It was characteristic of Rossetti that he addressed me in the following terms probably before I had left his house: for the letter was, no doubt, written in that interval of sleeplessness which he had spoken of as his nightly visitant:
I forgot to say—Don’t, please, spread details as to story ofRose Mary. I don’t want it to be stale or to get forestalled in the travelling of report from mouth to mouth. I hope it won’t be too long before you visit town again,—I will not for an instant question that you would then visit me also.
Six months or more intervened, however, before I was able to visit Rossetti again. In the meantime we corresponded as fully as before: the subject upon which we most frequently exchanged opinions being now the sonnet.
By-the-bye [he says], I cannot understand what you say ofMilton’s, Keats’s, and Coleridge’s sonnets. The last, it istrue, wasalwayspoor as a sonnetteer (I don’t see much intheAutumnal Moon). My own only exception to this verdict(much as I adore Coleridge’s genius) would be the ludicroussonnet onThe House that Jack built, which is amasterpiece in its way. I should not myself number the oneyou mention of Keats’s among his best half-dozen (many ofhis are mere drafts, strange to say); and cannot at allenter into your verdict on those of Milton, which seem to meto be every one of exceptional excellence, though a few areeven finer than the rest, notably, of course, the one youname. Pardon an egotistic sentence (in answer to what yousay so generously ofLost Days), if I express an opinionthatKnown in VainandStill-born Lovemay perhaps besaid to head the series in value, thoughLost Daysmightbe equally a favourite with me if I did not remember in whatbut too opportune juncture it was wrung out of me. I have agood number of sonnets forThe House of Lifestill in MS.,which I have worked on with my best effort, and, I think,will fully sustain their place. These and other things Ishould like to show you whenever we meet again. The MS. vol.I proposed to send is merely an old set of (chiefly)trifles, about which I should like an opinion as to whetherany should be included in the future.
I had spoken of Keats’s sonnet beginning
To one who has been long in city pent,
with its exquisite last lines—
E’en like the passage of an angel’s tearThat falls through the clear ether silently,
reminding one of a less spiritual figure—
Kings like a golden jewelDown a golden stair.
After his bantering me, as of old he had done, on the use of long and crabbed words, I hinted that he was in honour bound to agree at least with my disparaging judgment uponTetrachordon, if only because of the use of words that would “have made Quintillian stare.”
I further instanced—
“Harry whose tuneful and well-measured song;” and“Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,”
as examples of Milton at his weakest as a sonnet-writer. He replied:
I am sorry I must still differ somewhat from you aboutMilton’s sonnets. I think the one onTetrachordona veryvigorous affair indeed. The one to Mr. H. Lawes I am halfdisposed to give you, but not altogether—its close issweet. As toLawrence, it is curious that my sister wasonly the other day expressing to me a special relish forthis sonnet, and I do think it very fresh and wholesomelyrelishing myself. It is an awful fact that sun, moon, orcandlelight once looked down on the human portent of Dr.Johnson and Mrs. Hannah More convened in solemn conclaveabove the outspread sonnets of Milton, with a meritoriousand considerate resolve of finding out for him “why theywere so bad.” This is so stupendous a warning, that perhapsit may even incline one to find some of them better thanthey are.Coming to Coleridge, I must confess at once that I nevermeet in any collection with the sonnet on Schiller’sRobberswithout heading it at once with the words“unconscionably bad.” The habit has been a life-long one.That you mention beginning—“Sweet mercy,” etc., I havelooked for in the only Coleridge I have by me (my brother’scheap edition, for all the faults of whichheis not atall answerable), and do not find it there, nor have I it inmind.To pass to Keats. The ed. of 1868 contains no sonnet on theElgin Marbles. Is it in a later edition? Of course that onChapman’sHomeris supreme. It ought to be preceded {*} inall editions by the oneTo Homer,“Standing aloof in giant ignorance,” etc.which contains perhaps the greatest single line in Keats:“There is a budding morrow in midnight.”* I pointed out that it was written later than the one onChapman’s Homer (notwithstanding its first line) andtherefore should follow after it, not go before.Other special favourites with me are—“Why did I laugh to-night?”—” As Hermes once,”—“Time’s sea hath been,” andthe oneOn the Flower and, Leaf.It is odd that several of these best ones seem to have beenearly work, and rejected by Keats in his lifetime, whilesome of those he printed are absolutely sorry drafts.I had admired Coleridge’s sonnet on Schiller’sRobbersforthe perhaps minor excellence of bringing vividly before themind the scenes it describes. If the sonnet isunconscionably bad so perhaps is the play, the beautifulscene of the setting sun notwithstanding. Eventually,however, I abandoned my belligerent position as to Milton’ssonnets: the army of authorities I found ranged against themodest earth-works within which I had entrenched myself mustof itself have made me quail. My utmost contention had beenthat Milton wrote the most impassioned sonnet (Avenge, OLord), the two most nobly pathetic sonnets (When IconsiderandMethought I saw), and one of the poorestsonnets (Harry, whose tuneful, etc.) in English poetry.At this time (September 