, and were uniformly unsuccessful, working always as hard as navigators, or harder. . . . After the seven months' digging W[oolner] resolved on returning to Melbourne to try his luck at sculpture, and here, I am delighted to say, he seems in a fair way of complete success. He has done several medallions at £25 each—one of Mr. La Trobe, the Governor of the Settlement —and there is a prospect of his getting a commission for
a statue of the Queen to be erected there; in which case we may probably see him back as soon as next summer to work at it in London. He has sent two Australian papers in which he is spoken of most highly, and both of which quote William's notices of his works, from the , as conclusive as to his position in England; so that William has probably been of some real use to him. One of them says that <hi rend="i">Spectator</hi> “Mr. Woolner is a gentleman of very affable and agreeable manners”, which is rather rich. One bad thing is that the present Governor, who has been very friendly to Woolner, and is a cousin of Bateman, has been recalled, and will shortly leave the Colony. It is to be hoped W[oolner]'s luck will not go withhim. W[oolner] is staying with Dr. Howitt (brother of W. Howitt), who as well as all his family are most kind to W[oolner], and greatly taken with him—as I know from some letters Mrs. Howitt here has had from them. . . . Bernhard has gone to the farm of a brother of his about thirty miles from Melbourne, and I believe has been making interest to get into the “Gold Commission.”Will you tell Christina that Mrs. Howitt asked me the other day whether she could print the
in a collection of translations from the German which are to be splendidly illustrated, and to which the publishers have asked her to add a few original English ones? For the same collection she asked me to contribute something, and I gave a ghastly ballad called <hi rend="i">Summer Evening</hi> . The <hi rend="i">Sister Helen</hi> , where Christina's poem was to have been, it seems, is delayed for the present. <hi rend="i">Aikin's Year</hi> I fear there is not much more news. Hunt and Brown are both I believe well, though I have seen neither very lately. I called the other night on poor Deverell, who is very ill indeed, and I have heard even that his doctor says he cannot live over next summer, if so long. But I hope this is an exaggeration. He is in good spirits, the same as ever, and I told him it was all stuff. He is full of troubles as to maintaining the family since his father's death.
* * * * * *
is better known to the present generation as Mrs. Bodichon; a most admirable woman,
full of noble zeal in every good cause, and endowed with a fine pictorial capacity. Mrs.
Orme—whom Thackeray called
—was the sister-in-law of Mr. Coventry Patmore. Hers too was a rich
abundant nature, only partially indicated in Thackeray's phrase, for her whole type of
character was most essentially that of a woman, and not a man; among many kind friends of my
youth she was nearly the kindest of all. Marshall, who was consulted in Deverell's illness,
was the Mr. John Marshall so often mentioned in these pages. Mr. Burrows (afterwards a Canon
of Rochester) was the Incumbent of Christ Church, Albany Street, which my female relatives
attended with extreme constancy.
I am sure that some of my readers will laugh over the
,” of perpetrating a
,” and of a determination to
,” had it not been that Tennyson's sonnet contained similar words or
sounds, and the temptation to misapply them was irresistible. As a specimen of parody, I know
not where to find a more felicitous thing than this. As a picture of facts its value is less
than nil; except indeed for its clear implication that Rossetti would have liked to get bigger
prices for his performances, from MacCracken or from any one, if only he could have got
them.
Tuesday[8November1853].
Dear Christina,I have written lately to Papa and Mamma (by the bye, has the former got my letter?), but it is some time since I have enlightened you. Maria showed me the other day two poems of yours which are among the best you have written for some time: only the title of one—
—seems “very like a whale.” What does it mean? <hi rend="i">Something like Truth</hi> The latter verses of this are most excellent; but some, which I remember vaguely, about “dreaming of a lifelong ill”(etc. etc.), smack rather of the old shop. I wish you would try any rendering either of narrative or sentiment from real abundant Nature, which presents much more variety, even in any one of its phases, than all such “dreamings.” ad libitumAllingham has just come to town, and with him and William I went last night to the Howitts. Anna Mary's excitement on your subject has not subsided, and she still hopes, when you come to town, not to miss you again. She has painted a sunlight picture of
<hi rend="i">Margaret</hi> () in a congenial wailing state, which is much better than I fancied she could paint. I am going down some time by daylight to give her some hints about the colour. I wish there were any chance of my ever doing the same for you, but I am afraid you find art interfere with the legitimate exercise of anguish. Ah if you were only like Miss Barbara Smith! a young lady I meet at the Howitts', blessed with large rations of tin, fat, enthusiasm, and golden hair, who thinks nothing of climbing up a mountain in breeches, or wading through a stream in none, in the sacred name of pigment. Last night she invited us all to lunch with her on Sunday; and perhaps I shall go, as she is quite a <hi rend="i">Faust</hi> —which was Thackeray's definition of Mrs. Orme.“jolly fellow”Mr. Orme has just received a letter from Woolner, which I think I may perhaps be able to send you when it shall have been seen to-night at a supper which Allingham gives to Hunt, Hannay, Stephens, W[illiam], and self. Hunt still talks of starting for Paris on the 15th, whence he will proceed with Seddon to Egypt possibly, or at any rate somewhither. Millais, I just hear, was last night elected Associate.
