The Germ, British Library Copy
Aylott and Jones (publisher)
William Michael Rossetti
Electronic Archive Edition: 1 File Name: ap4.g415.1
Copyright: By permission of the British Library
Production Description
Document Title: The Germ. Thoughts towards Nature in Poetry, Literature, and Art
Editor: William Michael Rossetti
Publisher: Aylott & Jones
Printer: G.F. Tupper
City: London
Date: 1850 January - May
Edition: 1
Pagination: [1]-192; with four separate cover sheets carrying the table of
contents of each number on the versos, and with four engravings inserted
in each number following the cover sheet.
1
Issue: 1-4
Note on Publication: The title of
The Germ
was changed after the first two numbers to
Art and Poetry: Being Thoughts towards Nature
Conducted Principally by Artists
. Each of the four published issues carries an engraving as frontispiece.
Provenance
Current Location: British Library
Catalog Number: ap4.g415
Physical Description
Cover: pale yellow paper covers
Columns: 1
Paper: thinly calendered
Dimensions of Document: 22.4 x 14.5cm
Description of the Work
Commentary
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This is the British Library copy of the first edition of
The Germ
, the periodical launched by DGR and some friends in 1850 for
disseminating the work and ideas of the initial Pre-Raphaelite circle. Only
four numbers were published (January, February, March, and May, 1850).
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The most useful commentary on the periodical is still the 1901 Preface
written by WMR for the facsimile
reprint of
The Germ
.
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|
The first number appeared in 1 January 1850 with Holman Hunt's etching (700
copies printed; 50 had etchings on India paper). Only 70 were sold. The
second issue appeared on 31 January (500 copies printed, 40 sold by 9
February). Number 3 appeared on 31 March, number 4 on 30 April (print runs
for both are uncertain, and apparently only 106 copies of number 4 were
sold). The poor sales forced the journal to close down. Most of the expenses
for the financial failure of the magazine were born by George Tupper.
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After the fame of the PRB was established,
The Germ
was reprinted first by Thomas Mosher (1898: Portland, Maine) and again
as a close facsimile in 1901 with an introductory
“Preface” by William Michael Rossetti giving
historical and bibliographical particulars about the magazine. A recent
reprint was put out by the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford (1992), with a Preface
by Andrea Rose.
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Each of the four issues began with an etching, a device that clearly
established the artistic focus of the journal. The gothic types that were
used for the cover sheets (which also served as title pages) and for the
printed texts also contributed to the tone if not the arguments of the work.
These types seem reminiscent of the Puseyite or Tractarian movement and
locate the work's spiritual inspiration in an earlier, medieval world.
|
Of first importance is WMR's Preface to his 1901 facsimile reprint of
The Germ
. Only slightly less important is Fredeman's edition of
The P.R.B. Journal
, and Holman Hunt's recollective
Pre-Raphaelitism and the
Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood
and WMR's
PRDL
. See also
James Ashcroft Noble, “A
Pre-Raphaelite Magazine,”
Fraser's Magazine
(May 1882), 568-580.
|
 [ [i] ]
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| Editorial Note: An ornamental border frames all the text except the printer's name
(G.F. Tupper), which lies just beneath it.
|
|
No. 1 (Price One Shilling)
JANUARY, 1850
With an Etching by W. HOLMAN HUNT.
10
AYLOTT & JONES, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW.
G. F. Tupper, Printer, Clement's Lane. Lombard Street.
[ [ii] ]
- My Beautiful Lady . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
- Of my Lady in Death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
- The Love of Beauty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10
- The Subject in Art, (No. 1) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11
- The Seasons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .19
- Dream Land . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20
- Songs of One Household, (My Sister's Sleep.) . . . . . .21
- Hand and Soul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .23
- The Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich . . . . . . . . . . . . .34
- Her First Session . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .46
- A Sketch from Nature . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .47
- An End . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48
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Editorial Note: The following paragraph is prefaced by this ornament.
|
It is requested that those who may have by them
any
un-published Poems, Essays, or other articles appearing
to
coincide with the views in which this Periodical is
established,
and who may feel desirous of contributing such
papers—will
forward them, for the general approval of the
Editor, to the Office of
publication. It may be relied upon that the
most sincere
attention will be paid to the examination of all
manuscripts,
whether they be eventually accepted or declined.