1880) Mr. J. Ashcroft Noblepublished an essay onThe Sonnet in EnglandinTheContemporary Review, and relating thereto Rossetti wrote:I have just been reading Mr. Noble’s article on the sonnet.As regards my own share in it, I can only say that it greetsme with a gratifying ray of generous recognition. It is allthe more pleasant to me as finding a place in the veryReview which years ago opened its pages to a pseudonymousattack on my poems and on myself. I see a passage in thearticle which seems meant to indicate the want of such awork on the sonnet as you are wishing to supply. I onlytrust that you may do so, and that Mr. Noble may find afield for continued poetic criticism. I am very proud tothink that, after my small and solitary book has been a goodmany years published and several years out of print, it yetmeets with such ardent upholding by young and sincere men.With the verdicts given throughout the article, I generallysympathise, but not with the unqualified homage toWordsworth. A reticence almost invariably present is fatalin my eyes to the highest pretensions on behalf of hissonnets. Reticence is but a poor sort of muse, nor istentativeness (so often to be traced in his work) a goodaccompaniment in music. Take the sonnet onToussaintL’Ouverture(in my opinion his noblest, and very nobleindeed) and study (from Main’s note) the lame and fumblingchanges made in various editions of the early lines, whichremain lame in the end. Far worse than this, study therelation of the closing lines of his famous sonnetTheWorld is too much with us, etc., to a passage in Spenser,and say whether plagiarism was ever more impudent ormanifest (again I derive from Main’s excellent exposition ofthe point), and then consider whether a bard was likely todo this once and yet not to do it often. Primary vitalimpulse was surely not fully developed in his muse.I will venture to say that I wish my sister’s sonnet workhad met with what I consider the justice due to it. Besidesthe unsurpassed quality (in my opinion) of her best sonnets,my sister has proved her poetic importance by solid andnoble inventive work of many kinds, which I should be proudindeed to reckon among my life’s claims.I have a great weakness myself for many of Tennyson-Turner’ssonnets, though of course what Mr. Noble says of them is inthe main true, and he has certainly quoted the very finestone, which has a more fervent appeal for me than I couldeasily derive from Wordsworth in almost any case.Will you give my thanks to Mr. Noble for his frank andoutspoken praise?Let me hear of your doings and intentions.Ever sincerely yours.
Three names notably omitted in the article are those of Dobell, W. B. Scott, and Swinburne.
The allusion in the foregoing letter to the work on the Sonnet which I was aiming to supply, bears reference to the anthology subsequently published under the title ofSonnets of Three Centuries. My first idea was simply to write a survey of the art and history of the sonnet, printing only such examples as might be embraced by my critical comments. Rossetti’s generous sympathy was warmly engaged in this enterprise.
It would really warm me up much [he writes] to know ofyourediting a sonnet book You would have my bestcooperation as to suggesting examples, but I certainly thinkthat English sonnets (original and exceptionally translatedones, the latter onlyperhaps) should be the sole scheme.Curiously enough, some one wrote me the other day as to aprojected series of living sonneteers (other collectionsbeing only of those preceding our time). I have halfcommitted myself to contributing, but not altogether as yet.The name of the projector, S. Waddington, is new to me, andI don’t know who is to publish.... Really you ought to dothe sonnet-book you aspire to do. I know but of one Londoncritic (Theodore Watts) whom I should consider the leadingman for such a purpose, and I have tried to incite him to itso often that I know now he won’t do it; but I have alwaysmeanta completeseries in which the dead poets must, ofcourse, predominate. As to a series of the living only, Itold you of a Mr. Waddington who seems engaged on such asupplementary scheme. What his gifts for it may be I knownot, but I suppose he knows it is in requisition. However,there need not be but one such if you felt your hand in forit. His view happens to be also (as you suggest) about 160sonnets. In reply to your query, I certainly think theremust be 20 living writers (male and female—my sister aleader, I consider) who have written good sonnets such aswould afford an interesting and representative selection,though assuredly not such as would all take the rank ofclassics by any means. The number of sonnets now extant,written by poets who did not exist as such a dozen yearsago, I believe to be almost infinite, and in sufficientlynumerous instances good, however derivative. One youngerpoet among them, Philip Marston, has written many sonnetswhich yield to few or none by any poet whatever; but he hasprinted such a large number in the aggregate, and so unequalone with the other, that the great ones are not to be foundby opening at random. “How are they (the poets) to beapproached?—” you innocently ask. Ye heavens! how does thecat’s-meat-man approach Grimalkin?—and what is thatrelation in life when compared to therapportestablishedbetween the living bard and the fellow-creature who isdisposed to cater to his caterwauling appetite forpublicity? However, to be serious, I must at least exoneratethe bard, I am sure, from any desire to appropriate an“interest in the proceeds.” There are some, I feel certain,to whom the collector might say with a wink, “What are yougoing to stand?”
