“Gibraltar.“10th November 1847.“Honoured Compatriot,“Twenty-six years have now passed since we bade one another a last adieu in the Island of Malta, at the fatal period of ’21. You must recollect Dr Costanza, then a young physician and surgeon, nowturned of fifty years of age. You had known him in the capital of the kingdom, and you afterwards met him at Montecassino,when you were returning from the gorges of Antrodoca after the hapless result of that first passage of armsupon which depended the fate of our country. That Costanza is now writing to you, and warmly recommends to you three fellow-countrymen of ours, recently saved by miracle from the blood-red hands of the agents of the tyrant of Naples and Sicily....“Your Compatriot, and erewhile Companionin misfortune,Dr Costanza.”In this letter the mention of Antrodoca (or Antrodoco) is the essential thing. The mountains of Antrodoco are near Rieti, which was the scene of an engagement, on 7th March 1821, between the Neapolitan and the Austrian troops. The actual feat of arms was not discreditable to the Italians; but—perceiving that they were the weaker party, and that the final issue was hopeless for them—they immediately afterwards disbanded, and all was over. I cannot indeed, recollect having ever heard from my father that he was along with the army on that occasion, nor does he affirm it in his versified Autobiography; yet I now see that he must have been so. I do not infer that he was in the fighting ranks; but I do infer that two passages which are to be found in hisVeggente in Solitudinehave a more positive meaning than I used to attribute to them. The passages are as follows:—1. “Fratelli, all’armi, all’armi!” etc.“Brothers, to arms, to arms! Our country has summoned us.I, with my stimulating songs, will also go among you.”2. (As already referred to) “Tirteo d’Italia,” etc.“Who will be the Tyrtæus of Italy in the camp? ’Tis I, ’tis I!Such I have been, such I am.”The first of these passages comes from a song composed by Rossetti towards the date of the soldiering in 1821. The second may have been written about 1845.I have found one other paper which seems to bear upon this semi-military act of Gabriele Rossetti. An excellent friend of his, Ferdinando Ciciloni, wrote to him from Naples on 24th November 1825, saying: “Three days ago I went to San Sebastiano, which, from the seat of the Parliament, has become a College of Music. As I crossed the courtyard, I had a mental vision of Rossetti in uniform, and with two very black moustaches.” As we have seen (note on p. 36), Rossetti, though not at all a man of a soldiering turn, had belonged, in 1814, to the Guard of Internal Security under King Joachim, and once again, in 1821, he donneda uniform—a British one this time. But Ciciloni’s remark does not seem very likely to refer to either of these incidents; rather to something in which the Parliament-building was concerned, and a muster immediately before the departure of the army to Rieti appears the most probable occurrence.Freedom immaculate, O thou who hadstSuch sacred worship on Sebeto’s banks,Iniquitous plots ’gainst thee, without and in,The Royal Princes’ visible ill-faith,Ambition nursed by some few senators,And envious grudge of many generals,Engirt thee with the trackless labyrinthWhen in thee Heaven was overcome by Hell.Nor have I in repentance struck my browBecause my worship of thee wrought me scathe.Were I in that same case a thousand times,A thousand I’d return to do the same.Thee from Christianity I ne’er disjoined,—I feel my heart-strings quivering to both.The Bourbon perjury, the Austrian force,On thee, O sacred Liberty, made war:And, seeing thy holy worship thus destroyed,I bade a farewell to the soil profaned,And so the thundering ship conducted meWhere Christ and Freedom can be both adored.Name to the world, O sacred Gratitude,The Scotch-born hero who on British deckRescued the singer of Italian hopesOut of the Bourbon despot’s slaughter-fangs.Sir Graham Moore,[38]inured to combatingIn a great nation’s thundrous lightning-flash,I bear with an indelible imprintThy cherished name written upon my heart.Those soul-inspired and freedom-loving strainsIntoned by me upon my native soilOn the four winds already had dispread,O’er mountains and o’er seas, a tireless flight;And the Britannic Genius, when they reachedHis shores, bade Italy’s Tyrtæus hail.Now my propitious fate had willed it soThat by a lady were my verses read—A British Admiral’s well-honoured wife,Whether more fair or gracious who could say?But this I know—I saw in her combinedPenelope’s heart and Helen’s countenance.She, worthy partner of the British chief,Honours in others’ mental gifts her own;And those who know her know how highly trainedShe is, and she alone discerns it not.To Naples came the lady at the timeWhen flames burned there of patriotic love,And she expressed the wish she had conceivedTo know the Italian poet face to face;And with such ardour she admired his workThat numerous verses she could quote by heart.An English officer, of cultured mind,Who had always shown me marks of courtesy,And who in the Museum saw me at whiles,Made me acquainted with the lady’s wish.I to the invitation gave response,And so a day was settled for my call.She—as a sister might a brother greetReturning—greeted me in amity;Yet day by day this kindliness increased.Fair Angel of God’s presence sent on earth,Ah not so soon return to Paradise!Many there circle his eternal throne,But angels are not plenteous here below.In all that effervescent periodShe, whose good wishes were for our success,Remained a witness of my innocence,And an approver of my patriot zeal.When by the foul effect of treacheriesOur government had perished, she was grieved,And for unfortunate Rossetti’s fateShe felt concern, and to her husband spoke:“Save from the axe that guiltless man; if loveOf country is a crime, you are guilty too!”Alas how hard did exile seem to me,And leaving in such woes my native land!Three times he offered refuge on his ship,And all the three times I rejected it.But my continuing was so foolhardyThat wiser I accepted it the fourth.Lamenting night and day my country’s lot,And as to my own life not caring much,From March to June I kept myself concealed,’Mid traps laid by a sleepless-eyed police.[39]One night I was in that terrific plight,When a voice called upon my name, and said:“Fly—I discern your scaffold plain to see!”I look, and find ’tis General Fardella,Who was just then the Minister of War;But, while I am rousing from my wonderment,The dark receives him—moveless I remain.Meseems I see him still, the while I write.He, who so often gave my lines applause,Had entered furtive in my hiding-place:But how he found it out I cannot say.How could I sleep, or hope again for calm?Within my soul I heard the word—“Fly, fly!”In perturbations having passed the night,I to the lady wrote at earliest dawn;And towards the eve two English subalterns[40]Most willingly responded to my wish;And they, to make my move less perilous,Gave me red uniform resembling theirs.I on the moment, be it luck or thoughtTo pass more safely before others’ eyes,Packed a few clothes and papers many a oneIn a small trunk, and was in readiness:And I exclaimed, twixt joyful heart and grieved,“I bear with me my all—Ready—let’s go.”Between the gallant pair I took the coach,Which drove us forth on our clandestine path[41]To where a skiff was in await for us,With six athletic oarsmen on the beach.O Rochfort,[42]thou to which the naval fortsAll paid salute as they before thee passed,And thundering thou through hundred-fourscore mouthsDidst spread afar thy nautical command,Thee sinuous the Mediterranean,And thee vast Ocean’s sheer immensity,Saw dominating the unstable wave,And christened thee the Formidable Fort.Thee from the skiff I see, and feed my glance,As on artilleried walls, upon thy bows.The mighty ship gave symptoms of good-will,Expressed in divers modes by the ample crew;And I—I kissed that wooden AlbionAmid the naval group who smiled thereat.To the saloon bright-shining in the duskI sped, to give Thetis and Neptune thanks.“Here is a pair of gods not fabulous,”I said, when greeted by their noble smiles.The grace which can forestall a modest wishI always found on either countenance.Then in the night I went with saddened soulTo contemplate the shore which met my view.All are reposing in the silent hour,Except some watch that paces vigilant;And I alone and pensive on the prowStand communing with this my land betrayed;And a few happy days and many direAre passing in review before mine eyes.Ever ferocious Tyranny I sawBecoming stronger by flagitious means;And Freedom, tasted for a few poor days,Begetting, like the fruit of Eden, death;And Treason, like a snake pestiferous,From two great goblets sipping tears and blood.And, while my fantasy on every sideRan riot, struck by miserable ideas,The scenes of sanguinary Ninety-nineOffered themselves to my dejected soul;And o’er the regal lair meseemed I sawA host funereal of threat’ning ghosts.“Unhappy country, adieu!”—And that adieuOver all Italy I diffused in song.[43]LIFE IN EXILE—MALTA AND ENGLANDTo thee the first the British prow was turned,Flourishing Malta, small but beautiful,A quiet refuge ’mid the unquiet sea,Of an Italian mind and Arab speech.I, sifting out of fallacies the truth,Full half a lustre passed within thy bounds;And, but for patriotic sorrowings,Out there I should have led a placid life,—For I encountered courteous, cultured minds,—Culture in some, in many courtesy.But both of these—they have my homage here—I amply in one person found conjoined,John Hookham Frere, a learned man and wise,A Privy Councillor of the British Crown.Himself he shone, not through extraneous aids,And how I knew him I shall gladly tell.Fame, so propitious to poetic gifts,In Malta made a magnified report—That Italy’s Tyrtæus had arrived,And rescued by the British Admiral.And I by many people was informedThat in the higher class the wish prevailedThat in some noted house I should displayMy fervour of poetic improvise;And I, now so suspicious of my powers,Unhesitating answered—“Yes, at once.”Ah me unhappy! I’m no more the man!But such must be the course of human fate.Too true, I, then a river, am now a rill—A rill which comes anear to drying up.In vain I stir my fancy, which is tired,—I cannot even command poetic phrase.These verses—let me say this prose in rhyme—As I dictate them, others write them down,[44]And, as they all gush out extempore,Some of them will be good, and others bad:Nor do I blot the bad to keep the best,But pass them current as they chance to come.To get the whole expressed without constraint,And without labouring after phrase and word,I pitched on purpose on that sextal rhymeIn which one easily words the thing one wants.On my assent, a spacious hall preparesFor ladies, men of letters, diplomats.There that distinguished man enraptured heardMy burst of song ’mid plaudits many and full;[45]And, being unused to such demonstrances,He deemed the thing almost a prodigy.I sang six themes, and my excited mindPoured copiously divergent styles and rhythms.Persons of eminence, the following day,Graced me by visits of civility.But one beneficent and reverend mienIn which I read exalted characters,A diction which, arising from the soul,Goes to the heart, and fixes what it says—This ’mid the throng I noted. He being gone,I asked his name—and it astonished me;For all that I had heard rumoured aroundAbout his talents settled on my thought:An ample treasure-house of classic lore,[46]Such did Fame publish him by hundred mouths:Toward him desire resistless drew me on,Nor did his presence lessen his repute.Unconscious of his fame he singly seemed,—To hear it named was what he could not brook;Courtesy generous and without display,Learning immense, and greater modesty;—Ah who could paint that noble-natured man?One day when he accorded praise anewTo chaunts of mine which wakened his surprise,I answered him: “In you I seem to seeThe imperial eagle by a sparrow charmed.I know my verse has earned me banishment;But I, excelling some, bend low to you.”And later, when I saw how plenteouslyHe dealt his succours to the sick and poor,I in John Hookham Frere discerned the typeOf the sublime Christian philosopher.None but an angel could pourtray him true,—I feel my eyes grow moist to speak of him.He called me friend, and that has been my pride,And in myself I reverenced the name.Having that store of virtues in my gaze,Sanctified in him by Christianity,—’Tis sacred duty to confess as much—I felt myself grow better by so greatA pattern. Nevermore he left my thoughts,And even in death within my heart he lives.To him, after I reached the English shores(All distant from him though I then had passed),I dedicated Dante’s Comedy,With Analytic Comment from my pen.That Psaltery to him too I inscribedWhich praises freedom and ennobles man,And he with kindliness received the wishI showed that it be dedicate to him.Of him with lively gratitude anewI chaunted in my “Seer in Solitude.”Those lines while I was writing, thou, blest soul,Wast winging forth thy way to Paradise,There to embrace the sister and the spouseFrom whom thou languishing wast parted here.O all of you elected spirits and pure,Look down on desolate Rossetti’s grief.He in himself holds that same constancyWhich every one of you applauded oft.Still exiled, but now old, infirm, and blind,How different alas from other-while!Different? Ah no! Although oppressed by years,He for his country always is the same.And he, on hearing how that freedom’s treeHas there re-budded, full of sapfulness,[47]Blesses his every sweat of brow poured outTo irrigate its high ancestral germ;And, now when all men sweat to nurture itHe hopes before he dies to taste its fruits.Now Scythian cold, ’tis true, reigns everywhere,But none can think it will last on for aye:To the political winter now enduredA more propitious season must succeed;And all by various signs can estimateThat flowers and fruits we yet shall see in bloom.As Rossetti has here mentioned his edition of Dante’sComedy, and his ownPsaltery, and as references occurlater on to other publications of his, I may as well enter at once into some details in elucidation. After his arrival in England he printed the following works:—1. 1826-7. Dante’sInferno, with a “Comento Analitico.” The intention was to publish the whole of theDivina Commedia: but, the expense proving too great, theInfernoalone came out. The great majority of the comment on thePurgatoriowas written—not any (I think) of that on theParadiso. The MS. comment on thePurgatoriowas presented by me in 1883 to the Municipality of Vasto, under a stipulation (volunteered by the Municipality itself) that they would print it; but this has not been done, and indeed the MS. volume was treated in a highly neglectful style. My father, when in Italy, was of course very well acquainted with Dante’s poem; but he had not studied it with any keenness of scrutiny until he settled in London. When he did that, he soon reached the conclusion that the surface of Dante’sCommediais very different from its inner core of meaning. At first he considered the inner core to be political: the Empire and Ghibellinism, as against the Papacy and Guelfism. As he progressed his conceptions expanded, and he regarded Dante as a member, both in politics and in religion, of an occult societyhaving a close relation to what we now call Freemasonry; and he opined that theCommediaand other writings of Dante, and also the books of many other famous authors in various languages and epochs, are of similar internal significance. It is not my purpose here to discuss whether he was right or wrong: I hold that he was highly ingenious, that some of his reasonings deserve very careful attention, and that in several instances he pushed things too far. His comment on Dante, and subsequent writings in the same direction, excited some notice in Italy, and at least as much in England. Coleridge thought well of his speculations up to, but not beyond, a certain point; Isaac Disraeli was fully convinced by them; Arthur Hallam, and afterwards Panizzi and Schlegel, wrote in opposition. A learned German, Joseph Mendelssohn, lectured in Berlin on Rossetti’s system, and published his discourses, which are more expository than critical, in 1843. A remarkable book (later than my No. 2) was brought out at Naples by Vecchioni, embodying a course of interpretation and argument closely resembling that of Rossetti, who never quite understood whether the conclusions of Vecchioni had been formed independently or not.2. 