Forman gave me a copy of Keats’s letters to Fanny Brawne.The silhouette given of the lady is sadly disenchanting, andmay be the strongest proof existing of how much a man mayknow about abstract Beauty without having an artist’s eyefor the outside of it.
The Keats sonnet, as first shown to me, ran as follows:
The weltering London ways where children weep,—Where girls whom none call maidens laugh, where gain,Hurrying men’s steps, is yet by loss o’erta’en:—The bright Castalian brink and Latinos’ steep:—Such were his paths, till deeper and more deep,He trod the sands of Lethe; and long pain,Weary with labour spurned and love found vain,In dead Rome’s sheltering shadow wrapped his sleep.O pang-dowered Poet, whose reverberant lipsAnd heart-strung lyre awoke the moon’s eclipse,—Thou whom the daisies glory in growing o’er,—Their fragrance clings around thy name, not writ,But rumour’d in water, while the fame of itAlong Time’s flood goes echoing evermore.
I need hardly say that this sonnet seemed to me extremely noble in sentiment, and in music a glorious volume of sound. I felt, however, that it would be urged against it that it did not strike the keynote of the genius of Keats; that it would be said that in all the particulars in which Rossetti had truthfully and pathetically described London, Keats was in rather than of it; and that it would be affirmed that Keats lived in a fairy world of his own inventing, caring little for the storm and stress of London life. On the other hand, I knew it could be replied that Keats was not indifferent to the misery of city life; that it bore heavily upon him; that it came out powerfully and very sadly in hisOde to the Nightingale, and that it may have been from sheer torture in the contemplation of it that he fled away to a poetic world of his own creating. Moreover, Rossetti’s sonnet touched the life, rather than the genius, of Keats, and of this it struck the keynote in the opening lines. I ventured to think that the second and third lines wanted a little clarifying in the relation in which they stood. They seemed to be a sudden focussing of the laughter and weeping previously mentioned, rather than, what they were meant to be, a natural and necessary equipoise showing the inner life of Keats as contrasted with his outer life. To such an objection as this, Rossetti said:
I am rather aghast for my own lucidity when I read what yousay as to the first quatrain of my Keats sonnet. However, Ialways take these misconceptions as warnings to the Muse,and may probably alter the opening as below:The weltering London ways where children weepAnd girls whom none call maidens laugh,—strange road,Miring his outward steps who inly trodeThe bright Castalian brink and Latinos’ steep:—Even such his life’s cross-paths: till deathly deepHe toiled through sands of Lethe, etc.I ‘ll say more anent Keats anon.
About the period of this portion of the correspondence (1880) I was engaged reading up old periodicals dating from 1816 to 1822. My purpose was to get at first-hand all available data relative to the life of Keats. I thought I met with a good deal of fresh material, and as the result of my reading I believed myself able to correct a few errors as to facts into which previous writers on the subject had fallen. Two things at least I realised—first, that Keats’s poetic gift developed very rapidly, more rapidly perhaps than that of Shelley; and, next, that Keats received vastly more attention and appreciation in his day than is commonly supposed. I found it was quite a blunder to say that the first volume of miscellaneous poems fell flat. Lord Houghton says in error that the book did not so much as seem to signal the advent of a new Cockney poet! It is a fact, however, that this very book, in conjunction with one of Shelley’s and one of Hunt’s, all published 1816-17, gave rise to the name “The Cockney School of Poets,” which was invented by the writer signing “Z.” inBlackwoodin the early part of 1818. Nor had Keats to wait for the publication of the volume before attaining to some poetic distinction. At the close of 1816, an article, under the head of “Young Poets,” appeared inThe Examiner, and in this both Shelley and Keats were dealt with. ThenThe Quarterlycontained allusions to him, though not by name, in reviews of Leigh Hunt’s work, andBlackwoodmentioned him very frequently in all sorts of places as “Johnny Keats”—all this (or much of it) before he published anything except occasional sonnets and other fugitive poems inThe Examinerand elsewhere. And then whenEndymionappeared it was abundantly reviewed.The Edinburghreviewers had nothing on it (the book cannot have been sent to them, for in 1820 they say they have only just met with it), and I could not find anything in the way oforiginalcriticism inThe Examiner; but many provincial papers (in Manchester, Exeter, and elsewhere) and some metropolitan papers retorted onThe Quarterly. All this, however, does not disturb the impression which (Lord Houghton and Mr. W. M. Rossetti notwithstanding) I have been from the first compelled to entertain, namely, that “labour spurned” did more than all else to kill Keatsin 1821.
