Part 14

During my visit to America, I read before a medical society at Boston a paper “On Vital Force, its Pulmonic Origin, and the General Laws of its Metamorphosis.” It was founded on a lecture that I delivered in 1853 at Bury, at the Young Men’s Institution, of which I was the president. This paper, which showed that carbon was the element out of which this force arose during its combustion at the lungs, was published in an American journal in 1854, and republished in London. This I mention because I was the first to take that view. Mayer saw it later, and I think has all the credit of it. I added to this republication some scientific views of interest, especially one on the water of organization.

While on these subjects I may as well mention that, between the years 1839 and 1853, I contributed largely to the medical press; my papers are noted from time to time in the Directory of those years. In one series that I gave to the Provincial Medical and Surgical Journal of the Association, then edited by Dr. Streeter, “A Critical Analysis of the Principal Facts of Disease,” I showed by elaborate experiments that the movement of the blood in the capillary vessels was due to the spinal nerves, and not to the great sympathetic.

In the same series I pointed out the importance of taking the temperature of the body, internal and external, in disease, and constructed tables for noting the variations, and this at a time (about 1840 or 1841) when the thermometer had not come into use in medical practice.

I would allude here to a physiological inquiry made by me, and which occupied much of my time for twenty years or more, on a grammatical subject, that of the sequence of sound in speech, with the laws of diphthongism and accent.

There is another work I would make a record of, it is unpublished, “A New Cosmogony.”

Stray papers, published or unpublished, I need hardly note, except one on Drapery, which sculptors and artists would do well to study. It was published not so very long ago in _Merry England_, a monthly magazine.

I have already alluded to the resuscitation of my work on Varicose Capillaries by the Pathological Society; it had been in a state of suspended animation for fifty-one years.

LIII.

Circumstances connected with the increasing delicacy of Lady Ripon’s health brought me into nearer relations with the family, and although I kept up my own establishment, I lived much at Putney Heath. I may say I was made a friend of by this good lady, whom it was a pleasure to serve, and was engaged by her often in matters pertaining to her private life. She liked me sometimes to visit Nocton, her paternal home, and report to her of people and things which, on account of her inability to visit the place herself, were drifting from her, though her interest in them was unbroken.

She was gifted with a very fine intellect: she had been carefully trained in her childhood, and given all the knowledge that is becoming in a woman. She had a natural wit, and her conversation was much to be desired, full of anecdotes on past events in which she had taken part. When I came to know her she lived retired, at the same time exercising hospitality without limit towards many pleasant guests. When she returned from Carlton Gardens to Putney Heath for the winter, I found it difficult to go to and fro from town, so I settled down at Roehampton, which was near. Among those who visited her were Sir Charles and Lady Douglas and Mrs. Charles Lushington, sister of Sir Stafford Northcote, all very old friends, and these would be with her for the week or month together. Lord and Lady de Grey, too, were, of course, much with her.

At this time George Borrow, having sickened, like myself, of the charm of country life, was living in Hereford Square; so we met again and had many dinners together, and as many pleasant walks; these chiefly in Richmond Park, which my home overlooked, being close to the Robinhood Gate.

While at Roehampton I accidentally made the acquaintance of Dr. Robert Latham, the grammarian; not exactly a nice person to see much of, though a good companion, and one overflowing with every sort of knowledge.

While at Roehampton, too, it was that I called on Rossetti. I saw him then for the first time, and was received by him very warmly, so much so that he accepted my invitation to dine with me the next day, and many hours were passed in conversation of the most exhilarating kind.

A generation before, Rossetti had written to me regarding my “Valdarno, or the Ordeal of Art Worship,” then appearing in _Ainsworth’s Magazine_.