1832.Lo Spirito Antipapale che produsse la Riforma(The Anti-papal Spirit which produced the Reformation) develops and extends the ideas, which Rossetti had conceived during his study of Dante, as to a secret society to which that poet and many other writers belonged, and as to the essentially anti-Christian as well as anti-papal opinions covertly expressed in their writings. An English translation of this work was published.3. 1833. The work to which the Autobiography has applied the namePsalteryis entitledIddio e l’Uomo, Salterio(God and Man, a Psaltery). The majority of it was written in Malta: in London considerable additions and changes were made. Leaving some of his individual lyrics out of account, this may be regarded as the completest and best poetic work produced by Rossetti. In 1843 it was republished under a new title,Il Tempo(Time), and with some substantial modifications of plan. This book, and our No. 2, are down in the PontificalIndex Librorum Prohibitorum.4. 1840.Il Mistero dell’ Amor Platonico del Medio Evo derivato dai Misteri Antichi(The Mystery of the Platonic Love of the Middle Ages derived from the Ancient Mysteries). This extensive and rather discursive work, in five volumes, follows up the line of speculation and argument shown in Nos. 1 and 2.Rossetti wrote it with a consciousness that the themes of religion or irreligion which it discusses were volcanic matter for readers to handle, as well as perilous to his own professional position in England. He therefore exhibited his subject with some amount of reticence, meandering through thickets of very audacious thought—the thought of great writers of the past as interpreted (but also to a great extent deprecated) by himself. This book was printed; but, as Mr Frere, partially seconded by Mr Charles Lyell, pronounced it to be foolhardy, it was withheld from publication in England, and was only put on sale on the Continent with precaution and in small numbers.5. 1842.La Beatrice di Dante—an argument that Dante’s Beatrice was not in any sense a real woman, but an embodiment of Philosophy. The reasoning extends a good deal beyond this limit, into regions explored in Nos. 1, 2, and 4. Rossetti completed the work in three disquisitions—or indeed, according to the final arrangement, in nine disquisitions. Only the first of these was published. The others were entrusted to a French writer, M. E. Aroux. He studied them, and published a book namedDante Hérétique, Révolutionnaire, et Socialiste—a book which my father, on seeing it in print, did not acknowledge as by anymeans faithful to his own views. The MS. was returned to Rossetti: somehow it could never be found in our household until the close of 1900, when I discovered it, more or less complete, in an old portfolio.6. 1846.Il Veggente in Solitudine(The Seer in Solitude) is a long poem of patriotic aim, in several books and all sorts of metres. Its main object is to denounce the then political and religious condition of Italy, and to forecast a better future. This is mixed up with a good deal of autobiographical matter, and with many lyrics of old time (some of them evincing Rossetti’s very best work) interpolated into the context. As a rounded achievement of poetry, this book cannot be eulogized; it had, however, a great though clandestine circulation in Italy, roused enthusiastic feelings, and was so much prized that an honorary medallion of Rossetti, the work of Signor Cerbara, was struck.7. 1847.Versi, published at Lausanne. This volume has not a directly patriotic or political complexion: it consists of many of Rossetti’s best poems of early date, along with some of recent years.8. 1852.L’Arpa Evangelica(The Evangelic Harp). Although printed in 1852, this volume only reached Rossetti’s hands at an advanced date in 1853. Itconsists of hymns and lyrics of a distinctly Christian, combined with an enlarged humanitarian, character. Several of the poems in this volume are now used in the Evangelical churches of Italy. I find twenty-one in a volume entitledInni e Cantici ad uso delle Chiese, Famiglie, Scuole, ed Associazioni Cristiane d’ Italia. Roma, 1897.It may be as well to say here something as to my father’s religious opinions. His parents were religious Catholics of the ordinary Italian type. His bringing-up was religious; and I suppose that, until manhood was well advanced, he acquiesced, without special zeal, in the established views and practices of Catholicism. As his political opinions progressed into active opposition to despotism and the foreign yoke, so did his religious opinions progress into active, and indeed very fierce, opposition to Papal dogma and pretensions, and to all that side of Roman Catholicism which pertains more to sacerdotal and hierarchical system than to the personality and the gospel utterances of Jesus Christ. On the other hand, he never ceased to cherish and reverence this original basis of Evangelical faith and practice. As I knew him from my earliest years (say from 1834), he adhered to no ecclesiastical sect whatever; and—allowing for the primitive-Christiansympathy just referred to—he was certainly far more a free-thinker than definitely a Christian. As his writings were never of a personally anti-Christian tone (though they often developed the anti-Christian views of other authors), andwereof an anti-papal tone, he became mixed up in his later years with Italian anti-papal Protestantizing religionists, to an extent greater than in his prime he would have tolerated. Towards 1849 disfrocked priests and semi-Waldensian semi-simpletons got a good deal about him, when broken health and precarious eyesight had to some extent enfeebled his mental along with his bodily powers; and association with these people and their publications did certainly not tend to promote a vigorous presentment of his essentially undogmatic but not essentially unspiritual mind. He came to write about Christian matters in terms suited to an absolute Christian believer; whereas, in fact, he was a devotional adherent to the moral and spiritual utterances of Jesus, but was not a practising member of any Christian denomination, nor a disciple in any theological school. It should be understood that, though a fervent and outspoken anti-papalist, he never expressly renounced the Roman Catholic faith. In the earlier years of his London sojourn it might havebeen to his advantage (as Professor of Italian in King’s College and elsewhere) to join the Anglican rather than the Roman communion; but this he considered unworthy of an Italian, and he never took any step in that direction. Neither did he naturalize himself as an Englishman.The means of Gabriele Rossetti were never equal to paying the cost of expensive publications. My No. 1 was brought out by subscription; Nos. 2 and 4 by the spontaneous liberality of Mr Lyell, and, as far as No. 4 is concerned, Mr Frere came forward, as well, at the close. It is only fair to say that Rossetti was a laborious worker, of independent spirit; and, though he accepted with grateful satisfaction the volunteered bounty of Mr Lyell in these instances, and of Mr Frere in some others likewise, he was the least likely of men to go about to “ask, and ye shall receive.”As I have been speaking—with the distaste which I learned to feel for them as a class—of Protestantizing Italians, I will add that one excellent man I have known among them was my cousin Teodorico Pietrocola-Rossetti. He was in London in the later years of my father’s life, but was not then taking an active part in the Evangelical propaganda to which he devoted all the closing part of his career. In 1883he died in Florence, while conducting a service for his congregation. A great number of his hymns are in the collectionInni e Canticibefore mentioned.Back to my tale. And I should here premiseThat, turning lengthened studies to account,I undertook in Malta first to spreadA taste for our Italian literature;And in distinguished houses not a fewTo witness others’ progress was my joy.A Massic or Falernian wine no moreI drank, as oft in Naples I had done,But quaffed the spirit of the classics nowAlone, and none could say “Why gorge thyself?”But, even in study laudable howe’er,Intemperance is still condemnable.Many, I know, find teaching wearisome,Whereas to me ’twas profit and repute;And I could all repeat from memoryThe Comedy of Dante, mystical,Tasso, Ariosto, drama, satirists,Petrarch, Chiabrera, and some lyrists more.Become the foremost of professors there,I knew the most distinguished travellersAnd highest officers of government:Indeed, from titled man to boatman, allBore me affection—saving only one.The Consul there from Naples was Gerardi,Who constantly molested refugees.One day that upon me he fixed his glance,I cried: “You hangman’s face, what see you in me?”Confused he drooped his far from pleasant eyes,And put the tail of him between his legs.This serf of tyrant power endeavoured thenTo get me turned adrift out of the isle,When Albion’s Sejanus, Castlereagh,Was ordering to expel the fugitives:But this Gerardi (he might cry with rage)Had read my face “Noli me tangere.”As long as there I lived, I felt assuredThat all the world contained no baser man;But, when I saw in London a Minasi,[48]I found that I had made a great mistake.But such a name, by God, pollutes my lips.No, let my mouth be nevermore befouledTo speak a most opprobrious brigand’s name!Go, galleys’ rot, or rather gallows’ rot,Go, Ruffo’s bravo[49]and worse knave than he!Through that Gerardi, under-strapper of Kings,I saw from Malta hounded Rossaroll,[50]And Carrascosa[51]and Abatemarchi,[52]Capecelatro,[53]Florio, and many more;And a Poerio,[54]in his rage convulsed,Was first imprisoned, afterwards expelled.And Pier de Luca (I record with tearsThy fate, the flower of courteous learned men)And Pier de Luca lost his reason hence,And was in frenzy for some days and nights:He trembled at Gerardi’s very name,And later on, to escape, he drowned himself.O Castlereagh! Thy country rightly deemsThat thy best service was thy suicide;But why no suicide a year before?Indignant I returned to England’s masts,For Malta grew to me insufferable.A nest of corsairs Malta now meseemed,Where, save that single man, all things I abhorred;So to the seat imperial of the mainThetis and Neptune re-conveyed my steps.Nor shall I paint that lengthy voyaging,Which in another poem[55]I described.The curst Gerardi, in insulting terms,Had written to the Bourbon Council-boardHow that Rossetti, that incendiary,Was to be found upon the British ship;And cried the King: “Upon a sovereign’s faith,I’ll do my utmost to get hold of him.”Well had that General Fardella said,Who gave me secret pledge of friendliness,That a malignant star detained me there,Since o’er me impended a tremendous ire.And I had stayed, at hazard of my life,For full three months exposed to all the risk!Following routine, the British AdmiralWas bidding farewell to the Sovereign;And he perceived astonished that for rageThe King, like a hyæna, bit his lips.Treating him almost as a menial, heSaid with an angry and imperious tone:“Surrender that rebellious subject whomYou saved, and now to England would conduct.”And he with firmset aspect made reply:“An English Admiral will not be base.”Menaces and entreaties he contemned,And turned his back on him resolvedly;And, when that evening he returned aboard,He told what was demanded and refused.And such a fact cannot be called in doubt,For all o’er Naples did its rumour run.I felt myself so moved by that accountThat, in the presence of his noble wife,I with emotion kissed his saving hand.Thee may God guerdon, mounted soul in heaven!Twice over did I owe my life to thee,—And gracious lady, God bless thee alike!And I reflected: “Why in FerdinandBoils up against me such a fierce despiteThat, not appeased by lifelong banishment,He would inflict on me a barbarous death?So much of rage against my civic song,In which as father I so lauded him!And how has he forgotten those my linesWhich drew the very tear-drops from his eyes?”The savage spirit! When he heard me named,His knees would jog beneath his body’s weight,And he against me, the poor exiled bard,Was all a-tremble, furiously convulsed.And thence a truthful penman wrote to meHe had himself from the fierce Bourbon heard—“If even the court declares him innocent,I’ll make him die under the bastinade:On public scaffold or in darkest cryptDie he infallibly shall—and that I swear.”[56]Thus for a long while I remained in doubtOf the true motive for such senseless rage:But then the pen of a most worthy manGave me a light amid the obscurity.What time the King of Naples had decamped,And I had turned my course to another goal,Some praise of me was heard by Gaspare MolloDuke of Lusciano, who was reckoned thenAn able poet; and my fate so willedThat he desired to meet me face to face.Of voluntary good-will he gave me proofs,Which I responded to with modesty:But, when he heard me improvise in verse,Mollo became as jealous as a beast:He in my presence spoke in jest alone,But poured his insults forth behind my back.He piqued himself the most on improvise:He saw his primacy endangered much,And tried his best to make me ludicrous.And I upon his dramas and his rhymes(For who can damp a youthful poet’s fire?)Launched a good ten or dozen epigrams,[57]Which many men rehearsed with loud guffaws.For one he gave me, I returned him ten:This was ill done, I know—but so I did.Mollo kept brooding o’er his inward grudge,Which well I read upon his pallid cheek.Now, when the liberal Government had fall’n,He was installed as President of a BoardTo overhaul the writings then produced.The President, and Censors in his wake,From that explosion of anonymous printChose hundreds of inflammatory attacks,And called them all my own—no fable this—And showed me like a devil to the King.And how that monumental lie disprove?If even I had been Briareus,Writing by night and day with hundred pens,It would have been a thing impossibleTo achieve that quantity of verse and prose.A shameless slander! Yet my enemyMouths it against me, and the King believes.This statement about the Duke of Lusciano may be quite true—a point as to which I am not competent to express an opinion. I have always understood, however, that one main professed grievance of the King against Rossetti was as follows (and in candour I state it here, as I did in my Memoir of Dante Rossetti):—At the time when an Austrian invasion of the Neapolitan territory, connived at by King Ferdinand, was imminent, Rossetti wrote a lyric expressiveof the patriotic rage natural at the time, containing this quatrain addressed to the King—“I vindici coltelliSapran passarvi il cor:I Sandi ed i LuvelliNon son finiti ancor.”