[ [iii] ]
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Editorial Note: blank page
|
[ [iv] ]
Transcription: [untitled]
| Editorial Description: Etching by William Holman Hunt. 2 panels, top panel shows
lady picking flowers near river as her lover pulls her back, the
second shows the lover prostrate with grief on his lady's grave
as a procession of nuns passes behind him. signed “W.
Holman Hunt.” |
[ [1] ]
I LOVE my lady; she is very fair;
Her brow is white, and bound by simple hair;
Her spirit sits aloof, and high,
Altho' it looks thro' her soft eye
Sweetly and tenderly.
As a young forest, when the wind drives thro',
My life is stirred when she breaks on my view.
Altho' her beauty has such power,
Her soul is like the simple flower
10 Trembling beneath a shower.
As bliss of saints, when dreaming of large wings,
The bloom around her fancied presence flings,
I feast and wile her absence, by
Pressing her choice hand passionately—
Imagining her sigh.
My lady's voice, altho' so very mild,
Maketh me feel as strong wine would a child;
My lady's touch, however slight,
Moves all my senses with its might,
20 Like to a sudden fright.
A hawk poised high in air, whose nerved wing-tips
Tremble with might suppressed, before he dips,—
In vigilance, not more intense
Than I; when her word's gentle sense
Makes full-eyed my suspense.
Her mention of a thing—august or poor,
Makes it seem nobler than it was before:
As where the sun strikes, life will gush,
And what is pale receive a flush,
30 Rich hues—a richer blush.
[ 2 ]
My lady's name, if I hear strangers use,—
Not meaning her—seems like a lax misuse.
I love none but by my lady's name;
Rose, Maud, or Grace, are all the same,
So blank, so very tame.
My lady walks as I have seen a swan
Swim thro' the water just where the sun shone.
There ends of willow branches ride,
Quivering with the current's glide,
40 By the deep river-side.
Whene'er she moves there are fresh beauties stirred;
As the sunned bosom of a humming-bird
At each pant shows some fiery hue,
Burns gold, intensest green or blue:
The same, yet ever new.
What time she walketh under flowering May,
I am quite sure the scented blossoms say,
“O lady with the sunlit hair!
“Stay, and drink our odorous air—
50 “The incense that we bear:
“Your beauty, lady, we would ever shade;
“Being near you, our sweetness might not
fade.”
If trees could be broken-hearted,
I am sure that the green sap smarted,
When my lady parted.
This is why I thought weeds were beautiful;—
Because one day I saw my lady pull
Some weeds up near a little brook,
Which home most carefully she took,
60 Then shut them in a book.
A deer when startled by the stealthy ounce,—
A bird escaping from the falcon's trounce,
Feels his heart swell as mine, when she
Stands statelier, expecting me,
Than tall white lilies be.
The first white flutter of her robe to trace,
Where binds and perfumed jasmine interlace,
Expands my gaze triumphantly:
Even such his gaze, who sees on high
70 His flag, for victory.
[ 3 ]
We wander forth unconsciously, because
The azure beauty of the evening draws:
When sober hues pervade the ground,
And life in one vast hush seems drowned,
Air stirs so little sound.
We thread a copse where frequent bramble spray
With loose obtrusion from the side roots stray,
(Forcing sweet pauses on our walk):
I'll lift one with my foot, and talk
80 About its leaves and stalk.
Or may be that the prickles of some stem
Will hold a prisoner her long garment's hem;
To disentangle it I kneel,
Oft wounding more than I can heal;
It makes her laugh, my zeal.