I do not myself think that a collection of sonnets inserted at intervals in an essay is a good form for the purpose. Such a book is from one chief point a book of instantaneous reference,—it would only, perhaps, be readthroughonce in a lifetime. For this purpose a well-indexed current series is best, with any desirable essay prefixed and notes affixed.... I once conceived of a series, to be entitled,
THE ENGLISH CASTALY: A QUINTESSENCE: BEING A COLLECTION OF ALL THAT IS BEST IN ALL ENGLISH POETS, EXCEPTING WORKS OF GREAT LENGTH.
I still think this a good idea, but, of course, it would be an extensive undertaking.
Later on, he wrote:
I have thought of a title for your book. What think you ofthis?
A SONNET SEQUENCE FROM ELDER TO MODERN WORK, WITH FIFTY HITHERTO UNPRINTED SONNETS BY LIVING WRITERS.
That would not be amiss. Tell me if you think of using thetitleA Sonnet Sequence, as otherwise I might use it intheHouse of Life.... What do you think of thisalternative title:
THE ENGLISH SONNET MUSE FROM ELIZABETH’S REIGN TO VICTORIA’S.
I thinkCastaliamuch too euphuistic, and though Ishouldn’t like the book to be called simply still I have agreat prejudice against very florid titles for suchgatherings.Treasuryhas been sadly run upon.
I did not likeSonnet Sequencefor such a collection, and relinquished the title; moreover, I had had from the first a clearly defined scheme in mind, carrying its own inevitable title, which was in due course adopted. I may here remark that I never resisted any idea of Rossetti’s at the moment of its inception, since resistance only led to a temporary outburst of self-assertion on his part. He was a man of so much impulse,—impulse often as violent as lawless—that to oppose him merely provoked anger to no good purpose, for as often as not the position at first adopted with so much pertinacity was afterwards silently abandoned, and your own aims quietly acquiesced in. On this subject of a title he wrote a further letter, which is interesting from more than one point of view:
I don’t likeGarlandat all C. Patmore collected aChildren’s Garland.I think
ENGLISH SONNET’S PRESENT AND PAST, WITH—ETC.,
would be a good title. I think I preferPresent and Past,orof the P. and P.,toNew and Oldfor your purpose;but I own I am partly influenced by the fact that I havesettled to call my own vol.Poems New and Old, and don’twant it to get staled; but I really do think the other atleast as good for your purpose—perhaps more dignified.
Again, in reply to a proposal of my own, he wrote:
I thinkSonnets of the Centuryan excellent idea andtitle. I must say a mass of Wordsworth over again, likeMain’s, is a little disheartening,—still thebestselection from him is what one wants. There is some bookcalledA Century of Sonnets, but this, I suppose, wouldnot matter....I think sometimes of your sonnet-book, and have formedcertain views. I really would not in your place include oldwork at all: it would be but a scanty gathering, and I feelcertain that what is really in requisition is a supplementto Main, containing living writers (printed and un-printed)put together under their authors’ names (not separately) andrare gleanings from those more recently dead.
I fear I did not attach importance to this decision, for I now knew my correspondent too well to rely upon his being entirely in the same mind for long. Hence I was not surprised to receive the following a day or two later:
I lately had a conversation with Watts about your sonnet-book, and find his views to be somewhat different from whatI had expressed, and I may add I think now he is right. Hesays there should be a very careful selection of the eldersonnets and of everything up to present century. I think heis right.
The fact is, that almost from the first I had taken a view similar to Mr. Watts’s as to the design of my book, and had determined to call the anthology by the title it now bears. On one occasion, however, I acted rather without judgment in sending Rossetti a synopsis of certain critical tests formulated by Mr. Watts in a letter of great power and value.