Most men who rightly know the workings of their own minds will agree that an adverse criticism rankles longer than a flattering notice soothes; and though it be shown that Keats in 1820 was comparatively indifferent to the praise ofThe Edinburgh, it cannot follow that in 1818 he must have been superior to the blame ofThe Quarterly. It is difficult to see why a man may not be keenly sensitive to what the world says about him, and yet retain all proper manliness as a part of his literary character. Surely it was from the mistaken impression that this could not be, and that an admission of extreme sensitiveness to criticism exposed Keats to a charge of effeminacy that Lord Houghton attempted to prove, against the evidence of all immediate friends, against the publisher’s note toHyperion, against the | poet’s self-chosen epitaph, and against all but one or two of the most self-contained of his letters, that the soul of Keats was so far from being “snuffed out by an article,” that it was more than ordinarily impervious to hostile comment, even when it came in the shape of rancorous abuse. In all discussion of the effects produced upon Keats by the reviews inBlackwood and The Quarterly, let it be remembered, first, that having wellnigh exhausted his small patrimony, Keats was to be dependent upon literature for his future subsistence; next, that Leigh Hunt attempted no defence of Keats when the bread was being taken out of his mouth, and that Keats felt this neglect and remarked upon it in a letter in which he further cast some doubt upon the purity of Hunt’s friendship. Hunt, after Keats’s death, said in reference to this: “Had he but given me the hint!” Thehint, forsooth! Moreover, I can find no sort of allusion inThe Examinerfor 1821, to the death of Keats. I told Rossetti that by the reading of the periodicals of the time, I formed a poor opinion of Hunt. Previously I was willing to believe in his unswerving loyalty to the much greater men who were his friends, but even that poor confidence in him must perforce be shaken when one finds him silent at a moment when Keats most needs his voice, and abusive when Coleridge is a common subject of ridicule. It was all very well for Hunt to glorify himself in the borrowed splendour of Keats’s established fame when the poet was twenty years dead, and to make much of his intimacy with Coleridge after the homage of two generations had been offered him, but I know of no instance (unless in the case of Shelley) in which Hunt stood by his friends in the winter of their lives, and gave them that journalistic support which was, poor man, the only thing he ever had to give, whatever he might take. I have, however, heard Mr. H. A. Bright (one of Hawthorne’s intimate friends in England) say that no man here impressed the American romancer so much as Hunt for good qualities, both of heart and head. But what I have stated above, I believe to be facts; and I have gathered them at first-hand, and by the light of them I do not hesitate to say that there is no reason to believe that it was Keats’s illness alone that caused him to regard Hunt’s friendship with suspicion. It is true, however, that when one reads Hunt’s letter to Severn at Borne, one feels that he must be forgiven. On this pregnant subject Rossetti wrote:
Thanks for yours received to-day, and for all you say withso much more kind solicitousness than the matter deserved,about the opening of the Keats sonnet. I have now realizedthat the new form is a gain in every way; and am thereforeglad that, though arising in accident, I was led to make thechange.... All you say of Keats shows that you have beenreading up the subject with good results. I fancy it wouldhardly be desirable to add the sonnets you speak of (asbeing worthless) at this date, though they might be valuablefor quotation as to the course of his mental and physicalstate. I do not myself think that any poems now includedshould be removed, but the reckless and tasteless plan ofthe gatherings hitherto (in which theNightingaleand othersuch masterpieces are jostled indiscriminately, with suchwretched juvenile trash asLines to some Ladies onreceiving a Shelly etc), should of course be amended, andthe rubbish (of which there is a fair quantity), removed toa “Juvenile” or other such section. It is a curious factthat among a poet’s early writings, some will really bejuvenile in this sense, while others, written at the sametime, will perhaps take rank at last with his best efforts.This, however, was not substantially the case with Keats.As to Leigh Hunt’s friendship for Keats, I think the pointsyou mention look equivocal; but Hunt was a many-laboured andmuch belaboured man, and as much allowance as may be made onthis score is perhaps due to him—no more than that much.His own powers stand high in various ways—poetically higherperhaps than is I at present admitted, despite hisdetestable flutter and airiness for the most part. Butassuredly by no means could he have stood so high in thelong-run, as by a loud and earnest defence of