You know—do you not?—of poor Deverell's illness. Marshall, whom you have heard me speak of, went the other day to see him, and quite confirmed his own doctor's decision (which I had hoped might be a mistaken one) that he does
not seem to have six months' life in him. He says, however, there maybe a chance if he is very careful. I wanted him to come and take possession of one of my rooms, thinking it would be more cheerful for him; but it seems he must not think of stirring out. I fear he does not know his danger, as he talks still of going, as soon as he is better, to paint the background of a picture at the London Docks. He has, strangely enough, begun another picture which he calls—where a doctor is trying to explain to the assembled family of a sick man that there is no hope. His spirits are, I think, the same as ever, and in the evenings he does not seem to suffer much . . . but in the morning, I believe, is his worst time. His complaint is described as “Dr. Bright's disease of the kidneys.” <hi rend="i">The Doctor's Last Visit</hi> This is not very cheerful. Sunday night Maria and I went to see Mr. Burrows after attending service at his church. I liked him very well, but he rather reminded me of Patmore in manner. The decorations at Christ Church are very poor —four gilt Corinthian capitals; item, one pulpit-cloth with seven white stars, etc. etc.
I managed to finish Aunt Charlotte's
portrait before she left town, except that I find I shall want one more sitting to work on the hands. I have ordered the frame, and, when that comes, shall take the picture to Park Village. Aunt Eliza is coming here to-morrow (9th November) to bask in the ecstasy of the Lord Mayor's Show!I do not know that I have any more to say, except that I will subjoin two sonnets—one by Tennyson, and the other a parody on it. The latter, I must say, is perhaps rather a stern view of the character.
Love to all.
<hi rend="c">THE KRAKEN</hi>.
BY A. TENNYSON.“Below the thunders of the upper deep— Far far beneath in the abysmal sea— His ancient dreamless uninvaded sleep The Kraken sleepeth. Fainter sunlights flee About his shadowy sides: above him swell Huge sponges of millennial growth and height: And far away into the sickly light, From many a wondrous grot and secret cell, Unnumbered and enormous polypi Winnow with giant fins the slumbering green. There he has lain for ages, and will lie, Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep, Until the latter fire shall heat the deep. Then, once by men and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise, and on the surface die.”
<hi rend="c">MACCRACKEN</hi>.
BY D. G. ROSSETTI.
Getting his pictures, like his supper, cheap, Far far away in Belfast by the sea, His watchful one-eyed uninvaded sleep MacCracken sleepeth. While the P.R.B. Must keep the shady side, he walks a swell Through spungings of perennial growth and height: And far away in Belfast out of sight, By many an open do and secret sell, Fresh daubers he makes shift to scarify, And fleece with pliant shears the slumbering ‘green.’ There he has lied, though aged, and will lie, Fattening on ill-got pictures in his sleep, Till some Præraphael prove for him too deep. Then, once by Hunt and Ruskin to be seen, Insolvent he will turn, and in the Queen's Bench die.
Thursday evening.
Dearest Father,Excuse me for having so long ago received your dear letter without as yet replying. I heard lately with the greatest sorrow the bad news of your health. But from what I hear now I trust that you find yourself a little better. I would like to say,
much.I can't yet say that I have read the
right <hi rend="i">Arpa Evangelica</hi> through; but I have read many compositions in it since I wrote last, and I specially remember that addressed as one of the most beautiful, and on an idea which has always seemed to me one of the most poetical that can be treated. <hi rend="i">To the Guardian Angel</hi> Some days ago I showed the
, as your latest work, to a certain Signor Ventura, who came to me as the only Rossetti he could find in the Directory, and thinking that here he would find <hi rend="i">Arpa</hi> you. He brought you the respects of a certain Signor Palizzi of Vasto, and also of the brothers of the latter, all of them readers of yours. Ventura himself seemed to know all your works, except this last one; he informed me he does not belong to Vasto, but to Central Italy. I told him I would give you his message when first I wrote.I greatly grieve, as we all must, for the death of my dear Grandfather, for whom I have always entertained a sincere affection. It would at least have been a slight consolation if he could once have recognized his family before passing away.