(Avenging knives will be apt to pierce[58]your heart: the Sands and the Louvels are not yet done with). These lines clearly say that King Ferdinand, if he were to persist in a certain course, would be very liable to be assassinated; and, although they do not add that heoughtto be assassinated, the Rè Nasone cannot have been solitary in scenting out that implication. There was also the affair (referred to on p. 50 as more than probable) that Rossetti had accompanied the Neapolitan troops, animating them by his verses to fight against the Austrians in defence of a constitution which the King, by a gross act of perjury, had then abolished.We in the harbour of Naples made a stayTwo weeks almost—it gave me many a thrill.The very aspect of the city enslavedBecame for me a melancholy scene.The vigilant Police, who day and nightLaid scores of snares if they might catch me so,Set full a hundred spies around the shipTo learn who might be come to visit me—But no one came; and yet by means unknownEarnest of friendship did not fail to reach.But now the breeze is favouring, waves a-calm,And the much longed-for moment is at hand.How many mothers o’er their slaughtered sonsWept on the shore because of that wild beastWho for a five years’ term had sheathed his claws,And now unsheathed them in the lust of rage!Joyful I turned my back on servitude,And full of ardour sped toward Liberty.Hail and thrice hail, O puissant Albion,Who, ceaseless in diffusing trades and arts,Thine irresistible trident dost extendOver the immense four quarters of the world.If thou, devout to rightful liberty,Impart’st to others its inspiring rays,Thou, arbiter of warfare and of peace,Wilt become mightier than antique Rome.Will it, and thou redeem’st a world oppressed,For thy determined will ensures result.America, thy rival and thy child,If thou dost fail, will do it later on:She in her nascent empire will becomeThe foremost nation of the rounded world.She’ll be thy rival, truly glorious,For still in her gigantic state she grows;But not vociferous conceited France,Free and enslaved at once, as if by Fate.In you two all is diverse—customs, tongues;Her mark is impetus, and reason thine.Since my arrival, England, much thou hast done,Yet much remains to do—do it thou wilt.Hardly had I set foot upon the landBut I around me felt a freer air:’Mid grand activity which knows no pauseI found my own increasing day by day;And by the influences which wove my webAfter the poet’s came the scholar’s turn.Accounting precious every instant’s timeIn high conceptions I was all immersed:Dante, with Analytic Commentary,Was the first outcome of my new pursuits:And, spite of all disparagement, the workEarns me the sympathy of distinguished men.Charles Lyell, having read it, to me wrote,Giving clear pledge of unsolicitedRegard—a Scotchman he, of lofty mind,And Allighieri’s signal devotee:He on my heart, which honours his deserts,Is still impressed, after the unequalled Frere.And now him also doth the urn enclose,[59]And bitter tears he leaves me to outpour.I say it again; no longer in the heatOf Massic or Falernian, nor indeedOf politics, I set to tracing outOur classic writers’ anti-papal spirit,With critical mind—confuting carping tongues;To Lyell did I dedicate the book.Stately an University had risenIn this enormous capital of the realm:[60]And now the Council, from whose midst emergedSuch ample learning sacred and profane,Offered me of its own accord the chairAllotted to Italian literature.To Italy, to flout three Kings, I spedMy fame, and triumphed over lies with truth.Let Tyranny hate me, while my country loves,—Her exiled son has never wrought her shame;And this I know—despite all senseless rage,My books have made their way from hand to hand.And not those hymns alone where I forecastThe Ausonian Genius’ future rapt in thought;[61]But that Arcanum of Platonic LoveWhich offers in five tomes broad scrutinies,Where pondering I analyse the mythsOf every country, every faith and age;And that in which I showed symbolic allOur Allighieri’s mystic Beatrice,Delineated by the schemes occultOf most remote gymnosophistic times,Which schools of magians had inherited,And through the Mysteries bequeathed to us;Also that other noted by its name,Rome toward the Middle of our Century.In each my work, to freedom dedicate,I demonstrate the iniquities of priests:In all that I expounded nought I feigned,But drew my facts from pages thousandfold.Immoderate study always is unwise,But, if ’tis noxious, it amounts to guilt.No, that which I have published, much though it be,Is but the half of what I’ve written down.Ah for my blindness whom have I to blame,When by myself my eyes were done to death?Having in England stayed my roaming course,And seeing my future less ambiguously,Like Dante’s, “Vita Nuova!”[62]was my word:He wrote but I resolved to practise it.“Let warm affections in my novel lotArise,” I said, “to populate my breast.GAETANO POLIDORIFrom a Pencil-Drawing by Dante Gabriel Rossetti1853Within the hotbed of our vicious timesLove proffered me its frenzies and remorse:But, never a seducer, still seduced,Quicksand to quicksand, angry seas I ploughed:Now let a holier love possess my soul,—May he who churned it up restore its calm.”And prudent reason here will not discloseWhat and how many tempests I endured.Upon my canvas be concealed, concealed,The flush upon my brow in others’ shame.[63]And on those quicksands while I fix my gazeA dreadful shudder creeps along my veins,And in that shudder I my visage smite,Uttering a curse against my weaknesses.The quicksands are afar, the harbour’s here.Settled in London, all my travels past,Among the men I most was pleased to meet,Gaetano Polidori, learned, wise,Who had been Count Alfieri’s secretary,’Mid all the Italians whom I had known as yetAppeared to merit honour and esteem.Teaching was his profession. He had doneNo small translating-work, had much composed.Tuscan by birth, by accent all the more,An elegant writer both in prose and verse,He showed me, joined with candid character,The strictest morals and a cultured mind.Upon the day when I returned his call,And saw him ’mid his well-bred family,I twice and thrice fixed my admiring eyesUpon the second daughter’s comeliness.A single moment regulates a life:My heart became the lodestone, she the pole.And every hour my love became more keenWhen hundred virtues and no self-conceit ...I know that what I’m writing she dislikes,[64]But, hiding it from her, I speak it still:Knowing her fully, I have often said—Angel in soul, and angel in her looks.Feeling within me glow the lighted flame,I wrote to Polidori, and ’twas thus:“If to the gracious name of friend you pleaseTo add the loving name of son as well(Pray Heaven that so it may be!) be not lothTo give the enclosed into your Frances’ hands.If this displease you, little though it were,If so it haps you disapprove my suit,Throw the two letters both into the fire,And speak of this no more; but pray concedeOur friendship be not sundered, yours and mine,—You so would punish my straightforwardness.”A day being past, the maid to me so dearGave me a most affectionate response;And at the altar after four months moreWe vowed between us two a mutual faith.[65]In marriage-knot at summit of my hopes,My days went by in cheerful industry.As sweet reward of honourable zeal,My credit made advance from day to day.Four only children Heaven conceded me,And all the four I see around me still,The issue of affections tender and trueIn the four opening matrimonial years.To speak about my wife I shall not pause,—Others would think it overcharged, inept:This I may tell—she is a blooming graftOf English mother and of Tuscan sire;Through mother and through sire in her one seesTwo nations tempering the mind and heart.Let me but say that in her is evincedFrankness of manner unpremeditate;That she both speaks and writes three high-prized tongues,Which rank ’mong Europe’s choicest and most rich;And, when their authors she was studying,She culled the flower of the three literatures.That firm-fixed character which she displaysFounded, by means of Jesus’ gospel-book,Upon religion pure morality,Upon morality the purest life;Thus she presents, perfect on every side,The steadfast woman of the sacred page.From living pattern oh what strength the loveOf ethical instructions must receive!Wherefore to her more than myself is dueOur children’s educating discipline;For of each rule she utters with her lipsThey see in her the breathing prototype.I never had occasion for a school,Too apt to vitiate a guileless heart;For she in her two daughters had betimesTransfused a taste for music;[66]in all four(Presenting now this model and now that)The taste for letters and the beautiful.In theory and in practice, both alike,Her life is a fine treatise on the good:Always a Christian, not a fanatic,Always devout, but not ecstatical:Heavens, what a woman! her Anglo-Italian soulHas never trespassed over duty’s bound.’Tis now five lustres I have made her mine,And in five lustres I still see her the moreAn angel harmony of deeds and words,And in five lustres her all-blameless lifeHas not one moment, one, belied itself.I thank my God that, when he addressed my heartTo new affections, he made these be high:And you, beloved children, thank you meThat such a mother I chose to give you breath.
“Gibraltar.“10th November 1847.“Honoured Compatriot,“Twenty-six years have now passed since we bade one another a last adieu in the Island of Malta, at the fatal period of ’21. You must recollect Dr Costanza, then a young physician and surgeon, nowturned of fifty years of age. You had known him in the capital of the kingdom, and you afterwards met him at Montecassino,when you were returning from the gorges of Antrodoca after the hapless result of that first passage of armsupon which depended the fate of our country. That Costanza is now writing to you, and warmly recommends to you three fellow-countrymen of ours, recently saved by miracle from the blood-red hands of the agents of the tyrant of Naples and Sicily....“Your Compatriot, and erewhile Companionin misfortune,Dr Costanza.”In this letter the mention of Antrodoca (or Antrodoco) is the essential thing. The mountains of Antrodoco are near Rieti, which was the scene of an engagement, on 7th March 1821, between the Neapolitan and the Austrian troops. The actual feat of arms was not discreditable to the Italians; but—perceiving that they were the weaker party, and that the final issue was hopeless for them—they immediately afterwards disbanded, and all was over. I cannot indeed, recollect having ever heard from my father that he was along with the army on that occasion, nor does he affirm it in his versified Autobiography; yet I now see that he must have been so. I do not infer that he was in the fighting ranks; but I do infer that two passages which are to be found in hisVeggente in Solitudinehave a more positive meaning than I used to attribute to them. The passages are as follows:—1. “Fratelli, all’armi, all’armi!” etc.“Brothers, to arms, to arms! Our country has summoned us.I, with my stimulating songs, will also go among you.”2. (As already referred to) “Tirteo d’Italia,” etc.“Who will be the Tyrtæus of Italy in the camp? ’Tis I, ’tis I!Such I have been, such I am.”The first of these passages comes from a song composed by Rossetti towards the date of the soldiering in 1821. The second may have been written about 1845.I have found one other paper which seems to bear upon this semi-military act of Gabriele Rossetti. An excellent friend of his, Ferdinando Ciciloni, wrote to him from Naples on 24th November 1825, saying: “Three days ago I went to San Sebastiano, which, from the seat of the Parliament, has become a College of Music. As I crossed the courtyard, I had a mental vision of Rossetti in uniform, and with two very black moustaches.” As we have seen (note on p. 36), Rossetti, though not at all a man of a soldiering turn, had belonged, in 1814, to the Guard of Internal Security under King Joachim, and once again, in 1821, he donneda uniform—a British one this time. But Ciciloni’s remark does not seem very likely to refer to either of these incidents; rather to something in which the Parliament-building was concerned, and a muster immediately before the departure of the army to Rieti appears the most probable occurrence.Freedom immaculate, O thou who hadstSuch sacred worship on Sebeto’s banks,Iniquitous plots ’gainst thee, without and in,The Royal Princes’ visible ill-faith,Ambition nursed by some few senators,And envious grudge of many generals,Engirt thee with the trackless labyrinthWhen in thee Heaven was overcome by Hell.Nor have I in repentance struck my browBecause my worship of thee wrought me scathe.Were I in that same case a thousand times,A thousand I’d return to do the same.Thee from Christianity I ne’er disjoined,—I feel my heart-strings quivering to both.The Bourbon perjury, the Austrian force,On thee, O sacred Liberty, made war:And, seeing thy holy worship thus destroyed,I bade a farewell to the soil profaned,And so the thundering ship conducted meWhere Christ and Freedom can be both adored.Name to the world, O sacred Gratitude,The Scotch-born hero who on British deckRescued the singer of Italian hopesOut of the Bourbon despot’s slaughter-fangs.Sir Graham Moore,[38]inured to combatingIn a great nation’s thundrous lightning-flash,I bear with an indelible imprintThy cherished name written upon my heart.Those soul-inspired and freedom-loving strainsIntoned by me upon my native soilOn the four winds already had dispread,O’er mountains and o’er seas, a tireless flight;And the Britannic Genius, when they reachedHis shores, bade Italy’s Tyrtæus hail.Now my propitious fate had willed it soThat by a lady were my verses read—A British Admiral’s well-honoured wife,Whether more fair or gracious who could say?But this I know—I saw in her combinedPenelope’s heart and Helen’s countenance.She, worthy partner of the British chief,Honours in others’ mental gifts her own;And those who know her know how highly trainedShe is, and she alone discerns it not.To Naples came the lady at the timeWhen flames burned there of patriotic love,And she expressed the wish she had conceivedTo know the Italian poet face to face;And with such ardour she admired his workThat numerous verses she could quote by heart.An English officer, of cultured mind,Who had always shown me marks of courtesy,And who in the Museum saw me at whiles,Made me acquainted with the lady’s wish.I to the invitation gave response,And so a day was settled for my call.She—as a sister might a brother greetReturning—greeted me in amity;Yet day by day this kindliness increased.Fair Angel of God’s presence sent on earth,Ah not so soon return to Paradise!Many there circle his eternal throne,But angels are not plenteous here below.In all that effervescent periodShe, whose good wishes were for our success,Remained a witness of my innocence,And an approver of my patriot zeal.When by the foul effect of treacheriesOur government had perished, she was grieved,And for unfortunate Rossetti’s fateShe felt concern, and to her husband spoke:“Save from the axe that guiltless man; if loveOf country is a crime, you are guilty too!”Alas how hard did exile seem to me,And leaving in such woes my native land!Three times he offered refuge on his ship,And all the three times I rejected it.But my continuing was so foolhardyThat wiser I accepted it the fourth.Lamenting night and day my country’s lot,And as to my own life not caring much,From March to June I kept myself concealed,’Mid traps laid by a sleepless-eyed police.[39]One night I was in that terrific plight,When a voice called upon my name, and said:“Fly—I discern your scaffold plain to see!”I look, and find ’tis General Fardella,Who was just then the Minister of War;But, while I am rousing from my wonderment,The dark receives him—moveless I remain.Meseems I see him still, the while I write.He, who so often gave my lines applause,Had entered furtive in my hiding-place:But how he found it out I cannot say.How could I sleep, or hope again for calm?Within my soul I heard the word—“Fly, fly!”In perturbations having passed the night,I to the lady wrote at earliest dawn;And towards the eve two English subalterns[40]Most willingly responded to my wish;And they, to make my move less perilous,Gave me red uniform resembling theirs.I on the moment, be it luck or thoughtTo pass more safely before others’ eyes,Packed a few clothes and papers many a oneIn a small trunk, and was in readiness:And I exclaimed, twixt joyful heart and grieved,“I bear with me my all—Ready—let’s go.”Between the gallant pair I took the coach,Which drove us forth on our clandestine path[41]To where a skiff was in await for us,With six athletic oarsmen on the beach.O Rochfort,[42]thou to which the naval fortsAll paid salute as they before thee passed,And thundering thou through hundred-fourscore mouthsDidst spread afar thy nautical command,Thee sinuous the Mediterranean,And thee vast Ocean’s sheer immensity,Saw dominating the unstable wave,And christened thee the Formidable Fort.Thee from the skiff I see, and feed my glance,As on artilleried walls, upon thy bows.The mighty ship gave symptoms of good-will,Expressed in divers modes by the ample crew;And I—I kissed that wooden AlbionAmid the naval group who smiled thereat.To the saloon bright-shining in the duskI sped, to give Thetis and Neptune thanks.