Then on before a thin-legged robin hops,
Or leaping on a twig, he pertly stops,
Speaking a few clear notes, till nigh
We draw, when quickly he will fly
90 Into a bush close by.
A flock of goldfinches may stop their flight,
And wheeling round a birchen tree alight
Deep in its glittering leaves, until
They see us, when their swift rise will
Startle a sudden thrill.
I recollect my lady in a wood,
Keeping her breath and peering—(firm she stood
Her slim shape balanced on tiptoe—)
Into a nest which lay below,
100 Leaves shadowing her brow.
I recollect my lady asking me,
What that sharp tapping in the wood might be?
I told her blackbirds made it, which,
For slimy morsels they count rich,
Cracked the snail's curling niche:
She made no answer. When we reached the stone
Where the shell fragments on the grass were strewn,
Close to the margin of a rill;
“The air,” she said,
“seems damp and chill,
110 “We'll go home if you
will.”
[ 4 ]
“Make not my pathway dull so soon,”
I cried,
“See how those vast cloudpiles in sun-glow
dyed,
“Roll out their splendour: while
the breeze
“Lifts gold from leaf to leaf, as these
“Ash saplings move at
ease.”
Piercing the silence in our ears, a bird
Threw some notes up just then, and quickly stirred
The covert birds that startled, sent
Their music thro' the air; leaves lent
120 Their rustling and blent,
Until the whole of the blue warmth was filled
So much with sun and sound, that the air thrilled.
She gleamed, wrapt in the dying day's
Glory: altho' she spoke no praise,
I saw much in her gaze.
Then, flushed with resolution, I told all;—
The mighty love I bore her,—how would pall
My very breath of life, if she
For ever breathed not hers with
me;—
130 Could I a cherub be,
How, idly hoping to enrich her grace,
I would snatch jewels from the orbs of space;—
Then back thro' the vague distance beat,
Glowing with joy her smile to meet,
And heap them round her feet.
Her waist shook to my arm. She bowed her head,
Silent, with hands clasped and arms straightened:
(Just then we both heard a church bell)
O God! It is not right to tell:
140 But I remember well
Each breast swelled with its pleasure, and her whole
Bosom grew heavy with love; the swift roll
Of new sensations dimmed her eyes,
Half closing them in ecstasies,
Turned full against the skies.
The rest is gone; it seemed a whirling round—
No pressure of my feet upon the ground:
But even when parted from her, bright
Showed all; yea, to my throbbing sight
150 The dark was starred with light.
[ 5 ]
ALL seems a painted show. I look
Up thro' the bloom that's shed
By leaves above my head,
And feel the earnest life forsook
All being, when she died:—
My heart halts, hot and dried
As the parched course where once a brook
Thro' fresh growth used to flow,—
Because her past is now
10 No more than stories in a printed book.
The grass has grown above that breast,
Now cold and sadly still,
My happy face felt thrill:—
Her mouth's mere tones so much expressed!
Those lips are now close set,—
Lips which my own have met;
Her eyelids by the earth are pressed;
Damp earth weighs on her eyes;
Damp earth shuts out the skies.
20 My lady rests her heavy, heavy rest.
To see her slim perfection sweep,
Trembling impatiently,
With eager gaze at me!
Her feet spared little things that creep:—
“We've no more right,”
she'd say,
“In this the earth than they.”
Some remember it but to weep.
Her hand's slight weight was such,
Care lightened with its touch;
30 My lady sleeps her heavy, heavy sleep.
[ 6 ]
My day-dreams hovered round her brow;
Now o'er its perfect forms
Go softly real worms.
Stern death, it was a cruel blow,
To cut that sweet girl's life
Sharply, as with a knife.