In your letter, my dear Father, you speak of my profession. I can assure you that now I am not negligent in that respect. With me progress always is, and always will be, gradual in everything. Of late also health has not been favourable to me; but now I am well and at work, and I also find purchasers, and I can see before me, much more clearly than hitherto, the path to success. How much do I owe you, and how much trouble have I given you, dearest Father, in this and in all matters! Needless were it to ask your loving heart to pardon me; but I must always beg you to believe in the real and deep affection with which I remain
Your loving Son,
Dante Gabriele Rossetti.
The Signor Palizzi mentioned in this letter may probably be (or may have been, for I assume
that he is no longer alive) a painter of considerable repute for pictures with telling groups
of goat-herds, etc.; he stood well in the annual Paris Exhibitions. This was
GiovedÌ Sera
12January[1854].
Carissimo Padre,
Scusatemi che da tanto tempo ho ricevuto la vostra cara lettera, senza averci ancora risposto. Ho sentito ultimamente con grandissimo rammarico le cattive nuove della vostra salute. Ma, da quel che sento ora, spero che vi trovate un poco meglio; vorrei dir, molto.
Non ancora posso dirvi di aver letta in tutto ; ma ne ho lette parecchie composizioni da che vi ho scritto l'ultima volta, e specialmente mi rammento quella diretta <hi rend="i">l' Arpa Evangelica</hi> come una delle più belle, e sopra un' idea che mi è sempre paruta una delle più poetiche che si possa trattare. <hi rend="i">All' Angelo Custode</hi>
Giorni fà, ho mostrato , come ultimo vostro lavoro, ad un certo Signor Ventura, il quale venne da me come essendo il solo Rossetti trovato da lui nel <hi rend="i">l' Arpa</hi> , e pensando che qui vi troverebbe. Esso vi portò i rispetti d'un certo Signor Palizzi del Vasto, ed anche dei fratelli di questo, tutti lettori vostri. Anche questo Ventura pareva conoscere tutte le vostre opere, eccetto quest 'ultima: esso mi disse non essere del Vasto ma dell' Italia Centrale. Io gli dissi che vi darei il suo messaggio, quando prima vi avrei da scrivere. <hi rend="i">Directory</hi>
Io mi dolgo grandemente, come dobbiamo fare tutti, della morte del mio caro avo, pel quale ho avuto sempre un sincero affetto. Sarebbe stato almeno qualche poco di consolazione s'egli avesse potuto riconoscere una volta la famiglia prima di spirare.
Nella lettera vostra, caro padre, mi parlate della mia professione. Vi posso assicurare che non sono trascurato adesso in questo riguardo. Con me il progresso è sempre, e sarà sempre, graduale in tutto, nè ultimamente mi è stata favorevole la salute; ma adesso sto bene, e lavoro, e trovo anche compratori; e mi veggo innanzi, molto più chiaramente che sin' adesso, la via della buona riuscita. Quanto vi debbo, e quanta pena vi ho dato, carissimo padre, in questo e in tutto! Non ci è bisogno ch' io domandi al vostro amoroso cuore di perdonarmi; ma debbo sempre pregarvi di credere al vero e profondo affetto con cui mi segno
il vostro amoroso figlio,
Dante Gabriele Rossetti.
[London.
] Friday3February1854.
Dear William,I had already heard from the family of poor Deverell's death.
I should like to meet Millais this evening, but do not know whether I shall feel in sufficiently good spirits to come out.
: this means “looking over Christina's poems”—not
Lizzy's. The
desiderated was not secured until 1862.
[14Chatham Place.]
Tuesday[28March1854].
My Dear William,* * * * * *Tell Christina that, if she will come here on Thursday, Lizzy will be here. . . . I shall be glad if she will come, as I have told Lizzy she mentioned her wish to do so.
Allingham has been looking over her poems, and is delighted with many of them. I am going to lend them him (trusting in her permission to do so), that he may give his opinion as to which will be the best for the volume. Lizzy will illustrate, and I have no doubt we shall get a publisher.
As to
and
the
(My address will be) 5High Street, Hastings.
[ May1854].