“Here is a pair of gods not fabulous,”I said, when greeted by their noble smiles.The grace which can forestall a modest wishI always found on either countenance.Then in the night I went with saddened soulTo contemplate the shore which met my view.All are reposing in the silent hour,Except some watch that paces vigilant;And I alone and pensive on the prowStand communing with this my land betrayed;And a few happy days and many direAre passing in review before mine eyes.Ever ferocious Tyranny I sawBecoming stronger by flagitious means;And Freedom, tasted for a few poor days,Begetting, like the fruit of Eden, death;And Treason, like a snake pestiferous,From two great goblets sipping tears and blood.And, while my fantasy on every sideRan riot, struck by miserable ideas,The scenes of sanguinary Ninety-nineOffered themselves to my dejected soul;And o’er the regal lair meseemed I sawA host funereal of threat’ning ghosts.“Unhappy country, adieu!”—And that adieuOver all Italy I diffused in song.[43]LIFE IN EXILE—MALTA AND ENGLANDTo thee the first the British prow was turned,Flourishing Malta, small but beautiful,A quiet refuge ’mid the unquiet sea,Of an Italian mind and Arab speech.I, sifting out of fallacies the truth,Full half a lustre passed within thy bounds;And, but for patriotic sorrowings,Out there I should have led a placid life,—For I encountered courteous, cultured minds,—Culture in some, in many courtesy.But both of these—they have my homage here—I amply in one person found conjoined,John Hookham Frere, a learned man and wise,A Privy Councillor of the British Crown.Himself he shone, not through extraneous aids,And how I knew him I shall gladly tell.Fame, so propitious to poetic gifts,In Malta made a magnified report—That Italy’s Tyrtæus had arrived,And rescued by the British Admiral.And I by many people was informedThat in the higher class the wish prevailedThat in some noted house I should displayMy fervour of poetic improvise;And I, now so suspicious of my powers,Unhesitating answered—“Yes, at once.”Ah me unhappy! I’m no more the man!But such must be the course of human fate.Too true, I, then a river, am now a rill—A rill which comes anear to drying up.In vain I stir my fancy, which is tired,—I cannot even command poetic phrase.These verses—let me say this prose in rhyme—As I dictate them, others write them down,[44]And, as they all gush out extempore,Some of them will be good, and others bad:Nor do I blot the bad to keep the best,But pass them current as they chance to come.To get the whole expressed without constraint,And without labouring after phrase and word,I pitched on purpose on that sextal rhymeIn which one easily words the thing one wants.On my assent, a spacious hall preparesFor ladies, men of letters, diplomats.There that distinguished man enraptured heardMy burst of song ’mid plaudits many and full;[45]And, being unused to such demonstrances,He deemed the thing almost a prodigy.I sang six themes, and my excited mindPoured copiously divergent styles and rhythms.Persons of eminence, the following day,Graced me by visits of civility.But one beneficent and reverend mienIn which I read exalted characters,A diction which, arising from the soul,Goes to the heart, and fixes what it says—This ’mid the throng I noted. He being gone,I asked his name—and it astonished me;For all that I had heard rumoured aroundAbout his talents settled on my thought:An ample treasure-house of classic lore,[46]Such did Fame publish him by hundred mouths:Toward him desire resistless drew me on,Nor did his presence lessen his repute.Unconscious of his fame he singly seemed,—To hear it named was what he could not brook;Courtesy generous and without display,Learning immense, and greater modesty;—Ah who could paint that noble-natured man?One day when he accorded praise anewTo chaunts of mine which wakened his surprise,I answered him: “In you I seem to seeThe imperial eagle by a sparrow charmed.I know my verse has earned me banishment;But I, excelling some, bend low to you.”And later, when I saw how plenteouslyHe dealt his succours to the sick and poor,I in John Hookham Frere discerned the typeOf the sublime Christian philosopher.None but an angel could pourtray him true,—I feel my eyes grow moist to speak of him.He called me friend, and that has been my pride,And in myself I reverenced the name.Having that store of virtues in my gaze,Sanctified in him by Christianity,—’Tis sacred duty to confess as much—I felt myself grow better by so greatA pattern. Nevermore he left my thoughts,And even in death within my heart he lives.To him, after I reached the English shores(All distant from him though I then had passed),I dedicated Dante’s Comedy,With Analytic Comment from my pen.That Psaltery to him too I inscribedWhich praises freedom and ennobles man,And he with kindliness received the wishI showed that it be dedicate to him.Of him with lively gratitude anewI chaunted in my “Seer in Solitude.”Those lines while I was writing, thou, blest soul,Wast winging forth thy way to Paradise,There to embrace the sister and the spouseFrom whom thou languishing wast parted here.O all of you elected spirits and pure,Look down on desolate Rossetti’s grief.He in himself holds that same constancyWhich every one of you applauded oft.Still exiled, but now old, infirm, and blind,How different alas from other-while!Different? Ah no! Although oppressed by years,He for his country always is the same.And he, on hearing how that freedom’s treeHas there re-budded, full of sapfulness,[47]Blesses his every sweat of brow poured outTo irrigate its high ancestral germ;And, now when all men sweat to nurture itHe hopes before he dies to taste its fruits.Now Scythian cold, ’tis true, reigns everywhere,But none can think it will last on for aye:To the political winter now enduredA more propitious season must succeed;And all by various signs can estimateThat flowers and fruits we yet shall see in bloom.As Rossetti has here mentioned his edition of Dante’sComedy, and his ownPsaltery, and as references occurlater on to other publications of his, I may as well enter at once into some details in elucidation. After his arrival in England he printed the following works:—1. 1826-7. Dante’sInferno, with a “Comento Analitico.” The intention was to publish the whole of theDivina Commedia: but, the expense proving too great, theInfernoalone came out. The great majority of the comment on thePurgatoriowas written—not any (I think) of that on theParadiso. The MS. comment on thePurgatoriowas presented by me in 1883 to the Municipality of Vasto, under a stipulation (volunteered by the Municipality itself) that they would print it; but this has not been done, and indeed the MS. volume was treated in a highly neglectful style. My father, when in Italy, was of course very well acquainted with Dante’s poem; but he had not studied it with any keenness of scrutiny until he settled in London. When he did that, he soon reached the conclusion that the surface of Dante’sCommediais very different from its inner core of meaning. At first he considered the inner core to be political: the Empire and Ghibellinism, as against the Papacy and Guelfism. As he progressed his conceptions expanded, and he regarded Dante as a member, both in politics and in religion, of an occult societyhaving a close relation to what we now call Freemasonry; and he opined that theCommediaand other writings of Dante, and also the books of many other famous authors in various languages and epochs, are of similar internal significance. It is not my purpose here to discuss whether he was right or wrong: I hold that he was highly ingenious, that some of his reasonings deserve very careful attention, and that in several instances he pushed things too far. His comment on Dante, and subsequent writings in the same direction, excited some notice in Italy, and at least as much in England. Coleridge thought well of his speculations up to, but not beyond, a certain point; Isaac Disraeli was fully convinced by them; Arthur Hallam, and afterwards Panizzi and Schlegel, wrote in opposition. A learned German, Joseph Mendelssohn, lectured in Berlin on Rossetti’s system, and published his discourses, which are more expository than critical, in 1843. A remarkable book (later than my No. 2) was brought out at Naples by Vecchioni, embodying a course of interpretation and argument closely resembling that of Rossetti, who never quite understood whether the conclusions of Vecchioni had been formed independently or not.2. 1832.Lo Spirito Antipapale che produsse la Riforma(The Anti-papal Spirit which produced the Reformation) develops and extends the ideas, which Rossetti had conceived during his study of Dante, as to a secret society to which that poet and many other writers belonged, and as to the essentially anti-Christian as well as anti-papal opinions covertly expressed in their writings. An English translation of this work was published.3. 1833. The work to which the Autobiography has applied the namePsalteryis entitledIddio e l’Uomo, Salterio(God and Man, a Psaltery). The majority of it was written in Malta: in London considerable additions and changes were made. Leaving some of his individual lyrics out of account, this may be regarded as the completest and best poetic work produced by Rossetti. In 1843 it was republished under a new title,Il Tempo(Time), and with some substantial modifications of plan. This book, and our No. 2, are down in the PontificalIndex Librorum Prohibitorum.4. 1840.Il Mistero dell’ Amor Platonico del Medio Evo derivato dai Misteri Antichi(The Mystery of the Platonic Love of the Middle Ages derived from the Ancient Mysteries). This extensive and rather discursive work, in five volumes, follows up the line of speculation and argument shown in Nos. 1 and 2.Rossetti wrote it with a consciousness that the themes of religion or irreligion which it discusses were volcanic matter for readers to handle, as well as perilous to his own professional position in England. He therefore exhibited his subject with some amount of reticence, meandering through thickets of very audacious thought—the thought of great writers of the past as interpreted (but also to a great extent deprecated) by himself. This book was printed; but, as Mr Frere, partially seconded by Mr Charles Lyell, pronounced it to be foolhardy, it was withheld from publication in England, and was only put on sale on the Continent with precaution and in small numbers.5. 1842.La Beatrice di Dante—an argument that Dante’s Beatrice was not in any sense a real woman, but an embodiment of Philosophy. The reasoning extends a good deal beyond this limit, into regions explored in Nos. 1, 2, and 4. Rossetti completed the work in three disquisitions—or indeed, according to the final arrangement, in nine disquisitions. Only the first of these was published. The others were entrusted to a French writer, M. E. Aroux. He studied them, and published a book namedDante Hérétique, Révolutionnaire, et Socialiste—a book which my father, on seeing it in print, did not acknowledge as by anymeans faithful to his own views. The MS. was returned to Rossetti: somehow it could never be found in our household until the close of 1900, when I discovered it, more or less complete, in an old portfolio.6. 1846.Il Veggente in Solitudine(The Seer in Solitude) is a long poem of patriotic aim, in several books and all sorts of metres. Its main object is to denounce the then political and religious condition of Italy, and to forecast a better future. This is mixed up with a good deal of autobiographical matter, and with many lyrics of old time (some of them evincing Rossetti’s very best work) interpolated into the context. As a rounded achievement of poetry, this book cannot be eulogized; it had, however, a great though clandestine circulation in Italy, roused enthusiastic feelings, and was so much prized that an honorary medallion of Rossetti, the work of Signor Cerbara, was struck.7. 1847.Versi, published at Lausanne. This volume has not a directly patriotic or political complexion: it consists of many of Rossetti’s best poems of early date, along with some of recent years.8. 1852.L’Arpa Evangelica(The Evangelic Harp). Although printed in 1852, this volume only reached Rossetti’s hands at an advanced date in 1853. Itconsists of hymns and lyrics of a distinctly Christian, combined with an enlarged humanitarian, character. Several of the poems in this volume are now used in the Evangelical churches of Italy. I find twenty-one in a volume entitledInni e Cantici ad uso delle Chiese, Famiglie, Scuole, ed Associazioni Cristiane d’ Italia. Roma, 1897.It may be as well to say here something as to my father’s religious opinions. His parents were religious Catholics of the ordinary Italian type. His bringing-up was religious; and I suppose that, until manhood was well advanced, he acquiesced, without special zeal, in the established views and practices of Catholicism. As his political opinions progressed into active opposition to despotism and the foreign yoke, so did his religious opinions progress into active, and indeed very fierce, opposition to Papal dogma and pretensions, and to all that side of Roman Catholicism which pertains more to sacerdotal and hierarchical system than to the personality and the gospel utterances of Jesus Christ. On the other hand, he never ceased to cherish and reverence this original basis of Evangelical faith and practice. As I knew him from my earliest years (say from 1834), he adhered to no ecclesiastical sect whatever; and—allowing for the primitive-Christiansympathy just referred to—he was certainly far more a free-thinker than definitely a Christian. As his writings were never of a personally anti-Christian tone (though they often developed the anti-Christian views of other authors), andwereof an anti-papal tone, he became mixed up in his later years with Italian anti-papal Protestantizing religionists, to an extent greater than in his prime he would have tolerated. Towards 1849 disfrocked priests and semi-Waldensian semi-simpletons got a good deal about him, when broken health and precarious eyesight had to some extent enfeebled his mental along with his bodily powers; and association with these people and their publications did certainly not tend to promote a vigorous presentment of his essentially undogmatic but not essentially unspiritual mind. He came to write about Christian matters in terms suited to an absolute Christian believer; whereas, in fact, he was a devotional adherent to the moral and spiritual utterances of Jesus, but was not a practising member of any Christian denomination, nor a disciple in any theological school. It should be understood that, though a fervent and outspoken anti-papalist, he never expressly renounced the Roman Catholic faith. In the earlier years of his London sojourn it might havebeen to his advantage (as Professor of Italian in King’s College and elsewhere) to join the Anglican rather than the Roman communion; but this he considered unworthy of an Italian, and he never took any step in that direction. Neither did he naturalize himself as an Englishman.The means of Gabriele Rossetti were never equal to paying the cost of expensive publications. My No. 1 was brought out by subscription; Nos. 2 and 4 by the spontaneous liberality of Mr Lyell, and, as far as No. 4 is concerned, Mr Frere came forward, as well, at the close. It is only fair to say that Rossetti was a laborious worker, of independent spirit; and, though he accepted with grateful satisfaction the volunteered bounty of Mr Lyell in these instances, and of Mr Frere in some others likewise, he was the least likely of men to go about to “ask, and ye shall receive.”As I have been speaking—with the distaste which I learned to feel for them as a class—of Protestantizing Italians, I will add that one excellent man I have known among them was my cousin Teodorico Pietrocola-Rossetti. He was in London in the later years of my father’s life, but was not then taking an active part in the Evangelical propaganda to which he devoted all the closing part of his career. In 1883he died in Florence, while conducting a service for his congregation. A great number of his hymns are in the collectionInni e Canticibefore mentioned.Back to