Keats. Perhapsthe best excuse for him is the remaining possibility of anidea on his part, that any defence coming from one who hadhimself so many powerful enemies might seem to Keatsrather to! damage than improve his position.I have this minute (at last) read the first instalment ofyour Keats paper, and return it.... One of the most markedpoints in the early recognition of Keats’s claims, ascompared with the recognition given to other poets, is thefact that he was the only one who secured almost at once agreatpoet as a close and obvious imitator—viz., Hood,whose first volume is more identical with Keats’s work thancould be said of any other similar parallel. You quote someof Keats’s sayings. One of the most characteristic I thinkis in a letter to Haydon:—“I value more the privilege of seeing great things inloneliness, than the fame of a prophet.” I had not in mindthe quotations you give from Keats as bearing on the poetic(or prophetic) mission of “doing good.” I must say that Ishould not have thought a longer career thrown away upon him(as you intimate) if he had continued to the age of anythingonly to give joy. Nor would he ever have done any “good” atall. Shelley did good, and perhaps some harm with it.Keats’s joy was after all a flawless gift.Keats wrote to Shelley:—“You, I am sure, will forgive mefor sincerely remarking that you might curb your magnanimityand be more of an artist, and load every rift of yoursubject with ore.” Cheeky!—but not so much amiss. Poetry,and no prophecy however, must come of that mood,—and nopulpit would have held Keats’s wings,—the body and mindtogether were not heavy enough for a counterweight.... Didyou ever meet with
ENDIMIONAN EXCELLENT FANCY FIRST COMPOSED IN FRENCHBy Monsieur GOMBAULDAND NOW ELEGANTLY INTERPRETEDBy RICHARD HURST, Gentleman1639.?
It has very finely engraved plates of the late Flemish type.There is a poem of Vaughan’s on Gombauld’sEndimion, whichmight make one think it more fascinating than it really is.Though rather prolix, however, it has attractions as asomewhat devious romantic treatment of the subject. Thelittle book is one of the first I remember in this world,and I used to dip into it again and again as a child, butnever yet read it through. I still possess it. I dare say itis not easily met with, and should suppose Keats hadprobably never seen it. If he had, he might really havetaken a hint or two for his scheme, which is hardly so cleareven as Gombauld’s, though its endless digressions teem withbeauty.... I do not think you would benefit at all by seeingGombauld’sEndimion. Vaughan’s poem on it might be worthquoting as showing what attention the subject had receivedbefore Keats. I have the poem in Gilfillan’sLess-KnownPoets.
Rossetti took a great interest in the fund started for the relief of Mme. de Llanos, Keats’s sister, whose circumstances were seriously reduced. He wrote:
By the bye, I don’t know whether the subscription forKeats’s old and only surviving sister (Madme de Llanos) hasbeen at all ventilated in Liverpool. It flags sorely. Do youthink there would be any chance in your neighbourhood? Ifso, prospectuses, etc., could be sent.
I did not view the prospect of subscriptions as very hopeful, and so conceived the idea of a lecture in the interests of the fund. On this project, Rossetti wrote:
I enclose prospectuses as to the Keats subscription. I maysay that I did not know the list would accompany them—stillless that contributions would be so low generally as toleave me near the head of the list—an unenviable sort ofparade.... My own opinion about the lecture question isthis. You know best whether such a lecture could be turnedto the purposes of your Keats article (now in progress), orrather be so much deduction from the freshness of itsresources: and this should be theabsolutetest of itsbeing done or not done.... I think, if it can be donewithout impoverishing your materials, the method of gettingLord Houghton to preside and so raising as much from it aspossible is doubtless the right one. Of course I view it asfar more hopeful than mere distribution of any number ofprospectuses.... Even £25 would be a great contribution tothe fund.
The lecture project was not found feasible, and hence it was abandoned. Meantime the kindness of friends enabled me to add to the list a good number of subscriptions, but feeling scarcely satisfied with any such success as I might be likely to have in that direction, I opened, by the help of a friend, a correspondence with Lord Houghton with a view to inducing him to apply for a pension for the lady. It then transpired that Lord Houghton had already applied to Lord Beaconsfield for a pension for Mme. Llanos, and would doubtless have got it, had not Mr. Buxton Forman applied for a grant from the Royal Bounty, which was easier to give. I told Rossetti of this fact and he said:
I am not surprised about Lord H., and feel sure it is a pityhe was not left to try Beaconsfield, but I judge theprojectors on the other side knew nothing of his intentions.However,Iwas in no way a projector.
