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Updated: June 3, 2025
Ford Madox Brown, who was his first master, and is commonly considered to have exercised a great influence on Rossetti, in my opinion had none that was permanent. He was Rossetti's antithesis, and in himself as inconsequent as Rossetti was logical.
But I often think of that wonderful poem of Christina Rossetti's about the revenant, the spirit that returns to the familiar house, and finds himself unregretted: "'To-morrow' and 'to-day, they cried; I was of yesterday!"
Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness? Rossetti's luscious lines seldom fail to cast a spell by which 'In sundry moods 'tis pastime to be bound. William Morris has a sunny slope of Parnassus all to himself, and Mr. Swinburne has written some verses over which the world will long love to linger.
"Ah, I see you have Rossetti's delightfully anemic Madonna, and Holman Hunt's 'Light of the World. A day or two ago I was talking to a lady who pronounced that " he extended his finger toward the Hunt "the greatest work of art produced in the last hundred years. Her reason? Its comforting quality. I am sure you agree with her. Good-by." He made a sidling movement toward the door.
But the Laura who had fretted or dreamed there; who had written her first letter to Molly Friedland from that table; who had dressed for her lover's eye before that rickety glass; who had been angry or sullen, or madly happy there why, the Laura who now for the second time watched the spring dawn through that diamond-paned window looked back upon her as the figures in Rossetti's strange picture meet the ghosts of their old selves with the same sense of immeasurable, irrevocable distance.
He has written in the large forms a suite founded on Rossetti's "Love's Nocturne," an overture, "Three Guardsmen," a "Novelette" for orchestra, a cantata, "The Mystery of Life," and an unfinished setting of Psalm xvii. with barytone solo. These are all scored for orchestra, and the manuscript that I have seen shows notable psychological power.
Was not the young man conscious that, though his rooms might be small, there was about them a delicate touch which made up for much, that everything breathed of refinement from the photographs and silver toddy-spoon upon the mantelpiece to Rossetti's poems and "Marius the Epicurean," which covered negligently a stain on the green tablecloth?
The double helplessness of delusion and death should keep the door of Rossetti's house, for example, and refuse him to the reader. His mortal illness had nothing to do with his poetry. Nevertheless, these are all, properly speaking, biography. What is not biography is the detail of the accident of the manner of his death, the detail of his cremation.
The double helplessness of delusion and death should keep the door of Rossetti's house, for example, and refuse him to the reader. His mortal illness had nothing to do with his poetry. Nevertheless, these are all, properly speaking, biography. What is not biography is the detail of the accident of the manner of his death, the detail of his cremation.
He travelled so very little, that I do not know whether he ever saw the treasures of radiant jewel-work which fret the gloom of Chartres or of Bourges; but if he never saw them, he divined them, and these are the only pieces of color which in the least degree suggest the drawings of this, Rossetti's second period.
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