My Dear Mamma,* * * * *I found Lizzie apparently rather better than otherwise; at any rate not worse, either by her own account or by appearances. Some of her bad symptoms are certainly abating, and her spirits, she says, are much better. I have been staying at the Inn here; but move to-day to Mrs. Elphick's, 5 High Street, where Guggum is, and where my lodging will cost 8
s., I believe. Barbara Smith and Anna Mary came down to see Lizzie yesterday from Robertsbridge, some miles from here, where they are staying; and we all took a walk together, which did not seem to fatigue Lizzie much. There are several other ladies who have been most attentive to Lizzie, and every one adores the dear. No one thinks it at all odd my going into the Gug's room to sit there; and Barbara Smith said to the landlady how unadvisable it would be for her to sit with me in a room without fire.I wrote yesterday, from her own lips, a most minute account of her state to Wilkinson, and expect his reply. I cannot think that there is any need of her going into the Sussex Infirmary as proposed.
She and I are going to Robertsbridge to-morrow to spend the day. The weather has turned, and become most delicious. The sea to-day looks like enamel in the sun, and there is a cool breeze. I write this waiting for breakfast at 8 a.m. (!) Yesterday I saw the sun rise !!! over the sea—the most wonderful of earthly sights. This morning I was awake
in time too; but there was less beauty in the dawn, though the day promises to be even more lovely than yesterday. But I fear you cannot even yet be much in a mood for hearing of these things. I myself feel more at ease since seeing Lizzie, but nevertheless was not the merriest of our party yesterday.
Bye-bye, Bunk. Love to all.
Your most affectionate Son,
D. G. Rossetti.
P.S.—Perhaps I may be bothering William before long to send some painting-things from my rooms, but am not sure how long I stay. Will he go round and see if Ruskin's books have reached there for me, and will you let me know if you write?
was the letter about the Præraphaelites which Mr. Ruskin got printed in
the
(I think the water-colour of
shows how scanty was then the market for his productions; although of course it was
liberal in Mr. MacCracken to pay £52 10s. (I apprehend that to be
the exact sum) for a work which he had originally (as previous letters show) commissioned for
£36 15s.
5High Street, Hastings.
Thursday[11May1854].
MY Dear William,I wish you would tell people I am not dead, but by no means encouraging the idea of such an amount of life as at all facilitates human intercourse. It is rather slow here, and generally very windy, though often glorious sunlight. Tell Allingham if you see him that, should he have an idea of coming to Hastings, I wish he would carry it out; and
that, if he can only spare a day or so, his best plan would be to take a return ticket on Saturday, which costs £1 (second class), and will bring him back by the last train on Monday. Or if you could do this yourself, do. I want to know something of all things—how do people talk of Hunt's pictures? I saw Ruskin's letter. Had the been cheeky? How is Collins hung? And is there anything worth description in the R. A.? I suppose you have begun in the <hi rend="i">Times</hi> . If you could send me that public organ I should be thankful. <hi rend="i">Spec</hi> Lizzy seems upon the whole a little better, and Wilkinson judges so from the long account of her symptoms which we sent. She and I spent a pleasant day on Monday at Scalands, where Barbara and Anna Mary have been staying. They made themselves very jolly, and it is a most stunning country there. I heard from MacCrac, who offers £50 for the
water-colour , with all manner of soap and sawder into the bargain—a princely style of thing.There seem to be several places tolerably within range hereabouts which we ought to see, and shall set about seeing; but Lizzy is not capable of too much exertion. I dare say I shall very soon be boring you to send my painting-things from London, but almost think I shall have to come myself when I want them. . . .
Your
D. G. R.
There is a very rich skit on A. Smith,
, etc., in <hi rend="i">Balder</hi> , professing to be a review of <hi rend="i">Blackwood</hi> . You should see it, and tell Allingham. <hi rend="i">Firmilian, a Tragedy by Percy Jones</hi>
The
of Miss Barbara Smith, connected with a Sanatorium, was probably the celebrated Miss
Nightingale, who towards the close of 1854 went out to the Crimea. Miller must be Mr. John
Miller of Liverpool—an elderly Scotch gentleman, a merchant, a prime mover in
artistic matters in Liverpool, and admirably kind and energetic in all his doings. He had
apparently some claimVOL. II. 9
5High Street, Hastings.
14 May1854.
My dear William,As you ask about the weather here on behalf of some invalid, I write to say that it is just beginning to be decidedly warm—to-day rather oppressively so, seeming to forebode a storm. After which I hope the