Before that visit to him I had returned to Poetry, my first and last love, having plenty of leisure, with my imagination unemployed. Spending some weeks at Nocton, where I went by Lady Ripon’s request, to look over her beautiful estate and visit the tomb of the late earl, I was often of a morning in the ancient wood, revelling in it for hours, the ground covered with hyacinths and lilies of the valley, the stock doves pouring out their sweet notes from every bough. It was there, to commemorate my visit, that I committed to paper my pastoral poem of “The Lily of the Valley,” which will take any one who reads it into Nocton Wood.

“Old Souls” I wrote while staying in Lady Ripon’s house at Putney: Mrs. Lushington and her beautiful family of daughters were guests. One Sunday, on returning from church with her to lunch, the idea of that poem crossed my mind, impressed by the finely dressed crowd that was chatting and laughing on the way to the fashionable villas in Wimbledon Park.

These two poems were the beginning of a volume named “The World’s Epitaph,” which was printed anonymously and distributed at random among friends and strangers, as well as editors of the press, and apparently it attracted no sort of notice, except from the librarian of a Cambridge college, who said that he had made it his companion during a pleasant tour.

I have forgotten the name of this gentleman, and of his college, but I will one day try to recall it. I must have distributed over a hundred copies.

One copy, sold at W. B. Scott’s sale, the words “D. G. Rossetti, with the author’s compliments,” written on the title-page, found its way into a bookseller’s, who advertised it in his catalogue, price eight shillings and sixpence. A relative of mine, who called to see it, was informed that it had been purchased for the library of the British Museum.

Evidently Rossetti had lent the volume to Scott; in his keeping it shared the lot of so many borrowed books, in being never returned.

A literary celebrity once pointed out to me four hundred books on his shelves, all of which, he said, had been borrowed.

Mr. Buxton Forman told me only the other day (Nov. ’91), that he was one evening at Madox Brown’s, when Rossetti entered in a state of excitement, with the “World’s Epitaph” in his pocket, which he produced, and did little but talk about “Old Souls.” It must have been the copy of which I have spoken, dated 1866, a beautifully printed little book from the press of Woodfall and Kinder.

Dr. R. Latham was good enough to send some copies of the book to his friends, and they took it as his in their reply, which he regarded as too good a joke to disturb.

LIV.

Latham was a singular anomaly of our organization. No one could help liking and disliking him. He was logical in mind, illogical in action. As captain of Eton College, he became a Fellow of King’s, and before long was the greatest authority on English grammar. He was Physician to the Middlesex Hospital; he was Professor of the English Language at University College. He dressed like a respectable clergyman. Then, from being a great man, he gradually became a little man, and dressed like a clergyman of a less reputable type; his white necktie unlaundressed, his fine chin ill-shaven, his black coat unskilfully brushed, if at all; but his eye and tongue continued in full practice for satire or fun. Unable to finance in his own affairs, he thought his true function in life would have been that of Chancellor of the Exchequer, and that he had so missed his mark. A common saying of his, with an earnest look and his hand on a friend’s shoulder, was, “Will you lend me a sovereign that you will never see again?” An acquaintance of his, feeling touched at his outward display of poverty, almost amounting to boastfulness, inwardly gifted as he was, on putting gold apologetically on his table, received the reply: “I am glad you are in a position to do it; what may your income be?” Another, treating him similarly, heard a laugh, with the words, “It is very nice to put your hand in your waistcoat pocket and do that. What income tax do you chance to pay?”

Nature ought not to put such organic prescriptions through the process of being dispensed.

He was heir-presumptive to a fine landed property, the reversion of which he sold for a sum not larger than a year of its rental. The heir-apparent died, and the estate fell in, never to reach him. His wife said she thought it a pity to have lost the property as he had done. He answered, “But, my dear, you cannot say you have lost what has never been yours!”

Like a good chancellor of the exchequer, he had the habit of assessing people’s incomes at a guess, for the purpose of determining what they ought to give towards the subscriptions so constantly on foot for his benefit.

Latham once made the effort to ask Mr. Gladstone for a pension. The minister said that it was a matter resting with Lord Palmerston, the premier, who was very jealous of his rights, and advised the applicant to state his claim in the proper quarter.