my tale. And I should here premiseThat, turning lengthened studies to account,I undertook in Malta first to spreadA taste for our Italian literature;And in distinguished houses not a fewTo witness others’ progress was my joy.A Massic or Falernian wine no moreI drank, as oft in Naples I had done,But quaffed the spirit of the classics nowAlone, and none could say “Why gorge thyself?”But, even in study laudable howe’er,Intemperance is still condemnable.Many, I know, find teaching wearisome,Whereas to me ’twas profit and repute;And I could all repeat from memoryThe Comedy of Dante, mystical,Tasso, Ariosto, drama, satirists,Petrarch, Chiabrera, and some lyrists more.Become the foremost of professors there,I knew the most distinguished travellersAnd highest officers of government:Indeed, from titled man to boatman, allBore me affection—saving only one.The Consul there from Naples was Gerardi,Who constantly molested refugees.One day that upon me he fixed his glance,I cried: “You hangman’s face, what see you in me?”Confused he drooped his far from pleasant eyes,And put the tail of him between his legs.This serf of tyrant power endeavoured thenTo get me turned adrift out of the isle,When Albion’s Sejanus, Castlereagh,Was ordering to expel the fugitives:But this Gerardi (he might cry with rage)Had read my face “Noli me tangere.”As long as there I lived, I felt assuredThat all the world contained no baser man;But, when I saw in London a Minasi,[48]I found that I had made a great mistake.But such a name, by God, pollutes my lips.No, let my mouth be nevermore befouledTo speak a most opprobrious brigand’s name!Go, galleys’ rot, or rather gallows’ rot,Go, Ruffo’s bravo[49]and worse knave than he!Through that Gerardi, under-strapper of Kings,I saw from Malta hounded Rossaroll,[50]And Carrascosa[51]and Abatemarchi,[52]Capecelatro,[53]Florio, and many more;And a Poerio,[54]in his rage convulsed,Was first imprisoned, afterwards expelled.And Pier de Luca (I record with tearsThy fate, the flower of courteous learned men)And Pier de Luca lost his reason hence,And was in frenzy for some days and nights:He trembled at Gerardi’s very name,And later on, to escape, he drowned himself.O Castlereagh! Thy country rightly deemsThat thy best service was thy suicide;But why no suicide a year before?Indignant I returned to England’s masts,For Malta grew to me insufferable.A nest of corsairs Malta now meseemed,Where, save that single man, all things I abhorred;So to the seat imperial of the mainThetis and Neptune re-conveyed my steps.Nor shall I paint that lengthy voyaging,Which in another poem[55]I described.The curst Gerardi, in insulting terms,Had written to the Bourbon Council-boardHow that Rossetti, that incendiary,Was to be found upon the British ship;And cried the King: “Upon a sovereign’s faith,I’ll do my utmost to get hold of him.”Well had that General Fardella said,Who gave me secret pledge of friendliness,That a malignant star detained me there,Since o’er me impended a tremendous ire.And I had stayed, at hazard of my life,For full three months exposed to all the risk!Following routine, the British AdmiralWas bidding farewell to the Sovereign;And he perceived astonished that for rageThe King, like a hyæna, bit his lips.Treating him almost as a menial, heSaid with an angry and imperious tone:“Surrender that rebellious subject whomYou saved, and now to England would conduct.”And he with firmset aspect made reply:“An English Admiral will not be base.”Menaces and entreaties he contemned,And turned his back on him resolvedly;And, when that evening he returned aboard,He told what was demanded and refused.And such a fact cannot be called in doubt,For all o’er Naples did its rumour run.I felt myself so moved by that accountThat, in the presence of his noble wife,I with emotion kissed his saving hand.Thee may God guerdon, mounted soul in heaven!Twice over did I owe my life to thee,—And gracious lady, God bless thee alike!And I reflected: “Why in FerdinandBoils up against me such a fierce despiteThat, not appeased by lifelong banishment,He would inflict on me a barbarous death?So much of rage against my civic song,In which as father I so lauded him!And how has he forgotten those my linesWhich drew the very tear-drops from his eyes?”The savage spirit! When he heard me named,His knees would jog beneath his body’s weight,And he against me, the poor exiled bard,Was all a-tremble, furiously convulsed.And thence a truthful penman wrote to meHe had himself from the fierce Bourbon heard—“If even the court declares him innocent,I’ll make him die under the bastinade:On public scaffold or in darkest cryptDie he infallibly shall—and that I swear.”[56]Thus for a long while I remained in doubtOf the true motive for such senseless rage:But then the pen of a most worthy manGave me a light amid the obscurity.What time the King of Naples had decamped,And I had turned my course to another goal,Some praise of me was heard by Gaspare MolloDuke of Lusciano, who was reckoned thenAn able poet; and my fate so willedThat he desired to meet me face to face.Of voluntary good-will he gave me proofs,Which I responded to with modesty:But, when he heard me improvise in verse,Mollo became as jealous as a beast:He in my presence spoke in jest alone,But poured his insults forth behind my back.He piqued himself the most on improvise:He saw his primacy endangered much,And tried his best to make me ludicrous.And I upon his dramas and his rhymes(For who can damp a youthful poet’s fire?)Launched a good ten or dozen epigrams,[57]Which many men rehearsed with loud guffaws.For one he gave me, I returned him ten:This was ill done, I know—but so I did.Mollo kept brooding o’er his inward grudge,Which well I read upon his pallid cheek.Now, when the liberal Government had fall’n,He was installed as President of a BoardTo overhaul the writings then produced.The President, and Censors in his wake,From that explosion of anonymous printChose hundreds of inflammatory attacks,And called them all my own—no fable this—And showed me like a devil to the King.And how that monumental lie disprove?If even I had been Briareus,Writing by night and day with hundred pens,It would have been a thing impossibleTo achieve that quantity of verse and prose.A shameless slander! Yet my enemyMouths it against me, and the King believes.This statement about the Duke of Lusciano may be quite true—a point as to which I am not competent to express an opinion. I have always understood, however, that one main professed grievance of the King against Rossetti was as follows (and in candour I state it here, as I did in my Memoir of Dante Rossetti):—At the time when an Austrian invasion of the Neapolitan territory, connived at by King Ferdinand, was imminent, Rossetti wrote a lyric expressiveof the patriotic rage natural at the time, containing this quatrain addressed to the King—“I vindici coltelliSapran passarvi il cor:I Sandi ed i LuvelliNon son finiti ancor.”(Avenging knives will be apt to pierce[58]your heart: the Sands and the Louvels are not yet done with). These lines clearly say that King Ferdinand, if he were to persist in a certain course, would be very liable to be assassinated; and, although they do not add that heoughtto be assassinated, the Rè Nasone cannot have been solitary in scenting out that implication. There was also the affair (referred to on p. 50 as more than probable) that Rossetti had accompanied the Neapolitan troops, animating them by his verses to fight against the Austrians in defence of a constitution which the King, by a gross act of perjury, had then abolished.We in the harbour of Naples made a stayTwo weeks almost—it gave me many a thrill.The very aspect of the city enslavedBecame for me a melancholy scene.The vigilant Police, who day and nightLaid scores of snares if they might catch me so,Set full a hundred spies around the shipTo learn who might be come to visit me—But no one came; and yet by means unknownEarnest of friendship did not fail to reach.But now the breeze is favouring, waves a-calm,And the much longed-for moment is at hand.How many mothers o’er their slaughtered sonsWept on the shore because of that wild beastWho for a five years’ term had sheathed his claws,And now unsheathed them in the lust of rage!Joyful I turned my back on servitude,And full of ardour sped toward Liberty.Hail and thrice hail, O puissant Albion,Who, ceaseless in diffusing trades and arts,Thine irresistible trident dost extendOver the immense four quarters of the world.If thou, devout to rightful liberty,Impart’st to others its inspiring rays,Thou, arbiter of warfare and of peace,Wilt become mightier than antique Rome.Will it, and thou redeem’st a world oppressed,For thy determined will ensures result.America, thy rival and thy child,If thou dost fail, will do it later on:She in her nascent empire will becomeThe foremost nation of the rounded world.She’ll be thy rival, truly glorious,For still in her gigantic state she grows;But not vociferous conceited France,Free and enslaved at once, as if by Fate.In you two all is diverse—customs, tongues;Her mark is impetus, and reason thine.Since my arrival, England, much thou hast done,Yet much remains to do—do it thou wilt.Hardly had I set foot upon the landBut I around me felt a freer air:’Mid grand activity which knows no pauseI found my own increasing day by day;And by the influences which wove my webAfter the poet’s came the scholar’s turn.Accounting precious every instant’s timeIn high conceptions I was all immersed:Dante, with Analytic Commentary,Was the first outcome of my new pursuits:And, spite of all disparagement, the workEarns me the sympathy of distinguished men.Charles Lyell, having read it, to me wrote,Giving clear pledge of unsolicitedRegard—a Scotchman he, of lofty mind,And Allighieri’s signal devotee:He on my heart, which honours his deserts,Is still impressed, after the unequalled Frere.And now him also doth the urn enclose,[59]And bitter tears he leaves me to outpour.I say it again; no longer in the heatOf Massic or Falernian, nor indeedOf politics, I set to tracing outOur classic writers’ anti-papal spirit,With critical mind—confuting carping tongues;To Lyell did I dedicate the book.Stately an University had risenIn this enormous capital of the realm:[60]And now the Council, from whose midst emergedSuch ample learning sacred and profane,Offered me of its own accord the chairAllotted to Italian literature.To Italy, to flout three Kings, I spedMy fame, and triumphed over lies with truth.Let Tyranny hate me, while my country loves,—Her exiled son has never wrought her shame;And this I know—despite all senseless rage,My books have made their way from hand to hand.And not those hymns alone where I forecastThe Ausonian Genius’ future rapt in thought;[61]But that Arcanum of Platonic LoveWhich offers in five tomes broad scrutinies,Where pondering I analyse the mythsOf every country, every faith and age;And that in which I showed symbolic allOur Allighieri’s mystic Beatrice,Delineated by the schemes occultOf most remote gymnosophistic times,Which schools of magians had inherited,And through the Mysteries bequeathed to us;Also that other noted by its name,Rome toward the Middle of our Century.In each my work, to freedom dedicate,I demonstrate the iniquities of priests:In all that I expounded nought I feigned,But drew my facts from pages thousandfold.Immoderate study always is unwise,But, if ’tis noxious, it amounts to guilt.No, that which I have published, much though it be,Is but the half of what I’ve written down.Ah for my blindness whom have I to blame,When by myself my eyes were done to death?Having in England stayed my roaming course,And seeing my future less ambiguously,Like Dante’s, “Vita Nuova!”[62]was my word:He wrote but I resolved to practise it.“Let warm affections in my novel lotArise,” I said, “to populate my breast.GAETANO POLIDORIFrom a Pencil-Drawing by Dante Gabriel Rossetti1853Within the hotbed of our vicious timesLove proffered me its frenzies and remorse:But, never a seducer, still seduced,Quicksand to quicksand, angry seas I ploughed:Now let a holier love possess my soul,—May he who churned it up restore its calm.”And prudent reason here will not discloseWhat and how many tempests I endured.Upon my canvas be concealed, concealed,The flush upon my brow in others’ shame.[63]And on those quicksands while I fix my gazeA dreadful shudder creeps along my veins,And in that shudder I my visage smite,Uttering a curse against my weaknesses.The quicksands are afar, the harbour’s here.Settled in London, all my travels past,Among the men I most was pleased to meet,Gaetano Polidori, learned, wise,Who had been Count Alfieri’s secretary,’Mid all the Italians whom I had known as yetAppeared to merit honour and esteem.Teaching was his profession. He had doneNo small translating-work, had much composed.Tuscan by birth, by accent all the more,An elegant writer both in prose and verse,He showed me, joined with candid character,The strictest morals and a cultured mind.Upon the day when I returned his call,And saw him ’mid his well-bred family,I twice and thrice fixed my admiring eyesUpon the second daughter’s comeliness.A single moment regulates a life:My heart became the lodestone, she the pole.And every hour my love became more keenWhen hundred virtues and no self-conceit ...I know that what I’m writing she dislikes,[64]But, hiding it from her, I speak it still:Knowing her fully, I have often said—Angel in soul, and angel in her looks.Feeling within me glow the lighted flame,I wrote to Polidori, and ’twas thus:“If to the gracious name of friend you pleaseTo add the loving name of son as well(Pray Heaven that so it may be!) be not lothTo give the enclosed into your Frances’ hands.If this displease you, little though it were,If so it haps you disapprove my suit,Throw the two letters both into the fire,And speak of this no more; but pray concedeOur friendship be not sundered, yours and mine,—You so would punish my straightforwardness.”A day being past, the maid to me so dearGave me a most affectionate response;And at the altar after four months moreWe vowed between us two a mutual faith.[65]In marriage-knot at summit of my hopes,My days went by in cheerful industry.As sweet reward of honourable zeal,My credit made advance from day to day.Four only children Heaven conceded me,And all the four I see around me still,The issue of affections tender and trueIn the four opening matrimonial years.To speak about my wife I shall not pause,—Others would think it overcharged, inept:This I may tell—she is a blooming graftOf English mother and of Tuscan sire;Through mother and through sire in her one seesTwo nations tempering the mind and heart.Let me but say that in her is evincedFrankness of manner unpremeditate;That she both speaks and writes three high-prized tongues,Which rank ’mong Europe’s choicest and most rich;And, when their authors she was studying,She culled the flower of the three literatures.That firm-fixed character which she displaysFounded, by means of Jesus’ gospel-book,Upon religion pure morality,Upon morality the purest life;Thus she presents, perfect on every side,The steadfast woman of the sacred page.From living pattern oh what strength the loveOf ethical instructions must receive!Wherefore to her more than myself is dueOur children’s educating discipline;For of each rule she utters with her lipsThey see in her the breathing prototype.I never had occasion for a school,Too apt to vitiate a guileless heart;For she in her two daughters had betimesTransfused a taste for music;[66]in all four(Presenting now this model and now that)The taste for letters and the beautiful.In theory and in practice, both alike,Her life is a fine treatise on the good:Always a Christian, not a fanatic,Always devout, but not ecstatical:Heavens, what a woman! her Anglo-Italian soulHas never trespassed over duty’s bound.’Tis now five lustres I have made her mine,And in five lustres I still see her the moreAn angel harmony of deeds and words,And in five lustres her all-blameless lifeHas not one moment, one, belied itself.I thank my God that, when he addressed my heartTo new affections, he made these be high:And you, beloved children, thank you meThat such a mother I chose to give you breath.