In the end Lord Houghton repeated to Mr. Gladstone the application he had made to Lord Beaconsfield, and succeeded.
Rossetti must have been among the earliest admirers of Keats. I remarked on one occasion that it was very natural that Lord Houghton should consider himself in a sense the first among men now living to champion the poet and establish his name, and Rossetti admitted that this was so, and was ungrudging in his tribute to Lord Houghton’s services towards the better appreciation of Keats; but he contended, nevertheless, that he had himself been one of the first writers of the generation succeeding the poet’s own to admire and uphold him, and that this was at a time when it made demand of some courage to class him among the immortals, when an original edition of any of his books could be bought for sixpence on a bookstall, and when only Leigh Hunt, Cowden Clarke, Hood, Benjamin Haydon, and perhaps a few others, were still living of those who recognised his great gifts.
Rossetti’s primary interest in Chatterton dates back to an early period, as I find by the date, 1848, in the copy he possessed of the poet’s works. But throughout a long interval he neglected Chatterton, and it was not until his friend Theodore Watts, who had made Chatterton a special study, had undertaken to select from and write upon him in Ward’sEnglish Poets, that he revived his old acquaintance. Whatever Rossetti did he did thoroughly, and hence he became as intimate perhaps with the Rowley antiques as any other man had ever been. His letters written during the course of his Chatterton researches must, I think, prove extremely interesting. He says:
Glancing at your Keats MS., I notice (in a series ofparallels) the names of Marlowe and Savage; but not the less“marvellous” than absolutely miraculous Chatterton. Are youup in his work? He is in the very first rank! Theod. Wattsis “doing him” for the new selection of poets by Arnold andWard, and I have contributed a sonnet to Watts’s article....I assure you Chatterton’s namemustcome in somewhere inthe parallel passage. He was as great as any English poetwhatever, and might absolutely, had he lived, have provedthe only man in England’s theatre of imagination who couldhave bandied parts with Shakspeare. The best way of gettingat him is in Skeat’s Aldine edition (G. Bell and Co., 1875).Read him carefully, and you will find his acknowledged workessentially as powerful as his antiques, though less evenlysuccessful—the Rowley work having been produced in Bristolleisure, however indigent, and the modern poetry in the veryfangs of London struggle. Strong derivative points are to befound in Keats and Coleridge from the study of Chatterton. Ifeel much inclined to send the sonnet (on Chatterton) as youwish, but really think it is better not to ventilate thesethings till in print. I have since written one on Blake. Notto know Chatterton is to be ignorant of thetrueday-spring of modern romantic poetry.... I believe the 3d vol.of Ward’sSelections of English Poetry, for which Watts isselecting from Chatterton, will soon be out,—but theseexcerpts are very brief, as are the notices. The renderingfrom the Rowley antique will be much better than anythingformerly done. Skeat is a thorough philologist, but no handat all when substitution becomes unavoidable in the text....Read theBallad of Charity, the Eclogues, the songs inÆlla, as a first taste. Among the modern poemsNarva andMared, and the otherAfrican Eclogues. These are alone inthat sectionpoetry absolute, and though they are veryunequal, it has been most truly said by Malone that to throwtheAfrican Ecloguesinto the Rowley dialect would be atonce a satisfactory key to the question whether Chattertonshowed in his own person the same powers as in the person ofRowley. Among the satirical and light modern pieces thereare many of a first-. rate order, though generally unequal.Perfect specimens, however, areThe Revenge, a Burletta,Skeat, vol i; Verses to a Lady, p. 84; Journal Sixth, p. 33;The Prophecy, p. 193; and opening of Fragment, p. 132.Iwould advise you to consult the original text.
Mr. Watts, it seems, with all his admiration of Chatterton, finding that he could not go to Rossetti’s length in comparing him with Shakspeare, did not in the result consider the sonnet on Chatterton referred to in the foregoing letter, and given below, suitable to be embodied in his essay:
With Shakspeare’s manhood at a boy’s wild heart,—Through Hamlet’s doubt to Shakspeare near allied,And kin to Milton through his Satan’s pride,—At Death’s sole door he stooped, and craved a dart;And to the dear new bower of England’s art,—Even to that shrine Time else had deified,The unuttered heart that soared against his side,—Drove the fell point, and smote life’s seals apart.Thy nested home-loves, noble Chatterton,The angel-trodden stair thy soul could traceUp Redcliffe’s spire; and in the world’s armed spaceThy gallant sword-play:—these to many an oneAre sweet for ever; as thy grave unknown,And love-dream of thine unrecorded face.