On this, Latham let the subject drop, when some time afterwards he received a notice that he was placed on the civil list for £100 a year, and received, according to custom, the amount in advance.

His difficulties occupied the attention of many, and he was made more easy in his circumstance as age overtook him; but on his pension being alluded to, he related, as a joke, that he had sold that before its first year had expired.

Latham had a very handsome person, with a smiling, knowing look, the most knowing I ever saw.

He was decidedly of a kindly nature: fond of his family, genial to excess, recognisant of his friends. He was probably spoiled by falling into the worst habits of college life, instead of the best.

Nothing that I have written would offend his shade. He was proud intellectually, but he abandoned position, and, I really believe, purposely exhibited himself as poor, when he would walk home with a cabbage balanced upon his arm. It was meant as a reproach to the world, on which he had so decided a claim.

One day Latham called on me and brought Mr. Theodore Watts with him, an old friend of his, and the son of a yet older friend. Watts and I came into concord on the same octave, and we soon attuned ourselves in friendly duets.

Later on, George Borrow turned up while Watts was there, and we went through a pleasant trio, in which Borrow, as was his wont, took the first fiddle. The reader must not here take metaphor for music. Borrow made himself very agreeable to Watts, recited a fairy tale in the best style to him, and liked him.

This was not their only meeting, for both came often to my house, from which we strolled for an hour or two into the park—strolls deserving of remembrance, as shown in sonnet form by me in my “New Day.”

Latham wanted much to meet Borrow at my table; I told him it would not do. He said he would be on his best behaviour, and promised to say nothing that could offend the most sensitive.

I proposed it to Borrow; he was willing, and they met.

All, like most things else that are planned, began well. But with Latham life was a game of show. He had to put forth all his knowledge of subjects in which he deemed Borrow an adept. He began with horse-racing. Borrow quietly assented. He showed off all he knew of the ring. Borrow freely responded. He had to show what he knew of publishers, instancing the Longmans. Borrow said, “I suppose you dine with your publishers sometimes?” It was Latham’s opportunity; he could not resist it, and replied, “Never; I hope I should never do anything so low. You do not dine with John Murray, I presume?” “Indeed, I do,” said Borrow emotionally. “He is a most kind friend. When I have had sickness in my house, he has been unfailing in his goodness towards me. There is no man I value more.”

Latham’s conversation was fast falling under the influence of wine; with this his better taste departed from him. “I have heard,” he said, “that you are a brave man over a bottle of good wine. Now, how many bottles can you get through at a sitting?”

Borrow saw what the other was; he was resolved not to take offence at what was only impertinent and self-asserting, so he said, “When I was in Madrid, I knew a priest who would sit down alone to his two bottles.”

“Yes,” replied Latham, with his knowing look, and his head on one side like a bird, “but what I want to know is, how many bottles you can manage at one sitting?”

“I once knew another priest,” said Borrow. “It was at Oporto; I have seen him get through two bottles by himself.”

By this time Latham was a little unsteady; he slipped from his chair as if it had been an inclined plane, and lay on the carpet, on which he made his mark as betokening more than nausea. He was unable to rise, but he held his head up, with a cunning smile, saying, “This must be a very disreputable house.”

Borrow saw Latham after this at times on his way to me, and always stopped to say a kind word to him, seeing his forlorn condition.

LV.

It must have been in 1871 that I made the acquaintance of Rossetti. This was some time after Lady Ripon’s death, on which I visited my married daughter in Germany, but finally returned to Roehampton. It was then that I called on the poet-painter, as described. After dining with me, he was so good as to send me a note, in which he said he should like to ask some of his friends to meet me at dinner. In reply, I said that it would be a pleasure to me to dine with him, but begged him not to inconvenience himself on my account, as it would suit me at any time to visit him.