“Gibraltar.“10th November 1847.“Honoured Compatriot,“Twenty-six years have now passed since we bade one another a last adieu in the Island of Malta, at the fatal period of ’21. You must recollect Dr Costanza, then a young physician and surgeon, nowturned of fifty years of age. You had known him in the capital of the kingdom, and you afterwards met him at Montecassino,when you were returning from the gorges of Antrodoca after the hapless result of that first passage of armsupon which depended the fate of our country. That Costanza is now writing to you, and warmly recommends to you three fellow-countrymen of ours, recently saved by miracle from the blood-red hands of the agents of the tyrant of Naples and Sicily....“Your Compatriot, and erewhile Companionin misfortune,Dr Costanza.”
“Gibraltar.
“10th November 1847.
“Honoured Compatriot,
“Twenty-six years have now passed since we bade one another a last adieu in the Island of Malta, at the fatal period of ’21. You must recollect Dr Costanza, then a young physician and surgeon, nowturned of fifty years of age. You had known him in the capital of the kingdom, and you afterwards met him at Montecassino,when you were returning from the gorges of Antrodoca after the hapless result of that first passage of armsupon which depended the fate of our country. That Costanza is now writing to you, and warmly recommends to you three fellow-countrymen of ours, recently saved by miracle from the blood-red hands of the agents of the tyrant of Naples and Sicily....
“Your Compatriot, and erewhile Companion
in misfortune,
Dr Costanza.”
In this letter the mention of Antrodoca (or Antrodoco) is the essential thing. The mountains of Antrodoco are near Rieti, which was the scene of an engagement, on 7th March 1821, between the Neapolitan and the Austrian troops. The actual feat of arms was not discreditable to the Italians; but—perceiving that they were the weaker party, and that the final issue was hopeless for them—they immediately afterwards disbanded, and all was over. I cannot indeed, recollect having ever heard from my father that he was along with the army on that occasion, nor does he affirm it in his versified Autobiography; yet I now see that he must have been so. I do not infer that he was in the fighting ranks; but I do infer that two passages which are to be found in hisVeggente in Solitudinehave a more positive meaning than I used to attribute to them. The passages are as follows:—
1. “Fratelli, all’armi, all’armi!” etc.“Brothers, to arms, to arms! Our country has summoned us.I, with my stimulating songs, will also go among you.”2. (As already referred to) “Tirteo d’Italia,” etc.“Who will be the Tyrtæus of Italy in the camp? ’Tis I, ’tis I!Such I have been, such I am.”
1. “Fratelli, all’armi, all’armi!” etc.
“Brothers, to arms, to arms! Our country has summoned us.I, with my stimulating songs, will also go among you.”
2. (As already referred to) “Tirteo d’Italia,” etc.
“Who will be the Tyrtæus of Italy in the camp? ’Tis I, ’tis I!Such I have been, such I am.”
The first of these passages comes from a song composed by Rossetti towards the date of the soldiering in 1821. The second may have been written about 1845.
I have found one other paper which seems to bear upon this semi-military act of Gabriele Rossetti. An excellent friend of his, Ferdinando Ciciloni, wrote to him from Naples on 24th November 1825, saying: “Three days ago I went to San Sebastiano, which, from the seat of the Parliament, has become a College of Music. As I crossed the courtyard, I had a mental vision of Rossetti in uniform, and with two very black moustaches.” As we have seen (note on p. 36), Rossetti, though not at all a man of a soldiering turn, had belonged, in 1814, to the Guard of Internal Security under King Joachim, and once again, in 1821, he donneda uniform—a British one this time. But Ciciloni’s remark does not seem very likely to refer to either of these incidents; rather to something in which the Parliament-building was concerned, and a muster immediately before the departure of the army to Rieti appears the most probable occurrence.
Freedom immaculate, O thou who hadstSuch sacred worship on Sebeto’s banks,Iniquitous plots ’gainst thee, without and in,The Royal Princes’ visible ill-faith,Ambition nursed by some few senators,And envious grudge of many generals,Engirt thee with the trackless labyrinthWhen in thee Heaven was overcome by Hell.
Nor have I in repentance struck my browBecause my worship of thee wrought me scathe.Were I in that same case a thousand times,A thousand I’d return to do the same.Thee from Christianity I ne’er disjoined,—I feel my heart-strings quivering to both.The Bourbon perjury, the Austrian force,On thee, O sacred Liberty, made war:And, seeing thy holy worship thus destroyed,I bade a farewell to the soil profaned,And so the thundering ship conducted meWhere Christ and Freedom can be both adored.
Name to the world, O sacred Gratitude,The Scotch-born hero who on British deckRescued the singer of Italian hopesOut of the Bourbon despot’s slaughter-fangs.Sir Graham Moore,[38]inured to combatingIn a great nation’s thundrous lightning-flash,I bear with an indelible imprintThy cherished name written upon my heart.Those soul-inspired and freedom-loving strainsIntoned by me upon my native soilOn the four winds already had dispread,O’er mountains and o’er seas, a tireless flight;And the Britannic Genius, when they reachedHis shores, bade Italy’s Tyrtæus hail.Now my propitious fate had willed it soThat by a lady were my verses read—A British Admiral’s well-honoured wife,Whether more fair or gracious who could say?But this I know—I saw in her combinedPenelope’s heart and Helen’s countenance.She, worthy partner of the British chief,Honours in others’ mental gifts her own;And those who know her know how highly trainedShe is, and she alone discerns it not.
To Naples came the lady at the timeWhen flames burned there of patriotic love,And she expressed the wish she had conceivedTo know the Italian poet face to face;And with such ardour she admired his workThat numerous verses she could quote by heart.An English officer, of cultured mind,Who had always shown me marks of courtesy,And who in the Museum saw me at whiles,Made me acquainted with the lady’s wish.I to the invitation gave response,And so a day was settled for my call.
She—as a sister might a brother greetReturning—greeted me in amity;Yet day by day this kindliness increased.Fair Angel of God’s presence sent on earth,Ah not so soon return to Paradise!Many there circle his eternal throne,But angels are not plenteous here below.In all that effervescent periodShe, whose good wishes were for our success,Remained a witness of my innocence,And an approver of my patriot zeal.
When by the foul effect of treacheriesOur government had perished, she was grieved,And for unfortunate Rossetti’s fateShe felt concern, and to her husband spoke:“Save from the axe that guiltless man; if loveOf country is a crime, you are guilty too!”
Alas how hard did exile seem to me,And leaving in such woes my native land!Three times he offered refuge on his ship,And all the three times I rejected it.But my continuing was so foolhardyThat wiser I accepted it the fourth.
Lamenting night and day my country’s lot,And as to my own life not caring much,From March to June I kept myself concealed,’Mid traps laid by a sleepless-eyed police.[39]One night I was in that terrific plight,When a voice called upon my name, and said:“Fly—I discern your scaffold plain to see!”I look, and find ’tis General Fardella,Who was just then the Minister of War;But, while I am rousing from my wonderment,The dark receives him—moveless I remain.Meseems I see him still, the while I write.He, who so often gave my lines applause,Had entered furtive in my hiding-place:But how he found it out I cannot say.How could I sleep, or hope again for calm?Within my soul I heard the word—“Fly, fly!”In perturbations having passed the night,I to the lady wrote at earliest dawn;And towards the eve two English subalterns[40]Most willingly responded to my wish;And they, to make my move less perilous,Gave me red uniform resembling theirs.I on the moment, be it luck or thoughtTo pass more safely before others’ eyes,Packed a few clothes and papers many a oneIn a small trunk, and was in readiness:And I exclaimed, twixt joyful heart and grieved,“I bear with me my all—Ready—let’s go.”Between the gallant pair I took the coach,Which drove us forth on our clandestine path[41]To where a skiff was in await for us,With six athletic oarsmen on the beach.O Rochfort,[42]thou to which the naval fortsAll paid salute as they before thee passed,And thundering thou through hundred-fourscore mouthsDidst spread afar thy nautical command,Thee sinuous the Mediterranean,And thee vast Ocean’s sheer immensity,Saw dominating the unstable wave,And christened thee the Formidable Fort.Thee from the skiff I see, and feed my glance,As on artilleried walls, upon thy bows.
The mighty ship gave symptoms of good-will,Expressed in divers modes by the ample crew;And I—I kissed that wooden AlbionAmid the naval group who smiled thereat.To the saloon bright-shining in the duskI sped, to give Thetis and Neptune thanks.“Here is a pair of gods not fabulous,”I said, when greeted by their noble smiles.The grace which can forestall a modest wishI always found on either countenance.
Then in the night I went with saddened soulTo contemplate the shore which met my view.All are reposing in the silent hour,Except some watch that paces vigilant;And I alone and pensive on the prowStand communing with this my land betrayed;And a few happy days and many direAre passing in review before mine eyes.Ever ferocious Tyranny I sawBecoming stronger by flagitious means;And Freedom, tasted for a few poor days,Begetting, like the fruit of Eden, death;And Treason, like a snake pestiferous,From two great goblets sipping tears and blood.And, while my fantasy on every sideRan riot, struck by miserable ideas,The scenes of sanguinary Ninety-nineOffered themselves to my dejected soul;And o’er the regal lair meseemed I sawA host funereal of threat’ning ghosts.“Unhappy country, adieu!”—And that adieuOver all Italy I diffused in song.[43]
To thee the first the British prow was turned,Flourishing Malta, small but beautiful,A quiet refuge ’mid the unquiet sea,Of an Italian mind and Arab speech.I, sifting out of fallacies the truth,Full half a lustre passed within thy bounds;And, but for patriotic sorrowings,Out there I should have led a placid life,—For I encountered courteous, cultured minds,—Culture in some, in many courtesy.