Some mention was made in this connection of Rossetti’s young connection, Oliver Madox Brown, who wroteGabriel Denver(otherwiseThe Black Swan) at seventeen years of age. I mentioned the indiscreet remark of a friend who said that Oliver had enough genius to stock a good few Chattertons, and thereupon Rossetti sent me the following outburst:
You must take care to be on the right tack about Chatterton.I am very glad to find the gifted Oliver M. B. already anembryo classic, as I always said he would be; but those whocompare net results in such cases as his and Chatterton’scannot know what criticism means. The nett results ofadvancing epochs, however permanent on accumulatedfoundation-work, are the poorest of all tests as to relativevalues. Oliver was the product of the most teeming hot-bedsof art and literature, and even of compulsory addiction tothe art of painting, in which nevertheless he was rapidlybecoming as much a proficient as in literature. What hewould have been if, like the ardent and heroic Chatterton,he had had to fight a single-handed battle for art and breadtogether against merciless mediocrity in high places,—whathe wouldthenhave become, I cannot in the leastcalculate; but we know what Chatterton became. Moreover, C.at his death, was two years younger than Oliver—a wholelifetime of advancement at that age frequently—indeedalways I believe in leading cases. There are few indeed whomthe facile enthusiasm for contemporary models does notdeaden to the truly balanced claims of successful efforts inart. However, look at Watts’s remodelled extracts when thevol comes out, and also at what he says in detail as toChatterton, Coleridge, and Keats.
Of course Rossetti was right in what he said of comparative criticism when brought to bear in such cases as those of Chatterton and Oliver Madox Brown. Net results are certainly the poorest tests of relative values where the work done belongs to periods of development. We cannot, however, see or know any man except through and in his work, and net results must usually be accepted as the only concrete foundation for judging of the quality of his genius. Such judgment will always be influenced, nevertheless, by considerations such as Rossetti mentions. Touching Chatterton’s development, it were hardly rash to say that it appears incredible that theAfrican Ecloguesshould have been written by a boy of seventeen, and, in judging of their place in poetry, one is apt to be influenced by one’s first feeling of amazement. Is it possible that the Rowley poems may owe much of their present distinction to the early astonishment that a boy should have written them, albeit they have great intrinsic excellencies such as may insure them a high place when the romance, intertwined with their history, has been long forgotten? But Chatterton is more talked of than read, and this has been so from the first. The antiques are all but unknown; certain of the acknowledged poems are remembered, and regarded as fervid and vigorous, and many of the lesser pieces are thought slight, weak, and valueless. People do not measure the poorer things in Chatterton with his time and opportunities, or they would see only amazing strength and knowledge of the world in all he did. Those lesser pieces were many of them dashed off to answer the calls of necessity, to flatter the egotism of a troublesome friend, or to wile away a moment of vacancy. Certainly they must not be set against his best efforts. As for Chatterton’s life, the tragedy of it is perhaps the most moving example of what Coleridge might have termed the material pathetic. Pathetic, however, as his life was, and marvellous as was his genius, I miss in him the note of personal purity and majesty of character. I told Rossetti that, in my view, Chatterton lacked sincerity, and on this point he wrote:
I must protest finally about Chatterton, that he lacksnothing because lacking the gradual growth of the emotionalin literature which becomes evident in Keats—still less itsexcess, which would of course have been pruned, in Oliver.The finest of the Rowley poems—Eclogues, Ballad ofCharity, etc., rank absolutely with the finest poetry inthe language, and gain (not lose) by moderation. As to whatyou say of C.‘s want of political sincerity (for I cannotsee to what other want you can allude), surely a boy up toeighteen may be pardoned for exercising his faculty if hehappens to be the one among millions who can use grown menas his toys. He was an absolute and untarnished hero, butfor that reckless defying vaunt. Certainly that mostvigorous passage commencing—“Interest, thou universal God of men,” etc.reads startlingly, and comes in a questionable shape. Whatis the answer to its enigmatical aspect? Why, that hemeantit, and that all would mean it at his age, who hadhis power, his daring, and his hunger. Still it does,perhaps, make one doubt whether his early death were well orill for him. In the matter of Oliver (whom no oneappreciates more than I do), remember that it was impossibleto have more opportunities thanhehad, or on the othersidefewerthan Chatterton had. Chatterton at seventeen orless said—“Flattery’s a cloak, and I will put it on.”