In the letter in question Mr. Watts seemed to be setting himself to confute some extremely ill-considered remarks made in a certain quarter upon the structure of the sonnet, where (following Macaulay) the critic says that there exists no good reason for requiring that even the conventional limit as to length should be observed, and that the only use in art of the legitimate model is to “supply a poet with something to do when his invention fails.” I confess to having felt no little amazement that one so devoid of a perception of the true function of the sonnet should have been considered a proper person to introduce a great sonnet-writer; and Mr. Watts (who, however, made no mention of the writer) clearly demonstrated that the true sonnet has the foundation of its structure in a fixed metrical law, and hence, that as it is impossible (as Keats found out for himself) to improve upon the accepted form, that model—known as the Petrarchian—should, with little or no variation, be worked upon. Rossetti took fire, however, from a mistaken notion that Mr. Watts’s canons, as given in the letter in question, and merely reported by me, were much more inflexible than they really proved.
Sonnets of minecould not appearin any book whichcontained such rigid rules as to rhyme, as are contained inWatts’s letter. I neither follow them, nor agree with themas regards the English language. Every sonnet-writer shouldshow full capability of conforming to them in manyinstances, but never to deviate from them in English mustpinion both thought and diction, and, (mastery once proved)a series gains rather than loses by such varieties as do notlessen the only absolute aim—that of beauty. The Englishsonnet too much tampered with becomes a sort of bastardmadrigal. Too much, invariably restricted, it degeneratesinto a Shibboleth.Dante’s sonnets (in reply to your question—not as part ofthe above point) vary in arrangement. I never for a momentthought of following in my book the rhymes of eachindividual sonnet.If sonnets of mine remain admissible, I should preferprinting the twoOn Cassandra to The MonochordandWineof Circe.I would not be too anxious, were I you, about anything inchoice of sonnets except the brains and the music.
Again he wrote:
I talked to Watts about his letter. He seems to agree withme as to advisable variation of form in preference totransmuting valuable thought. It would not be afc all foundthat my best sonnets are always in the mere form which Ithink the best. The question with me is regulated by what Ihave to say. But in truth, if I have a distinction as asonnet-writer, it is that I never admit a sonnet which isnot fully on the level of every other.... Again, as to thisblessed question, though no one ever took more pleasure incontinually using the form I prefer when not interferingwith thought, to insist on it would after a certain point beruin to common sense.As to what you say ofThe One Hope—it is fully equal tothe very best of my sonnets, or I should not have wound upthe series with it. But the fact is, what is peculiarchiefly in the series is, that scarcely one is worse thanany other. You have much too great a habit of speaking of aspecial octave, sestette, or line. Conception, my boy,fundamental brainwork, that is what makes the differencein all art. Work your metal as much as you like, but firsttake care that it is gold and worth working. A Shakspeareansonnet is better than the most perfect in form, becauseShakspeare wrote it.As for Drayton, of course his one incomparable sonnet is theLove-Parting. That is almost the best in the language, ifnot quite. I think I have now answered queries, and it islate. Good-night!
Rossetti had somewhat mistaken the scope of the letter referred to, and when he came to know exactly what was intended, I found him in warm agreement with the views therein taken. I have said at an earlier stage that Rossetti’s instinct for what was good in poetry was unfailing, whatever the value of his opinions on critical principles, and hence I felt naturally anxious to have the benefit of his views on certain of the elder writers. He said:
I am sorry I am no adept in elder sonnet literature. Many ofDonne’s are remarkable—no doubt you glean some. None ofShakspeare’s is more indispensable than the wondrous one onLast(129). Hartley Coleridge’s finest is“If I have sinned in act, I may repent.”There is a fine one by Isaac Williams, evidently on thedeath of a worldly man, and he wrote other good ones. Toreturn to the old, I think Stillingfleet’sTo Williamsonvery fine....I would like to send you a list of my special favouritesamong Shakspeare’s sonnets—viz.:—15, 27, 29, 30, 36, 44, 45, 49, 50, 52, 55, 56, 59, 61, 62,64, 65, 66, 68, 71, 73, 76, 77, 90, 93, 94, 97, 98, 99, 102,107, 110, 116, 117, 119, 120, 123, 129, 135, 136, 138, 144,145.I made the selection long ago, and of course love them invarying degrees.There should be an essential reform in the printing ofShakspeare’s sonnets. After sonnet 125 should occur thewordsEnd of Part I. The couplet-piece, numbered 126,should be calledEpilogue to Part I.. Then, before 127,should be printed Part II. After 152, should be put End ofPart II.