Cursed life that lets me live and grow,
Just as a poisonous root,
From which rank blossoms shoot;
40 My lady's laid so very, very low.
Dread power, grief cries aloud,
“unjust,”—
To let her young life play
Its easy, natural way;
Then, with an unexpected thrust,
Strike out the life you lent,
Just when her feelings blent
With those around whom she saw trust
Her willing power to bless,
For their whole happiness;
50 My lady moulders into common dust.
Small birds twitter and peck the weeds
That wave above her head,
Shading her lowly bed:
Their brisk wings burst light globes of seeds,
Scattering the downy pride
Of dandelions, wide:
Speargrass stoops with watery beads:
The weight from its fine tips
Occasionally drips:
60 The bee drops in the mallow-bloom, and feeds.
About her window, at the dawn,
From the vine's crooked boughs
Birds chirupped an arouse:
Flies, buzzing, strengthened with the morn;—
She'll not hear them again
At random strike the pane:
No more upon the close-cut lawn,
Her garment's sun-white hem
Bend the prim daisy's stem,
70 In walking forth to view what flowers are born.
[ 7 ]
No more she'll watch the dark-green rings
Stained quaintly on the lea,
To image fairy glee;
While thro' dry grass a faint breeze sings,
And swarms of insects revel
Along the sultry level:—
No more will watch their brilliant wings,
Now lightly dip, now soar,
Then sink, and rise once more.
80 My lady's death makes dear these trivial things.
Within a huge tree's steady shade,
When resting from our walk,
How pleasant was her talk!
Elegant deer leaped o'er the glade,
Or stood with wide bright eyes,
Staring a short surprise:
Outside the shadow cows were laid,
Chewing with drowsy eye
Their cuds complacently:
90 Dim for sunshine drew near a milking-maid.
Rooks cawed and labored thro' the heat;
Each wing-flap seemed to make
Their weary bodies ache:
The swallows, tho' so very fleet,
Made breathless pauses there
At something in the air:—
All disappeared: our pulses beat
Distincter throbs: then each
Turned and kissed, without speech,—
100 She trembling, from her mouth down to her feet.
My head sank on her bosom's heave,
So close to the soft skin
I heard the life within.
My forehead felt her coolly breathe,
As with her breath it rose:
To perfect my repose
Her two arms clasped my neck. The eve
Spread silently around,
A hush along the ground,
110 And all sound with the sunlight seemed to leave.
[ 8 ]
By my still gaze she must have known
The mighty bliss that filled
My whole soul, for she thrilled,
Drooping her face, flushed, on my own;
I felt that it was such
By its light warmth of touch.
My lady was with me alone:
That vague sensation brought
More real joy than thought.
120 I am without her now, truly alone.
We had no heed of time: the cause
Was that our minds were quite
Absorbed in our delight,
Silently blessed. Such stillness awes,
And stops with doubt, the breath,
Like the mute doom of death.
I felt Time's instantaneous pause;
An instant, on my eye
Flashed all Eternity:—
130 I started, as if clutched by wild beasts' claws,
Awakened from some dizzy swoon:
I felt strange vacant fears,
With singings in my ears,
And wondered that the pallid moon
Swung round the dome of night
With such tremendous might.
A sweetness, like the air of June,
Next paled me with suspense,
A weight of clinging sense—
140 Some hidden evil would burst on me soon.
My lady's love has passed away,
To know that it is so
To me is living woe.
That body lies in cold decay,
Which held the vital soul
When she was my life's soul.
Bitter mockery it was to say—
“Our souls are as the same:”
My words now sting like shame;
150 Her spirit went, and mine did not obey.
[ 9 ]
It was as if a fiery dart
Passed seething thro' my brain
When I beheld her lain
There whence in life she did not part.
Her beauty by degrees,
Sank, sharpened with disease:
The heavy sinking at her heart
Sucked hollows in her cheek,
And made her eyelids weak,
160 Tho' oft they'd open wide with sudden start.
The deathly power in silence drew
My lady's life away.
I watched, dumb with dismay,
The shock of thrills that quivered thro'
And tightened every limb:
For grief my eyes grew dim;
More near, more near, the moment grew.
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