Blake (probably late in life) said—
“Innocence is a winter gown.”... Ihaveread the Chatterton article in the reviewmentioned. If Watts had done it, it would have beenimmeasurably better. There seems to me, who am very well upin Chatterton, no point whatever made in the article. Whydoes no one ever even allude to the two attributed portraitsof Chatterton—one belonging to Sir H. Taylor, and the otherin the Salford Museum? Both seem to be the same personclearly, and a good find for Chatterton, but not conceivablydone from him. Nevertheless, Isuspectthere may be asidelong genuineness in them. Chatterton was acquainted withone Alcock, a miniature painter at Bristol, to whom headdressed a poem. Had A. painted C. it would be among themany recorded facts; but it would be singular even if, inC.‘s rapid posthumous fame, A. had never been asked to makea reminiscent likeness of him. Prom such likeness by theminiature painter theseportraits mightderive—both beinglife-sized oil heads. There is a savour of Keats in them,though a friend, taking up the younger-looking of the two,said it reminded him of Jack Sheppard! And not such a badChatterton-compound either! But I begin to think I have saidall this before.... Oliver, or “Nolly,” as he was alwayscalled, was a sort of spread-eagle likeness of his handsomefather, with a conical head like Walter Scott. I mustconfess to you, that, in this world of books, the only oneof his I have read, isGabriel Denver, afterwardsreprinted in its original and superior form asThe BlackSwan, but published with the former title in his lifetime.
Rossetti formed no such philosophic estimate of Chatterton’s contribution to the romantic movement in English poetry as has been formulated in the essay in Ward’sPoets. A critic, in the sense of one possessed of a natural gift of analysis, Rossetti assuredly! was not. No man’s instinct for what is good in poetry was ever swifter or surer than that of Rossetti. You might always distrust your judgment if you found it at variance with his where abstract power and beauty were in question. Sooner or later you would inevitably find yourself gravitating to his view. But here Rossetti’s function as a critic ended. His was at best only the criticism of the creator. Of the gift of ultimate classification he had none, and never claimed to have any, although now and again (as where he says that Chatterton was the day-spring of modern romantic poetry), he seems to give sign of a power of critical synthesis.
Rossetti’s interest in Blake, both as poet and painter, dates back to an early period of his life. I have heard him say that at sixteen or seventeen years of age he was already one of Blake’s warmest admirers, and at the time in question, 1845, the author of theSongs of Innocencehad not many readers to uphold him. About four years later, Rossetti made an exceptionally lucky discovery, for he then found in the possession of Mr. Palmer, an attendant at the British Museum, an original manuscript scrap-book of Blake’s, containing a great body of unpublished poetry and many interesting designs, as well as three or four remarkably effective profile sketches of the author himself. The Mr. Palmer who held the little book was a relative of the landscape painter of the same name, who was Blake’s friend, and hence the authenticity of the manuscript was ascertainable on other grounds than the indisputable ones of its internal evidences. The book was offered to Rossetti for ten shillings, but the young enthusiast was at the time a student of art, and not much in the way of getting or spending even so inconsiderable a sum. He told me, however, that at this period his brother William, who was, unlike himself, engaged in some reasonably profitable occupation, was at all times nothing loath to advance small sums for the purchase of such literary or other treasures as he used to hunt up out of obscure corners: by his help the Blake manuscript was bought, and proved for years a source of infinite pleasure and profit, resulting, as it did, in many very important additions to Blake literature when Gilchrist’sLife and Worksof that author came to be published. It is an interesting fact, mention of which ought not to be omitted, that at the sale of Rossetti’s library, which took place a little while after his decease, the scrap-book acquired in the way I describe was sold for one hundred and five guineas.