—and the two last sonnets should be called Epilogueto Part II. About these two last I have a theory of my own.Did you ever see the excellent remarks on these sonnets inmy brother’sLives of Famous Poets?I think a simple pointhe mentions (for first time) fixes Pembroke clearly as themale friend. I am glad you like his own two fine sonnets. Iwish he would write more such. By the bye, you speak withgreat scorn of the closing couplet in sonnets. I do notcertainly think that form the finest, but I do think thisand every variety desirable in a series, and have often usedit myself. I like your letters on sonnets; write on allpoints in question. The two last of Shakspeare’s sonnetsseem to me to have a very probable (and rather elaborate)meaning never yet attributed to them. Some day, when I seeyou, we will talk it over. Did you ever see a curious bookby one Brown (I don’t mean Armitage Brown) on Shakspeare’ssonnets? By the bye, he is not the source of my notion asabove, but a matter of fact he names helps in it. I neversaw Massey’s book on the subject, but fancy his views andBrown’s are somewhat allied. You should look at what mybrother says, which is very concise and valuable. I hope Iam not omitting to answer you in any essential point, but mywriting-table is a chaos into which your last letters have,for the moment, sunk beyond recovery.I consider the foregoing, perhaps, the most valuable ofRossetti’s letters to me. I cannot remember that we everafterwards talked over the two last sonnets of Shakspeare;if we did so, the meaning attached to them by him did notfix itself very definitely upon my memory.In explanation of my alleged dislike of the closing couplet,I may say that a rhymed couplet at the close of a sonnet hasan effect upon my ear similar to that produced by thecouplets at the ends of some of the acts of Shakspeare’splays, which were in many instances interpolated by theactors to enable them to make emphatic exits.I must now group together a number of short notes onsonnets:I think Blanco White’s sonnet difficult to overrate inthought—probably in this respect unsurpassable, but easyto overrate as regards its workmanship. Of course there isthe one fatally disenchanting line:While fly and leaf and insect stood revealed.The poverty of vision which could not see at a glance thatfly and insect were one and the same, is, as you say, enoughto account for its being the writer’s only sonnet (there isone more however which I don’t know).I’ll copy you overpage a sonnet which I consider a very fineone, but which may be said to be quite unknown. It is byCharles Whitehead, who wrote the very admirable andexceptional novel ofRichard Savage, published somewhereabout 1840.Even as yon lamp within my vacant roomWith arduous flame disputes the doubtful night,And can with its involuntary lightBut lifeless things that near it stand illume;Yet all the while it doth itself consume,And ere the sun hath reached his morning heightWith courier beams that greet the shepherd’s sight,There where its life arose must be its tomb:—So wastes my life away, perforce confinedTo common things, a limit to its sphere,It gleams on worthless trifles undesign’d,With fainter ray each hour imprison’d here.Alas to know that the consuming mindMust leave its lamp cold ere the sun appear!I am sure you will agree with me in admiringthat. I quotefrom memory, and am not sure that I have given line 6 quitecorrectly....I have just had Blanco White’s only other sonnet (On beingcalled an Old Man at 50) copied out for you. I do certainlythink it ought to go in, though no better than so-so, as yousay. But it is just about as good as the former one, but forthe leading and splendid thought in the latter. Both are butproseman’s diction.There is a sonnet of Chas. Wells’sOn Chaucerwhich is notworthy of its writer, but still you should have it. Itoccurs among some prefatory tributes inChaucerModernised, edited by E. H. Home. I don’t know how you areto get a copy, but the book is in the British Museum ReadingRoom. The sonnet is signed C. W. only.The sonnet by Wells seemed to me in every respect poor, andas it was no part of my purpose (as an admirer of Wells) toadvertise what the poet could not do, I determined—againstRossetti’s judgment—not to print the sonnet.You certainly, in my opinion, ought to print Wells’s sonnet.Certainly nothing so disjointed ever gave itself the namebefore, but it ought to be available for reference, and I donot agree with you in considering it weak in any senseexcept that of structure.There is a sonnet by Ebenezer Jones, beginning “I neverwholly feel that summer is high,” which, though very jagged,has decided merit to warrant its insertion.As for Tennyson, he seems to have given leave for a sonnetto appear in Main’s book. Why not in yours? But I have longceased to know him, nor is any friend of mine incommunication with him.... My brother has written in histime a few sonnets. Two of them I think very fine—especially the one calledShelley’s Heart, which he haslately worked upon again with immense advantage.... You donot tell me from whom you have received sonnets. The reasonwhich prevents my coming forward, in such a difficulty, witha new sonnet of my own, is this:—which indeed you haveprobably surmised: I know nothing would gratify malevolence,after the controversy which ensued on your lecture, morethan to be able to assert, however falsely, that we had beenworking in concert all along, that you were known to me fromthe first, and that your advocacy had no realspontaneity.... When you first entered on the subject, andwrote your lecture, you were a perfect stranger to me, andthat fact greatly enhanced my pleasure in its enthusiastictone. I hope sincerely that we may have further and closeopportunities of intercourse, but should like whatever youmay write of me to come from the old source of intellectualaffinity only. That you should think the subject worthy offurther labour is a pleasure to me, but I only trust it maynot be a disadvantage to your book in unfriendly eyes,particularly if that view happened to be the proposedpublisher’s, in which case I should much prefer that thissection of your work were withdrawn for a more propitiousoccasion.... I am very glad Brown is furthering your sonnet-book—he knows so many bards. Of course if I were you, Ishould keep an eye on the mouths even of gift-horses; butwere a creditable stud to be trotted out, of course I shouldbe willing; as were I one among many, the objection I notedwould not exist. I do not mean for a moment to say that manyvery fine sonnets might not be obtained from poets not yetknown or not widely known; but known names would be thethings to parry the difficulty.