But both of these—they have my homage here—I amply in one person found conjoined,John Hookham Frere, a learned man and wise,A Privy Councillor of the British Crown.Himself he shone, not through extraneous aids,And how I knew him I shall gladly tell.Fame, so propitious to poetic gifts,In Malta made a magnified report—That Italy’s Tyrtæus had arrived,And rescued by the British Admiral.And I by many people was informedThat in the higher class the wish prevailedThat in some noted house I should displayMy fervour of poetic improvise;And I, now so suspicious of my powers,Unhesitating answered—“Yes, at once.”
Ah me unhappy! I’m no more the man!But such must be the course of human fate.Too true, I, then a river, am now a rill—A rill which comes anear to drying up.In vain I stir my fancy, which is tired,—I cannot even command poetic phrase.These verses—let me say this prose in rhyme—As I dictate them, others write them down,[44]And, as they all gush out extempore,Some of them will be good, and others bad:Nor do I blot the bad to keep the best,But pass them current as they chance to come.To get the whole expressed without constraint,And without labouring after phrase and word,I pitched on purpose on that sextal rhymeIn which one easily words the thing one wants.
On my assent, a spacious hall preparesFor ladies, men of letters, diplomats.There that distinguished man enraptured heardMy burst of song ’mid plaudits many and full;[45]And, being unused to such demonstrances,He deemed the thing almost a prodigy.I sang six themes, and my excited mindPoured copiously divergent styles and rhythms.Persons of eminence, the following day,Graced me by visits of civility.But one beneficent and reverend mienIn which I read exalted characters,A diction which, arising from the soul,Goes to the heart, and fixes what it says—This ’mid the throng I noted. He being gone,I asked his name—and it astonished me;For all that I had heard rumoured aroundAbout his talents settled on my thought:An ample treasure-house of classic lore,[46]Such did Fame publish him by hundred mouths:Toward him desire resistless drew me on,Nor did his presence lessen his repute.Unconscious of his fame he singly seemed,—To hear it named was what he could not brook;Courtesy generous and without display,Learning immense, and greater modesty;—Ah who could paint that noble-natured man?One day when he accorded praise anewTo chaunts of mine which wakened his surprise,I answered him: “In you I seem to seeThe imperial eagle by a sparrow charmed.I know my verse has earned me banishment;But I, excelling some, bend low to you.”And later, when I saw how plenteouslyHe dealt his succours to the sick and poor,I in John Hookham Frere discerned the typeOf the sublime Christian philosopher.None but an angel could pourtray him true,—I feel my eyes grow moist to speak of him.He called me friend, and that has been my pride,And in myself I reverenced the name.Having that store of virtues in my gaze,Sanctified in him by Christianity,—’Tis sacred duty to confess as much—I felt myself grow better by so greatA pattern. Nevermore he left my thoughts,And even in death within my heart he lives.
To him, after I reached the English shores(All distant from him though I then had passed),I dedicated Dante’s Comedy,With Analytic Comment from my pen.That Psaltery to him too I inscribedWhich praises freedom and ennobles man,And he with kindliness received the wishI showed that it be dedicate to him.Of him with lively gratitude anewI chaunted in my “Seer in Solitude.”Those lines while I was writing, thou, blest soul,Wast winging forth thy way to Paradise,There to embrace the sister and the spouseFrom whom thou languishing wast parted here.
O all of you elected spirits and pure,Look down on desolate Rossetti’s grief.He in himself holds that same constancyWhich every one of you applauded oft.Still exiled, but now old, infirm, and blind,How different alas from other-while!Different? Ah no! Although oppressed by years,He for his country always is the same.And he, on hearing how that freedom’s treeHas there re-budded, full of sapfulness,[47]Blesses his every sweat of brow poured outTo irrigate its high ancestral germ;And, now when all men sweat to nurture itHe hopes before he dies to taste its fruits.Now Scythian cold, ’tis true, reigns everywhere,But none can think it will last on for aye:To the political winter now enduredA more propitious season must succeed;And all by various signs can estimateThat flowers and fruits we yet shall see in bloom.
As Rossetti has here mentioned his edition of Dante’sComedy, and his ownPsaltery, and as references occurlater on to other publications of his, I may as well enter at once into some details in elucidation. After his arrival in England he printed the following works:—
1. 1826-7. Dante’sInferno, with a “Comento Analitico.” The intention was to publish the whole of theDivina Commedia: but, the expense proving too great, theInfernoalone came out. The great majority of the comment on thePurgatoriowas written—not any (I think) of that on theParadiso. The MS. comment on thePurgatoriowas presented by me in 1883 to the Municipality of Vasto, under a stipulation (volunteered by the Municipality itself) that they would print it; but this has not been done, and indeed the MS. volume was treated in a highly neglectful style. My father, when in Italy, was of course very well acquainted with Dante’s poem; but he had not studied it with any keenness of scrutiny until he settled in London. When he did that, he soon reached the conclusion that the surface of Dante’sCommediais very different from its inner core of meaning. At first he considered the inner core to be political: the Empire and Ghibellinism, as against the Papacy and Guelfism. As he progressed his conceptions expanded, and he regarded Dante as a member, both in politics and in religion, of an occult societyhaving a close relation to what we now call Freemasonry; and he opined that theCommediaand other writings of Dante, and also the books of many other famous authors in various languages and epochs, are of similar internal significance. It is not my purpose here to discuss whether he was right or wrong: I hold that he was highly ingenious, that some of his reasonings deserve very careful attention, and that in several instances he pushed things too far. His comment on Dante, and subsequent writings in the same direction, excited some notice in Italy, and at least as much in England. Coleridge thought well of his speculations up to, but not beyond, a certain point; Isaac Disraeli was fully convinced by them; Arthur Hallam, and afterwards Panizzi and Schlegel, wrote in opposition. A learned German, Joseph Mendelssohn, lectured in Berlin on Rossetti’s system, and published his discourses, which are more expository than critical, in 1843. A remarkable book (later than my No. 2) was brought out at Naples by Vecchioni, embodying a course of interpretation and argument closely resembling that of Rossetti, who never quite understood whether the conclusions of Vecchioni had been formed independently or not.
2. 1832.Lo Spirito Antipapale che produsse la Riforma(The Anti-papal Spirit which produced the Reformation) develops and extends the ideas, which Rossetti had conceived during his study of Dante, as to a secret society to which that poet and many other writers belonged, and as to the essentially anti-Christian as well as anti-papal opinions covertly expressed in their writings. An English translation of this work was published.
3. 1833. The work to which the Autobiography has applied the namePsalteryis entitledIddio e l’Uomo, Salterio(God and Man, a Psaltery). The majority of it was written in Malta: in London considerable additions and changes were made. Leaving some of his individual lyrics out of account, this may be regarded as the completest and best poetic work produced by Rossetti. In 1843 it was republished under a new title,Il Tempo(Time), and with some substantial modifications of plan. This book, and our No. 2, are down in the PontificalIndex Librorum Prohibitorum.
4. 1840.Il Mistero dell’ Amor Platonico del Medio Evo derivato dai Misteri Antichi(The Mystery of the Platonic Love of the Middle Ages derived from the Ancient Mysteries). This extensive and rather discursive work, in five volumes, follows up the line of speculation and argument shown in Nos. 1 and 2.Rossetti wrote it with a consciousness that the themes of religion or irreligion which it discusses were volcanic matter for readers to handle, as well as perilous to his own professional position in England. He therefore exhibited his subject with some amount of reticence, meandering through thickets of very audacious thought—the thought of great writers of the past as interpreted (but also to a great extent deprecated) by himself. This book was printed; but, as Mr Frere, partially seconded by Mr Charles Lyell, pronounced it to be foolhardy, it was withheld from publication in England, and was only put on sale on the Continent with precaution and in small numbers.
5. 1842.La Beatrice di Dante—an argument that Dante’s Beatrice was not in any sense a real woman, but an embodiment of Philosophy. The reasoning extends a good deal beyond this limit, into regions explored in Nos. 1, 2, and 4. Rossetti completed the work in three disquisitions—or indeed, according to the final arrangement, in nine disquisitions. Only the first of these was published. The others were entrusted to a French writer, M. E. Aroux. He studied them, and published a book namedDante Hérétique, Révolutionnaire, et Socialiste—a book which my father, on seeing it in print, did not acknowledge as by anymeans faithful to his own views. The MS. was returned to Rossetti: somehow it could never be found in our household until the close of 1900, when I discovered it, more or less complete, in an old portfolio.
6. 1846.Il Veggente in Solitudine(The Seer in Solitude) is a long poem of patriotic aim, in several books and all sorts of metres. Its main object is to denounce the then political and religious condition of Italy, and to forecast a better future. This is mixed up with a good deal of autobiographical matter, and with many lyrics of old time (some of them evincing Rossetti’s very best work) interpolated into the context. As a rounded achievement of poetry, this book cannot be eulogized; it had, however, a great though clandestine circulation in Italy, roused enthusiastic feelings, and was so much prized that an honorary medallion of Rossetti, the work of Signor Cerbara, was struck.
7. 1847.Versi, published at Lausanne. This volume has not a directly patriotic or political complexion: it consists of many of Rossetti’s best poems of early date, along with some of recent years.
8. 1852.L’Arpa Evangelica(The Evangelic Harp). Although printed in 1852, this volume only reached Rossetti’s hands at an advanced date in 1853. Itconsists of hymns and lyrics of a distinctly Christian, combined with an enlarged humanitarian, character. Several of the poems in this volume are now used in the Evangelical churches of Italy. I find twenty-one in a volume entitledInni e Cantici ad uso delle Chiese, Famiglie, Scuole, ed Associazioni Cristiane d’ Italia. Roma, 1897.
It may be as well to say here something as to my father’s religious opinions. His parents were religious Catholics of the ordinary Italian type. His bringing-up was religious; and I suppose that, until manhood was well advanced, he acquiesced, without special zeal, in the established views and practices of Catholicism. As his political opinions progressed into active opposition to despotism and the foreign yoke, so did his religious opinions progress into active, and indeed very fierce, opposition to Papal dogma and pretensions, and to all that side of Roman Catholicism which pertains more to sacerdotal and hierarchical system than to the personality and the gospel utterances of Jesus Christ. On the other hand, he never ceased to cherish and reverence this original basis of Evangelical faith and practice. As I knew him from my earliest years (say from 1834), he adhered to no ecclesiastical sect whatever; and—allowing for the primitive-Christiansympathy just referred to—he was certainly far more a free-thinker than definitely a Christian. As his writings were never of a personally anti-Christian tone (though they often developed the anti-Christian views of other authors), andwereof an anti-papal tone, he became mixed up in his later years with Italian anti-papal Protestantizing religionists, to an extent greater than in his prime he would have tolerated. Towards 1849 disfrocked priests and semi-Waldensian semi-simpletons got a good deal about him, when broken health and precarious eyesight had to some extent enfeebled his mental along with his bodily powers; and association with these people and their publications did certainly not tend to promote a vigorous presentment of his essentially undogmatic but not essentially unspiritual mind. He came to write about Christian matters in terms suited to an absolute Christian believer; whereas, in fact, he was a devotional adherent to the moral and spiritual utterances of Jesus, but was not a practising member of any Christian denomination, nor a disciple in any theological school. It should be understood that, though a fervent and outspoken anti-papalist, he never expressly renounced the Roman Catholic faith. In the earlier years of his London sojourn it might havebeen to his advantage (as Professor of Italian in King’s College and elsewhere) to join the Anglican rather than the Roman communion; but this he considered unworthy of an Italian, and he never took any step in that direction. Neither did he naturalize himself as an Englishman.
The means of Gabriele Rossetti were never equal to paying the cost of expensive publications. My No. 1 was brought out by subscription; Nos. 2 and 4 by the spontaneous liberality of Mr Lyell, and, as far as No. 4 is concerned, Mr Frere came forward, as well, at the close. It is only fair to say that Rossetti was a laborious worker, of independent spirit; and, though he accepted with grateful satisfaction the volunteered bounty of Mr Lyell in these instances, and of Mr Frere in some others likewise, he was the least likely of men to go about to “ask, and ye shall receive.”
As I have been speaking—with the distaste which I learned to feel for them as a class—of Protestantizing Italians, I will add that one excellent man I have known among them was my cousin Teodorico Pietrocola-Rossetti. He was in London in the later years of my father’s life, but was not then taking an active part in the Evangelical propaganda to which he devoted all the closing part of his career. In 1883he died in Florence, while conducting a service for his congregation. A great number of his hymns are in the collectionInni e Canticibefore mentioned.
Back to my tale. And I should here premiseThat, turning lengthened studies to account,I undertook in Malta first to spreadA taste for our Italian literature;And in distinguished houses not a fewTo witness others’ progress was my joy.A Massic or Falernian wine no moreI drank, as oft in Naples I had done,But quaffed the spirit of the classics nowAlone, and none could say “Why gorge thyself?”But, even in study laudable howe’er,Intemperance is still condemnable.Many, I know, find teaching wearisome,Whereas to me ’twas profit and repute;And I could all repeat from memoryThe Comedy of Dante, mystical,Tasso, Ariosto, drama, satirists,Petrarch, Chiabrera, and some lyrists more.Become the foremost of professors there,I knew the most distinguished travellersAnd highest officers of government:Indeed, from titled man to boatman, allBore me affection—saving only one.
The Consul there from Naples was Gerardi,Who constantly molested refugees.One day that upon me he fixed his glance,I cried: “You hangman’s face, what see you in me?”Confused he drooped his far from pleasant eyes,And put the tail of him between his legs.This serf of tyrant power endeavoured thenTo get me turned adrift out of the isle,When Albion’s Sejanus, Castlereagh,Was ordering to expel the fugitives:But this Gerardi (he might cry with rage)Had read my face “Noli me tangere.”As long as there I lived, I felt assuredThat all the world contained no baser man;But, when I saw in London a Minasi,[48]I found that I had made a great mistake.But such a name, by God, pollutes my lips.No, let my mouth be nevermore befouledTo speak a most opprobrious brigand’s name!Go, galleys’ rot, or rather gallows’ rot,Go, Ruffo’s bravo[49]and worse knave than he!