The sum was a large one, but the little book was undoubtedly the most valuable literary relic of Blake then extant. About the time when a new edition of Gilchrist’sLifewas in the press, Rossetti wrote:
My evenings have been rather trenched upon lately by helpingMrs. Gilchrist with a new edition of theLife of Blake....I don’t know if you go in much for him. The new edition oftheLifewill include a good number of additional letters(from Blake to Hayley), and some addition (though not great)to my own share in the work; as well as much importantcarrying-on of my brother’s catalogue of Blake’s works. Theillustrations will, I trust, receive valuable additionsalso, but publishers are apt to be cautious in suchexpenses. I am writing late at night, to fill up a fag-endof bedtime, and shall write again on this head.
Rossetti’s “own share” in this work consisted of the writing of the supplementary chapter (left by Gilchrist, with one or two unimportant passages merely, at the beginning), and the editing of the poems. When there arose, subsequently, some idea of my reviewing the book, Rossetti wrote me the following letter, full of disinterested solicitude:
You will be quite delighted with an essay on Blake by Jas.Smetham, which occurs in vol ii.; it is a noble thing; andat the stupendous design calledPlague(vol. i.). I haveextracted a passage properly belonging to the same essay,which is as fine as Englishcanbe, and which I am sorryto perceive (I think) that Mrs. G. has omitted from the bodyof the essay because quoted in another place. This essay isno less than a masterpiece. I wrote the supplementarychapter (vol. i.), except a few opening paragraphs byGilchrist,—and in it have now made some mention of Smetham,an old and dear friend of mine.You will admire Shields’s paper on the wonderful series ofYoung’sNight Thoughts. My brother and I both helped inthis new edition, but I added little to what I had donebefore. I brought forward a portentous series of passagesabout one “Scofield” in Blake’sJerusalem, but did nototherwise write that chapter, except as regards theillustrations. However, don’t mention what I have done (incase you write on the subject) except so far as the indicesshow it, and of course I don’t wish to be put forward atall. What I do wish is, that you should say everything thatcan be gratifying to Mrs. G. as to her husband’s work. Thereis a plate of Blake’s Cottage by young Gilchrist which istruly excellent.
As I have already said, Rossetti traversed the bypaths of English literature (particularly of English poetry) as few can ever have traversed them. A favourite work with him was Gilfillan’sLess-Read British Poets, a copy of which had been presented by Miss Boyd. He says:
Did you ever read Christopher Smart’sSong to David, theonly greataccomplishedpoem of the last century? Theaccomplished ones are Chatterton’s,—of course I meanearlier than Blake or Coleridge, and without reckoning soexceptional a genius as Burns.... You will find Smart’s poema masterpiece of rich imagery, exhaustive resources, andreverberant sound. It is to be met with in Gilfillan’sSpecimens of the Less-Read British Poets(3 vols. Nichol,Edin., 1860)....I remember your mentioning Gilfillan as having encouragedyour first efforts. He was powerful, though sometimes rather“tall” as a writer, generally most just as a critic, andlastly, a much better man, intellectually and morally, thanAytoun, who tried to “do for” him. His notice of Swift, inthe volume in question, has very great force and eloquence.His whole edition of theBritish Poetsis the best of anyto read, being such fine type and convenient bulk and weight(a great thing for an arm-chair reader). Unfortunately, henow and then (in theLess-Read Poets) cuts down theextracts almost to nothing, and in some cases excisesobjectionabilities, which is unpardonable. Much better leavethe whole out. Also, the edition includes the usual array ofnobodies—Addison, Akenside, and the whole alphabet down toZany and Zero; whereas a great many of theless-readwouldhave been much-read by every worthy reader if they had onlybeen printed in full. So well printed an edition of Donne(for instance) would have been a great boon; but from himGilfillan only gives (among theless-read) the admirableProgress of the Souland some of the pregnantHolySonnets. Do you know Donne? There is hardly an English poetbetter worth a thorough knowledge, in spite of his provokingconceits and occasional jagged jargon.The following paragraph on Whitehead is valuable:Charles Whitehead’s principal poem isThe Solitary, whichin its day had admirers. It perhaps most recalls Goldsmith.He also wrote a supernatural poem calledIppolito. Therewas a volume of his poems published about 1848, or perhaps alittle later, by Bentley. It is disappointing, on the whole,from the decided superiority of its best points to therest.... But the novel ofRichard Savageis veryremarkable,—a real character really worked out.