Later he wrote:
As you know, I want to contribute to your volume if I can doso without fear of the consequences hinted at in a formerletter as likely to ensue, so I now enclose a sonnet of myown. If you are out in March 1881, you may be before my newedition, but I am getting my stock together. Not a word ofthis however, as it mustn’t get into gossip paragraphs atpresent.The House of Lifeis now a hundred sonnets—alllyrics being removed. Besides this series, I have forty-fivesonnets extra. I think, as you are willing, I shall use thetitle I sent you—A Sonnet Sequence. I fancy thealternative title would be briefer and therefore better as
OUR SONNET-MUSE PROM ELIZABETH TO VICTORIA
I could not be much concerned about the unwillingness to give me a new sonnet which Rossetti at first exhibited, for I knew full well that sooner or later the sonnet would come. Not that I recognised in him the faintest scintillation of the affectation so common among authors as to the publication of work. But the fear of any appearance of collusion between himself and his critics was, as he said, a bugbear that constantly haunted him. Owing to this, a stranger often stood a better chance of securing his ready and open co-operation than the most intimate of friends. I frequently yielded to his desire that in anything that I might write his name should not be mentioned—too frequently by far, to my infinite vexation at the time, and now to my deep and ineradicable regret. The sonnet-book out of which arose much of the correspondence printed in this chapter, contains in its preface and notes hardly an allusion to him, and yet he was, in my judgment, out of all reach and sight, the greatest sonnet-writer of his time. The sonnet first sent wasPride of Youth, but as this formed part ofThe House of Lifeseries, it was withdrawn, andRaleigh’s Cell in the Towerwas substituted The following hitherto unpublished sonnet was also contributed but withdrawn at the last moment, because of its being out of harmony with the sonnets selected to accompany it:
ON CERTAIN ELIZABETHAN REVIVALS.O ruff-embastioned vast Elizabeth,Bush to these bushel-bellied casks of wine,Home-growth, ‘tis true, but rank as turpentine,—What would we with such skittle-plays at death %Say, must we watch these brawlers’ brandished lathe,Or to their reeking wit our ears incline,Because all Castaly flowed crystallineIn gentle Shakspeare’s modulated breath!What! must our drama with the rat-pit vie,Nor the scene close while one is left to kill!Shall this be poetry % And thou—thou—manOf blood, thou cannibalic Caliban,What shall be said to thee?—a poet?—Fie!“An honourable murderer, if you will”I mentioned to you [he says] William Davies, author ofSongs of a Wayfarer(by the bye, another man has sinceadopted his title). He has many excellent sonnets, and is avalued friend of mine. I shall send you, on his behalf, acopy of the book for selection of what you may please.... Itis very unequal, but the best truly excellent. The sonnetsare numerous, and some good, though the best work in thebook is not among them. There are two poems—The Garden,and another called, I think,On a dried-up Spring, whichare worthy of the most fastidious collections. Many of thepoems are unnamed, and the whole has too much of a Herrickair. . . .It is quite refreshing to find you so pleased with my goodfriend Davies’s book, and I wish he were in London, as Iwould have shown him what you say, which I know would havegiven him pleasure. He is a man who suffers much from moodsof depression, in spite of his philosophic nature. I havemarked fifty pieces of different kinds throughout his book,and of these twenty-nine are sonnets. Had those fifty beenalone printed, Davies would now be remembered and notforgotten: but all poets now-a-days are redundant exceptTennyson. ...I am this evening writing to Davies, who is in Rome, andcould not resist enclosing what you say, with so muchexperimental appreciativeness of his book, and of hisintention to fill it with moral sunshine. I am sure he ‘llsend a new sonnet if he has one, but I fancy his bardic dayis over. I should think he was probably not subject tomelancholy when he wrote theWayfarer. However, he tellsme that his spirits have improved in Italy. One other littlebook of Herrickian verse he has written, calledTheShepherd!s Garden, but there are no sonnets in it. Besidesthis, he published a volume containing a record of travel ofa very interesting kind, and calledThe Pilgrimage of theTiber. This is well known. It is illustrated, many of thedrawings being by himself, for he is quite as much painteras poet. He also wrote inThe Quarterly Reviewan articleon the sonnet (I should think about 1870 or so), and, alittle later, one which raised great wrath, on the EnglishSchool of Painting. These I have not seen. He “lacksadvancement,” however; having fertile powers and littleopportunity, and being none the luckier (I think) for asmall independence which keeps offcompulsionto work,though of willingness he has