Through that Gerardi, under-strapper of Kings,I saw from Malta hounded Rossaroll,[50]And Carrascosa[51]and Abatemarchi,[52]Capecelatro,[53]Florio, and many more;And a Poerio,[54]in his rage convulsed,Was first imprisoned, afterwards expelled.And Pier de Luca (I record with tearsThy fate, the flower of courteous learned men)And Pier de Luca lost his reason hence,And was in frenzy for some days and nights:He trembled at Gerardi’s very name,And later on, to escape, he drowned himself.O Castlereagh! Thy country rightly deemsThat thy best service was thy suicide;But why no suicide a year before?
Indignant I returned to England’s masts,For Malta grew to me insufferable.A nest of corsairs Malta now meseemed,Where, save that single man, all things I abhorred;So to the seat imperial of the mainThetis and Neptune re-conveyed my steps.Nor shall I paint that lengthy voyaging,Which in another poem[55]I described.
The curst Gerardi, in insulting terms,Had written to the Bourbon Council-boardHow that Rossetti, that incendiary,Was to be found upon the British ship;And cried the King: “Upon a sovereign’s faith,I’ll do my utmost to get hold of him.”Well had that General Fardella said,Who gave me secret pledge of friendliness,That a malignant star detained me there,Since o’er me impended a tremendous ire.And I had stayed, at hazard of my life,For full three months exposed to all the risk!Following routine, the British AdmiralWas bidding farewell to the Sovereign;And he perceived astonished that for rageThe King, like a hyæna, bit his lips.Treating him almost as a menial, heSaid with an angry and imperious tone:“Surrender that rebellious subject whomYou saved, and now to England would conduct.”And he with firmset aspect made reply:“An English Admiral will not be base.”Menaces and entreaties he contemned,And turned his back on him resolvedly;And, when that evening he returned aboard,He told what was demanded and refused.And such a fact cannot be called in doubt,For all o’er Naples did its rumour run.
I felt myself so moved by that accountThat, in the presence of his noble wife,I with emotion kissed his saving hand.Thee may God guerdon, mounted soul in heaven!Twice over did I owe my life to thee,—And gracious lady, God bless thee alike!
And I reflected: “Why in FerdinandBoils up against me such a fierce despiteThat, not appeased by lifelong banishment,He would inflict on me a barbarous death?So much of rage against my civic song,In which as father I so lauded him!And how has he forgotten those my linesWhich drew the very tear-drops from his eyes?”
The savage spirit! When he heard me named,His knees would jog beneath his body’s weight,And he against me, the poor exiled bard,Was all a-tremble, furiously convulsed.And thence a truthful penman wrote to meHe had himself from the fierce Bourbon heard—“If even the court declares him innocent,I’ll make him die under the bastinade:On public scaffold or in darkest cryptDie he infallibly shall—and that I swear.”[56]Thus for a long while I remained in doubtOf the true motive for such senseless rage:But then the pen of a most worthy manGave me a light amid the obscurity.What time the King of Naples had decamped,And I had turned my course to another goal,Some praise of me was heard by Gaspare MolloDuke of Lusciano, who was reckoned thenAn able poet; and my fate so willedThat he desired to meet me face to face.Of voluntary good-will he gave me proofs,Which I responded to with modesty:But, when he heard me improvise in verse,Mollo became as jealous as a beast:He in my presence spoke in jest alone,But poured his insults forth behind my back.He piqued himself the most on improvise:He saw his primacy endangered much,And tried his best to make me ludicrous.And I upon his dramas and his rhymes(For who can damp a youthful poet’s fire?)Launched a good ten or dozen epigrams,[57]Which many men rehearsed with loud guffaws.For one he gave me, I returned him ten:This was ill done, I know—but so I did.Mollo kept brooding o’er his inward grudge,Which well I read upon his pallid cheek.Now, when the liberal Government had fall’n,He was installed as President of a BoardTo overhaul the writings then produced.The President, and Censors in his wake,From that explosion of anonymous printChose hundreds of inflammatory attacks,And called them all my own—no fable this—And showed me like a devil to the King.And how that monumental lie disprove?If even I had been Briareus,Writing by night and day with hundred pens,It would have been a thing impossibleTo achieve that quantity of verse and prose.A shameless slander! Yet my enemyMouths it against me, and the King believes.
This statement about the Duke of Lusciano may be quite true—a point as to which I am not competent to express an opinion. I have always understood, however, that one main professed grievance of the King against Rossetti was as follows (and in candour I state it here, as I did in my Memoir of Dante Rossetti):—At the time when an Austrian invasion of the Neapolitan territory, connived at by King Ferdinand, was imminent, Rossetti wrote a lyric expressiveof the patriotic rage natural at the time, containing this quatrain addressed to the King—
“I vindici coltelli
Sapran passarvi il cor:
I Sandi ed i Luvelli
Non son finiti ancor.”
(Avenging knives will be apt to pierce[58]your heart: the Sands and the Louvels are not yet done with). These lines clearly say that King Ferdinand, if he were to persist in a certain course, would be very liable to be assassinated; and, although they do not add that heoughtto be assassinated, the Rè Nasone cannot have been solitary in scenting out that implication. There was also the affair (referred to on p. 50 as more than probable) that Rossetti had accompanied the Neapolitan troops, animating them by his verses to fight against the Austrians in defence of a constitution which the King, by a gross act of perjury, had then abolished.
We in the harbour of Naples made a stayTwo weeks almost—it gave me many a thrill.The very aspect of the city enslavedBecame for me a melancholy scene.The vigilant Police, who day and nightLaid scores of snares if they might catch me so,Set full a hundred spies around the shipTo learn who might be come to visit me—But no one came; and yet by means unknownEarnest of friendship did not fail to reach.
But now the breeze is favouring, waves a-calm,And the much longed-for moment is at hand.How many mothers o’er their slaughtered sonsWept on the shore because of that wild beastWho for a five years’ term had sheathed his claws,And now unsheathed them in the lust of rage!
Joyful I turned my back on servitude,And full of ardour sped toward Liberty.
Hail and thrice hail, O puissant Albion,Who, ceaseless in diffusing trades and arts,Thine irresistible trident dost extendOver the immense four quarters of the world.If thou, devout to rightful liberty,Impart’st to others its inspiring rays,Thou, arbiter of warfare and of peace,Wilt become mightier than antique Rome.Will it, and thou redeem’st a world oppressed,For thy determined will ensures result.America, thy rival and thy child,If thou dost fail, will do it later on:She in her nascent empire will becomeThe foremost nation of the rounded world.She’ll be thy rival, truly glorious,For still in her gigantic state she grows;But not vociferous conceited France,Free and enslaved at once, as if by Fate.In you two all is diverse—customs, tongues;Her mark is impetus, and reason thine.Since my arrival, England, much thou hast done,Yet much remains to do—do it thou wilt.
Hardly had I set foot upon the landBut I around me felt a freer air:’Mid grand activity which knows no pauseI found my own increasing day by day;And by the influences which wove my webAfter the poet’s came the scholar’s turn.Accounting precious every instant’s timeIn high conceptions I was all immersed:Dante, with Analytic Commentary,Was the first outcome of my new pursuits:And, spite of all disparagement, the workEarns me the sympathy of distinguished men.Charles Lyell, having read it, to me wrote,Giving clear pledge of unsolicitedRegard—a Scotchman he, of lofty mind,And Allighieri’s signal devotee:He on my heart, which honours his deserts,Is still impressed, after the unequalled Frere.And now him also doth the urn enclose,[59]And bitter tears he leaves me to outpour.I say it again; no longer in the heatOf Massic or Falernian, nor indeedOf politics, I set to tracing outOur classic writers’ anti-papal spirit,With critical mind—confuting carping tongues;To Lyell did I dedicate the book.
Stately an University had risenIn this enormous capital of the realm:[60]And now the Council, from whose midst emergedSuch ample learning sacred and profane,Offered me of its own accord the chairAllotted to Italian literature.
To Italy, to flout three Kings, I spedMy fame, and triumphed over lies with truth.Let Tyranny hate me, while my country loves,—Her exiled son has never wrought her shame;And this I know—despite all senseless rage,My books have made their way from hand to hand.And not those hymns alone where I forecastThe Ausonian Genius’ future rapt in thought;[61]But that Arcanum of Platonic LoveWhich offers in five tomes broad scrutinies,Where pondering I analyse the mythsOf every country, every faith and age;And that in which I showed symbolic allOur Allighieri’s mystic Beatrice,Delineated by the schemes occultOf most remote gymnosophistic times,Which schools of magians had inherited,And through the Mysteries bequeathed to us;Also that other noted by its name,Rome toward the Middle of our Century.In each my work, to freedom dedicate,I demonstrate the iniquities of priests:In all that I expounded nought I feigned,But drew my facts from pages thousandfold.
Immoderate study always is unwise,But, if ’tis noxious, it amounts to guilt.No, that which I have published, much though it be,Is but the half of what I’ve written down.Ah for my blindness whom have I to blame,When by myself my eyes were done to death?
Having in England stayed my roaming course,And seeing my future less ambiguously,Like Dante’s, “Vita Nuova!”[62]was my word:He wrote but I resolved to practise it.“Let warm affections in my novel lotArise,” I said, “to populate my breast.
GAETANO POLIDORIFrom a Pencil-Drawing by Dante Gabriel Rossetti1853
GAETANO POLIDORIFrom a Pencil-Drawing by Dante Gabriel Rossetti1853
Within the hotbed of our vicious timesLove proffered me its frenzies and remorse:But, never a seducer, still seduced,Quicksand to quicksand, angry seas I ploughed:Now let a holier love possess my soul,—May he who churned it up restore its calm.”And prudent reason here will not discloseWhat and how many tempests I endured.Upon my canvas be concealed, concealed,The flush upon my brow in others’ shame.[63]And on those quicksands while I fix my gazeA dreadful shudder creeps along my veins,And in that shudder I my visage smite,Uttering a curse against my weaknesses.The quicksands are afar, the harbour’s here.
Settled in London, all my travels past,Among the men I most was pleased to meet,Gaetano Polidori, learned, wise,Who had been Count Alfieri’s secretary,’Mid all the Italians whom I had known as yetAppeared to merit honour and esteem.Teaching was his profession. He had doneNo small translating-work, had much composed.Tuscan by birth, by accent all the more,An elegant writer both in prose and verse,He showed me, joined with candid character,The strictest morals and a cultured mind.Upon the day when I returned his call,And saw him ’mid his well-bred family,I twice and thrice fixed my admiring eyesUpon the second daughter’s comeliness.A single moment regulates a life:My heart became the lodestone, she the pole.And every hour my love became more keenWhen hundred virtues and no self-conceit ...I know that what I’m writing she dislikes,[64]But, hiding it from her, I speak it still:Knowing her fully, I have often said—Angel in soul, and angel in her looks.Feeling within me glow the lighted flame,I wrote to Polidori, and ’twas thus:“If to the gracious name of friend you pleaseTo add the loving name of son as well(Pray Heaven that so it may be!) be not lothTo give the enclosed into your Frances’ hands.If this displease you, little though it were,If so it haps you disapprove my suit,Throw the two letters both into the fire,And speak of this no more; but pray concedeOur friendship be not sundered, yours and mine,—You so would punish my straightforwardness.”A day being past, the maid to me so dearGave me a most affectionate response;And at the altar after four months moreWe vowed between us two a mutual faith.[65]In marriage-knot at summit of my hopes,My days went by in cheerful industry.As sweet reward of honourable zeal,My credit made advance from day to day.Four only children Heaven conceded me,And all the four I see around me still,The issue of affections tender and trueIn the four opening matrimonial years.
To speak about my wife I shall not pause,—Others would think it overcharged, inept:This I may tell—she is a blooming graftOf English mother and of Tuscan sire;Through mother and through sire in her one seesTwo nations tempering the mind and heart.Let me but say that in her is evincedFrankness of manner unpremeditate;That she both speaks and writes three high-prized tongues,Which rank ’mong Europe’s choicest and most rich;And, when their authors she was studying,She culled the flower of the three literatures.That firm-fixed character which she displaysFounded, by means of Jesus’ gospel-book,Upon religion pure morality,Upon morality the purest life;Thus she presents, perfect on every side,The steadfast woman of the sacred page.From living pattern oh what strength the loveOf ethical instructions must receive!Wherefore to her more than myself is dueOur children’s educating discipline;For of each rule she utters with her lipsThey see in her the breathing prototype.I never had occasion for a school,Too apt to vitiate a guileless heart;For she in her two daughters had betimesTransfused a taste for music;[66]in all four(Presenting now this model and now that)The taste for letters and the beautiful.In theory and in practice, both alike,Her life is a fine treatise on the good:Always a Christian, not a fanatic,Always devout, but not ecstatical:Heavens, what a woman! her Anglo-Italian soulHas never trespassed over duty’s bound.’Tis now five lustres I have made her mine,And in five lustres I still see her the moreAn angel harmony of deeds and words,And in five lustres her all-blameless lifeHas not one moment, one, belied itself.I thank my God that, when he addressed my heartTo new affections, he made these be high:And you, beloved children, thank you meThat such a mother I chose to give you breath.