On the day finally fixed there were many at dinner, and as many later. Many of these, at the time, had good positions as editors, writers, and painters. W. B. Scott was at the table, also Mr. Sidney Colvin, Mr. Joseph Knight, Dr. Hüffer, Mr. William Rossetti, and so on; and in the evening, Dr. Westland Marston, Mr. O’Shaugnessy, Philip Marston, Madox Brown, Dr. Appleton, a wife or two, and not a few besides.

Some of these have increased in fame since then, some are dead, some are forgotten. Madox Brown, a painter with a fine historic imagination, flourishes still.

Rossetti’s topic was still “Old Souls;” Scott was his echo. They said it was a subject that could never be written on again.

At this date Rossetti’s poems were passing through the press, and I had a bundle of verse myself ready for it.

I was very much moved by the contents of Rossetti’s volume. I still admire it much, but with a severer criticism than then.

I could say much of Rossetti’s later life, but am compelled to omit all such details, for they are intimately mixed up with illness, which to a physician the witness of it, is sacred ground. Then again, friends are bad biographers, because they know too much and cannot shape the character to that ideal which those personally unknown to a great poet might expect.

Rossetti’s intellectual force was not of a striking order, but it was adequate; his charm lay in the artistic colouring of his mind, arrayed as it was in the fascinations of a Provençal attire. This is very different to the charm in which Nature invests her lovers; and yet it is so bewitching as to claim a rivalry, and to almost appear the subject of her inspirations in some enchanted guise.

I had heard that paintings were leaving Cheyne Walk, such as in colouring had not been seen since Titian lived; and, with a claim on his acquaintance, I was induced to visit him.

What Reynolds’s faded works once were we no longer know, but when I saw Rossetti’s paintings I was reminded of what was said of one—the Infant Hercules, sent to Russia—that it looked as if it had been boiled in brandy.

It is a pleasure to me to think that I was once a comfort to Rossetti in his trying illness. I went to him on his summoning me to Scotland. I passed six weeks with him there; first at Stobbs Hall, afterwards outside Crieff, to which place, among others, I travelled to find him a suitable abode. I walked with him by day, I sat at his bedside by night, relating to him the history of almost every one I had ever known, and by diverting his mind from itself, I left him comparatively restored.

If he forgot all this, it was no fault of his own making; his illness never fully subsided. But I was among the favoured still who had known him in his best days, and was appointed to serve him in his most trying hour.

I can further say that when I saw Rossetti in his prime, a healthy man, he was the noblest of men, and had a heart so good that I have never known a better, seldom its equal.

Illness changed him, but then he was no longer himself.

Taking Rossetti’s pictures and his verse together as one, he was a great poet; his poetics and paintings help each other, as did Blake’s in a vastly inferior degree, but their separation shows faults in each with distinctness. When one reads his poems, one thinks of his paintings; when one looks at his paintings, one thinks of his poems; whence the charm that surrounds all his work.

The celebrity that awaited Rossetti’s poems among critics was latent in his paintings, which were already famous for their emotional colouring and fine portraiture of women; and, being in intimate social relation with many leading members of the press, his poetical pretensions were accepted by acclamation. Then he had a powerful _clientèle_ among buyers. Those who possessed his pictures were very ready to receive and admire the poems of their favourite artist, and to push them about in the fashionable and the wealthy world, as the works of the poet-painter, a title rarely obtained, so many gifts does it imply.

It was this that at once secured him his deserved success. He had published the “Blessed Damozel,” one of the poems on which his reputation rests, when a young man unknown to art, and it attracted no attention in the world at large; for justice is not done to merit of any kind unless it can pay its way.

The “Blessed Damozel” may be characterized as a drawing with tender descriptions of convent life, with the Virgin Mary as lady abbess; the whole lifted into remotest space, where lies the boundary-line of Heaven; the damozel being a sort of nun living among the holy, while all her reflections are human; the burden of them from first to last on love for an absent one, without whose presence she can find no happiness in her purgatorial heaven. It reads like the suggestion of a picture done in mediæval times—as old as the court cards in the pack used by players—at a period when the glory of saints and of christs was symbolized by a sort of curtain-ring round the head, or by circular fireworks which emitted sparks in perpetual corruscation.

I do not feel that the antique moulding of this poem is a fair excuse for its being illogical in places. The sun was so far off that it was scarcely visible—say two billion miles or so, like Uranus or Neptune; but that it looked like a bridge, is a simile that cannot be made suggestive of any round body save the moon. That she can see the earth spin like a fretful midge, does not please the logical understanding, when that body is at least as far off as the scarce-visible sun. We are comparatively close to our neighbouring orbs, Venus and Mars, which do not exhibit the slightest motion to our eyes—how then should a world as remote from the damozel as Uranus is from us be seen in motion?

We are made to realize that the “Blessed Damozel” is of flesh and blood; she stoops and bends forward until her bosom makes the bar she leans on warm. But the souls mounting up to God were spirits; they passed by her like thin flame. This does not show the logical consistency which poetry demands even more rigidly than prose.

The poem is strictly sentimental. The one feeling of love-longings runs through every stanza.

The subject was painted for Lord Mount Temple. I have not seen the work, but doubtless it is composed of the three first verses of the poem, which must have been painted on the author’s mind long before it reached the canvas. The poem, which is not very musical or imaginative beyond the _motif_ it carries out, has a great charm for many. It is simple in diction and emotional, and a merit not often found in Rossetti’s love poetry is its spiritual character, the lover not being near to incite the girl to passion of the naked kind which pervades his sonnets.

The author cannot be said to exhibit himself personally in this poem, nor in the other with which his fame is equally bound up, namely, “Sister Helen.” Both appear to tell their own story, which is the perfection of narrative, a truth which critics cannot too forcibly insist on. It is no easy matter for a writer himself to appear beautiful in the midst of his beautiful verses, unless his subject and its treatment is of the most elevated kind, as in Coleridge’s “Love,” which is so deliciously pure, and in the first verse or two of Wordsworth’s “Intimations.”

LVI.

A subject overwrought, like the sermon of a Calvin, must verge on the satanic. The poem of “Sister Helen” escapes this only through the pangs of hate being mollified in every verse by the despairing, heart-broken utterance of a refrain addressed to the Virgin Mother, and poured out in the agony of a once-religious, still-believing, soul, wailing with a bitterness which nothing can soften—an eternal hatred of her seducer; nothing short of seeing him in the flames of hell,—willing herself to suffer in them a torment that is only less than her thirst of revenue.

That she should breathe forth all this in a subdued voice of sorrow in the ear of the blessed Mary Mother is almost too touching for perusal; yet the pathos of the situation is even further enhanced by the tender and sad replies she gives to her innocent little brother, from whom she struggles to conceal, almost vainly, the anguish of her heart and its wicked aim. The refrains, for the most part full, are not always equal to the occasion, but might easily have been so rendered by so feeling a writer.

Of course the time must come when the poetry of England is melted down and merged into an anthology, and it is probable that the “Sister Helen,” as being the strongest emotional poem, as yet, in the language, will be among the most lasting works, and escape dissolution for a long time to come; perhaps will survive all change. And here a very remarkable fact thrusts itself before the mind; a representative one, which is that if Rossetti had written not another line besides this poem, his genius would have appeared all the greater: for lesser work is a fatal commentary on greater.

All suffer from this comparison with themselves except Gray, who wrote so little; and even he, after his Elegy, is scarcely saved the self-reproach.

Rossetti, in his writings, did not exercise much imagination, and none of the philosophic kind, by means of which the idea ascends, metaphor above metaphor, as high as the perspective of thought can attain. He did not look to musical sonance in his metre and his choice of words. He did not realize that love, to be acceptable in verse to the higher orders of mind, must be spiritual and chaste, that when carnal we possess it only in common with the beasts of the field. He could not have put on canvas the scenery of his fifth sonnet for exhibition, except in contravention of Lord Campbell’s Act.