abundance in many directions.There is an admirable but totally unknown living poet namedDixon. I will send you two small vols, of his which he gaveme long ago, but please take good care of them, and returnthem as soon as done with. I value them highly. I forgottill to-day that he had written any sonnets, but I see thereare three in one vol. and one in another. I have marked mytwo favourites. He should certainly be represented in yourbook. If I live, I mean to write something about him in somequarter when I can. His finest passages are as fine as anyliving man can do. He was a canon of Carlisle Cathedral, andat present has a living somewhere. If you wanted to ask himfor an original sonnet, you might mention my name, andaddress him at Carlisle withPlease forward. Of course heis a Rev.You will be sorry to hear that Davies has abandoned the hopeof producing a new sonnet to his own satisfaction. I haveagain, however, urged him to the onslaught, and told him howdeserving you are of his efforts.Swinburne, who is a vast admirer of my sister’s, thinks theAdventperhaps the noblest of all her poems, and alsospecially loves thePassing Away. I do not know that Iquite agree with your decided preference for the two sonnetsof hers you signalise,—theWorldis very fine, but theother,Dead before Death, a little sensational for her. IthinkAfter Deathone of her noblest, and the oneAfterCommunion. In my own view, the greatest of all her poems isthat on France after the siege—To-Day for Me. A verysplendid piece of feminine ascetic passion isThe ConventThreshold.I have run the sonnet you like,St. Luke the Painter, intoa sequence with two more not yet printed, and given thethree a general title ofOld and New Art, as well asspecial titles to each. I shall annex them toThe House ofLife.Have you ever read Vaughan? He resembles Donne a good dealas to quaintness, but with a more emotional personality.I have altered the last line of octave inLost Days. Itnow runs—“The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway.”I always had it in my mind to make a change here, as theinstanding in the line in its former reading clashed withinoccurring in the previous line. I have done what Ithink is a prime sonnet on the murdered Czar, which Ienclose, but don’t show it to a soul.Theodore Watts is going to print a very fine sonnet of hisown inThe Athenæum. It is the first verse he ever put inprint, though he wrote much (when a very young man). Tell mehow you like it. I think he is destined to shine in thatclass of poetry.I knew you must like Watts’s sonnets. They are splendidaffairs. I am not sure that I agree with you in liking thefirst the better of the two: the second (Natura Maligna)is perhaps the deeper and finer. I have asked Watts to giveyou a new sonnet, and I think perhaps he will do so, or atall events give you permission to use those he has printed.He has just come into the room, and says he would like tohear from you on the subject.From one rather jocular sentence in your note I judge youmay include some sonnets of your own. I see no possiblereason why you should not. You are really now, at yourhighest, among our best sonnet-writers, and have written twoor three sonnets that yield to few or none whatever. I amforced, however, to request that you will not put in the onereferring to myself, from my constant bugbear of anyappearance of collusion. That sonnet is a very fine one—mybrother was showing it me again the other day. It is not mypersonal gratification alone, though that is deep, because Iknow you are sincere, which leads me to the conclusion thatit is your best, and very fine indeed. I think yourCumberland sonnet admirable. The sonnet on Byron isextremely musical in flow and the symbolic scenery ofexceptional excellence. The view taken is the question withme. Byron’s vehement directness, at its best, is a lastinglesson: and, dubious monument asDon Juanmay be, ittowers over the century. Of course there is truth in whatyou say; butoughtit to be the case? and is it the casein any absolute sense? You deal frankly with your sonnets,and do not shrink from radical change. I think that onOliver much better than when I saw it before. The openingphrases of both octave and sestette are very fine; but thesecond quatrain and the second terzina, though with aquality of beauty, both seem somewhat to lack distinctness.The wordriverscannot be used with elision—the v is ahard pebble in the flow, and so are the closing consonants.You must put up withstreamsif you keep the line.You should have Bailey’s dedicatory sonnet inFestus.I am enclosing a fine sonnet by William Bell Scott, which Iwished him to let me send you for your book. It has not yetbeen printed. I think I heard of some little chaffy matterbetween him and you, but, doubtless, you have virtuallyforgotten all about it. I must say frankly that I think theday when you made the speech he told me of must have beenrather a wool-gathering one with you.... I suppose you knowthat Scott has written a number of fine sonnets contained inhis vol ofPoemspublished about 1875, I think.I directed the attention of Mr. Waddington (whom, however, Idon’t know personally) to a most noble sonnet by FannyKemble, beginning, “Art thou already weary of the way?” Hehas put it in, and several others of hers, but she is veryunequal, and I don’t know if the others should be there, butyou should take the one in question. It sadly wants newpunctuation, being vilely printed just as I first saw itwhen a boy in some twopenny edition.In a memoir of Gilchrist, appended now by his widow to theLife of Blake, there is a sonnet by G., perhapsinteresting enough, as being exceptional, for you to ask forit; but I don’t advise you, if you don’t think it worth.I have received from Mrs. Meynell, a sister of Eliz.Thompson, the painter, a most genuine little book of poemscontaining some sonnets of true spiritual beauty. I mustsend it you.This book had just then been introduced to Rossetti withmuch warmth of praise by Mr. Watts, and he took to itvastly.
This closes Rossetti’s interesting letters on sonnet literature. In reprinting his first volume ofPoemshe had determined to remove the sonnets ofThe House of Lifeto the new volume ofBallads and Sonnets, and fill the space with the fragment of a poem written in youth, and now calledThe Bride’s Prelude. He sent me a proof. The reader will remember that as a narrative fragment it is less remarkable for striking incident (though never failing of interest and picturesqueness) than for a slow and psychical development which ultimately gained a great hold of the sympathies. The poem leaves behind it a sense as of a sultry day. Judging first of its merits as a song (using the word in its broad and simple sense), the poem flows on the tongue with unbroken sweetness and with a variety of cadence and light and shade of melody which might admit of its pursuing its meanderings through five times its less than 50 pages, and still keeping one’s senses awake to the constantly recurring advent of new and pleasing literary forms. The story is a striking one, with a great wealth of highly effective incident,—notably the episode of the card-playing, and of the father striking down the sword which Raoul turns against the breast of the bride. Almost equally memorable are the scenes in which the lover appears, and the occasional interludes of incident in which, between the pauses of the narrative, the bridegroom’s retinue are heard sporting in the courtyard without.
The whole atmosphere of the poem is saturated in a medievalism of spirit to which no lapse of modernism does violence, and the spell of romance which comes with that atmosphere of the middle ages is never broken, but preserved in the minutest most matter-of-fact details, such as the bowl of water that stood amidst flowers, and in which the sister Amelotte “slid a cup” and offered it to Aloyse to drink. But the one great charm of the poem lies in its subtle and most powerful psychical analysis, seen foreshadowed in the first mention of the bride sitting in the shade, but first felt strongly when she begs her sister to pray, and again when she tells how, at God’s hint, she had whispered something of the whole tale to her sister who slept
The dread introspection pictured after the sin is in the highest degree tragic, and affects one like remorse in its relentlessness, although less remorse than fear of discovery. The sickness of the following condition, with its yearnings, longings, dizziness, is very nobly done, and delicate as is the theme, and demanding a touch of unerring strength, yet lightness, the part of the poem concerned with it contains certain of the most beautiful and stirring things. The madness (for it is not less than such) in which at the sea-side, believing Urscelyn to be lost, the bride tells the whole tale, whilst her curse laughed within her to see the amazement and anger of her brothers and of her father, is doubtless true enough to the frenzied state of her mind; but my sympathies go out less to that part of the poem than to the subsequent part, in which the bride-mother is described as leaning along in thought after her child, till tears, not like a wedded girl’s, fall among her curls. Highly dramatic, too, is the passage in which she fears to curse the evil men whose evil hands have taken her child, lest from evil lips the curse should be a blessing.
The characterisation seemed to be highly powerful, and, so far as it went, finely contrasted. I could almost have wished that the love for which the bride suffers so much had been more dwelt upon, and Urscelyn had been made somehow more worthy of such love and sacrifice. The only point in which the poem struck me, after mature reflection, as less admirable than certain others of the author’s, lay in the circumstance that the narrative moves slowly, but, of course, it should be remembered that the poem is one of emotion, not incident. There are most magical flashes of imagery in the poem, notably in the passage beginning