To aid me in certain researches I was at the time engaged in making in the back-numbers of almost forgotten periodicals, Rossetti wrote:
The oldMonthly Mag.was the precursor of theNewMonthly, which started about 1830, or thereabouts I think,after which the old one ailed, but went on till fatal oldHeraud finished it off by editing it, and fairly massacredthat elderly innocent. You speak, in a former letter(touching the continuation ofChristabel), of “a certainEuropean magazine.” Are you aware that it was as old a thingasThe Gentleman’s, and went onad infinitum?Other suchwere theUniversal Magazine, the Scots’ Magazine—allendless in extent and beginning time out of mind,—to saynothing of theLadies’ Magazine and Wits’ Magazine. Thenthere was theAnnual Register. All these are quarters inwhich you might prosecute researches, and might happen tofind something about Keats.The Monthly Magazinemust havecommenced almost as early, I believe. I cannot help thinkingthere was a similarImperial Magazine.
The following letter possesses an interest independent of its subject, which to me, however, is interest enough. Mr. William Watson had sent Rossetti a copy of a volume of poems he had just published, and had received a letter in acknowledgment, wherein our friend, with characteristic appreciativeness, said many cordial words of it:
Your young friend Watson [he said in a subsequent letter]wrote me in a very modest mood for one who can do as he canat his age. I think I must have hurriedly mis-expressedmyself in writing to him, as he seems to think I wished todissuade him from following narrative poetry. Not in theleast—I only wished him to try his hand at clearer dramaticlife. The dreamy romantic really hardly needs more than onevast Morris in a literature—at any rate in a century. Notthat I think him derivable from Morris—he goes straightback to Keats with a little modification. The narrative,whether condensed or developed, is at any rate a far betterimpersonal form to work in than declamatory harangue,whether calling on the stars or the Styx. I don’t know inthe least how Watson is faring with the critics. He must notbe discouraged, in any case, with his real and high gifts.
The young poet, in whom Rossetti saw so much to applaud, can scarcely be said to have fared at all at the hands of the critics.
Here is a pleasant piece of literary portraiture, as valuable from the peep it affords into Rossetti’s own character as from the description it gives of the rustic poet:
The other evening I had the pleasant experience of meetingone to whom I have for about two years looked with interestas a poet of the native rustic kind, but often of quite asuperior order. I don’t know if you noticed, somewhere aboutthe date referred to, inThe Athenæum, a review of poemsby Joseph Skipsey. Skip-sey has exquisite—though, as in allsuch cases (except of course Burns’s) not equal—powers inseveral directions, but his pictures of humble life are thebest. He is a working miner, and describes rustic loves andsports, and the perils and pathos of pit-life with greatcharm, having a quiet humour too when needed. His moreambitious pieces have solid merit of feeling, but are muchless artistic. The other night, as I say, he came here, andI found him a stalwart son of toil, and every inch agentleman. In cast of face he recalls Tennyson somewhat,though more bronzed and brawned. He is as sweet and gentleas a woman in manner, and recited some beautiful things ofhis own with a special freshness to which one is quiteunaccustomed.
Mr. Skipsey was a miner of North Shields, and in the review referred to much was made, in a delicate way, of his stern environments. His volume of lyrics is marked by the quiet humour. Rossetti speaks of, as well as by a rather exasperating inequality. Perhaps the best piece in it is a poem entitledThistle and Nettle, treating with peculiar freshness of a country courtship. The coming together of two such entirely opposite natures was certainly curious, and only to be accounted for on the ground of Rossetti’s breadth of poetic sympathy. It would be interesting to hear what the impressions were of such a rude son of toil upon meeting with one whose life must have seemed the incarnation of artistic luxury and indulgence. Later on I received the following:
Poor Skipsey! He has lost the friend who brought him toLondon only the other day (T. Dixon), and who was his onlyhold on intellectual life in his district. Dixon diedimmediately on his return to the North, of a violent attackof asthma to which he was subject. He was a rarely pure andsimple soul, and is doubtless gone to higher uses, thoughfew could have reached, with his small opportunities, tosuch usefulness as he compassed here. He was Ruskin’scorrespondent in a little book called (I think)Work byTyne and Wear. I got a very touching note from Skipsey onthe subject.
From Mr. Skipsey he received a letter only a little while before his death, and to him he addressed one of the last epistles he penned.
The following letter explains itself, and is introduced as much for the sake of the real humour which it displays, as because it affords an excellent idea of Rossetti’s view of the true function of prose: