of them to Mr. Rossetti, who in return ad- | open forehead, off which the long golden vised him to give up the university and hair rises a little before it falls in a smooth study painting. At that time the ad- wave on to the neck, is peculiarly English; vice was daring, but we recognize its wis- English, too, is the expression-confiding, dom in admiring the wonderful color and appealing, gentle, but with a suggestion of true artist's imagination in the pictures of reserve. Burne-Jones. There is a series of sketches and studies by Mr. D. G. Rossetti, for all of which this beautiful and lovable figure is the model. They cover the time immediately preced These four names-Rossetti, Swinburne, Morris, Burne-Jones-represent the latter and more important phase of pre-Raphaelitism. All dogmas, all attempts at an ac-ing his marriage, and the two short years curacy impossible to the natural glance, are outgrown and practically abandoned. If the later school had any set of principles, it was the same immortal code that Sappho used, and Phidias, Spenser, and Titian, Keats, Coleridge, and all musicians, always have studied the love of beauty for its own sake, the love of color, passion, and sweet sound; the characteristics, in short, of the poets and painters who are pure artists, as distinguished from thinkers, prophets, or fathomers of nature. It is not here the place to discuss which be the higher mode; both are necessary to art, and neither is wholly independent of the other. To choose the instrument of art at all shows a love of beauty in the prophet whose too mighty utterance cracks the reed, and the acute sensibility to form of the little knot of workers centred round Rossetti was united with a right value of thought and feeling in poetry and painting. When Rossetti had finished his frescoes and returned to London, he went home to his house in Chatham Place, Blackfriars, where many alterations were in train. In those days, before the building of the modern Blackfriars Bridge, there was a terrace of rather stately houses, with large high rooms, and a wide view over the river, situated near the old bridge. Chatham Place was its name, and in one of the houses, the last before the bridge, Rossetti had a flat of rooms. In 1860 great changes took place in these chambers; the partition wall between them and the next house was pulled down, and a pretty drawingroom was added to their number. All the rooms gradually began to wear that air of freshness and state which is prepared to greet the arrival of a bride. of his wedded life. In the early ones the Mrs. Dante Gabriel Rossetti died in Feb In the spring of 1860 Mr. Rossetti mar-ruary, 1862, two years after her marriage. ried Elizabeth Eleanor Liddall. Her deli- For some time her husband could not concate Madonna-like beauty inspires most of trol his overwhelming sorrow. Perhaps his early work. The head recalls Rapha- he never wholly recovered from the shock el's "Madonna della Granduca"; there is of her sudden death. At least it is certain the same sweet curve of the mouth, the that, for long, life appeared to him without same oval of the face. But the straight | hope or purpose; and so completely did he VOL. LXV.-No. 389.-44 rate his life as over with her own, that he laid in his wife's coffin the only manuscripts of all his poems. He buried with her not only his love, but his dreams, his fame. Fortunately for the world, there were those about him who would not permit this sacrifice to be forever. Eight years afterward they gained Mr. Rossetti's permission that the manuscripts should be recovered. They were in very earnest plucked from the grave, these everlastings which keep fresh the memory of the dead. Full seven years after they had been laid under the earth they were brought out again to life and light and usefulness. In those years the young widower had become a victim to the most unrelenting of nervous maladies, insomnia. It The house in Chatham Place had been given up: the rooms were hateful now: and after a short sojourn in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Mr. Rossetti had taken the beautiful old house in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, in which he lived until his last illness. It is an old house, standing back from the road, fronted by iron gates, high and pointed, flourishing their antique design in the face of the strip of modern garden that runs between them and the broad Thames. On the other side is a square paved court with some bushes round the edge; then the latticed octagonal porch, and the fine old house. Inside were beautiful rooms panelled to the ceilings, sunny and warm on the side that overlooks the river, but cooler on the garden side in the north light, and under the shade of the trees. Here the studio was, on the ground-floor. was easy to walk out into the large garden which ran behind all the other houses, beginning in a long strip. In 1881 part of this garden was taken away, and from the windows you can now see the row of modern residences growing stage by stage in its room. It was a great vexation to Mr. Rossetti. But in those days all was green and fresh, and the demesne was tenanted by birds and fowls of all kinds, and beasts of nearly all kinds too-dogs, cats, wombats, kangaroos, armadillos, all manner of creatures. It must have been noisy, and the house can not always have been very quiet, for at first Mr. Rossetti, Mr. Swinburne, Mr. George Meredith, and Mr. William Rossetti were all living there together. What discourses on art and letters there must have been in the evenings! It would be a privilege indeed could one remember one of them. But gradually the house became quieter. Mr. Rossetti was left there alone with his brother, and from 1868 or thereabouts quite alone. He led a very quiet, retired, but industrious life, seeing few visitors, but faithful to his old friends; seldom going into the world, but taking a keen interest in the progress of art and poetry. He generally walked in the spacious garden, growing lonelier as woodchuck after raccoon and wombat after wombat dropped off and was not replaced. The quiet regular life was almost necessary both for health and work. From about this time till his death the poet suffered much trouble from his impaired eyesight, and from an ever-increasing nervousness. Much work, indeed, went on in this tranquil house. Next winter the tardy exhibition of Mr. Rossetti's paintings, which will be held in the rooms of the Royal Academy, will reveal to the larger part even of the artistic public what rich design, what noble and imaginative feeling, what splendid or tender harmonies of color, were perfecting themselves, scarcely noticed, in the large quiet studio at Chelsea. Had Mr. Rossetti wished it, the public, indeed, would have been but too glad to throng any exhibition of his works. But he was too sensitive to submit to the ordeal of exhibition. For many years he would not even print his poems. The translations from the early Italian poets published in 1861 had shown the public that this translator was a poet with a definite and peculiar quality in his work that made them anxious for something more personal than translation. It is known that for many years this curiosity was ungratified, save by a very rare contribution to the Fortnightly Review. To Miss Christina Rossetti it was reserved to be the first to make her name remarkable in the history of English verse. In 1862 she published her first volume, Goblin Market and Other Poems, which include, with her later work, the songs published in The Germ-songs full of delicate music. Throughout the book a suggestion of disappointment, a flavor of bitterness, adds aroma to the lyrical sweetness; an almost morbid sense of what Leopardi has called "l'infinita vanità del tutto" is sanctified by religious ardor. The initial poem, wrought in a vein of grotesque but tender allegory, reminds us of the wood-carvings of beast-headed demons and lovely women with which mediæval | not the place for detailed criticism. Only artists loved to decorate the choirs of their in passing I would point out the chief feacathedrals. tures of this work by a poet of great imMr. Rossetti made two designs for the aginative penetration, who had the signal "Goblin Market," and two more for "The good fortune to express his subtle and rare Prince's Progress," which in 1866 estab- ideas with the vivid presentation of the lished his sister's reputation as a poet of painter. Even the descriptions of unsweet and penetrating note, though of earthly phenomena convey a sense of actusomewhat narrow compass. These are al vision. The solemn pity and tenderness almost the only examples of Mr. Rossetti's of "Jenny," the angelic beauty of "The illustrations, except the lovely designs for Blessèd Damozel," the tragic force of "SisTennyson's poems. From this time until ter Helen," are qualities that only great his death the artist was at work on more poets possess. But more solemn, more important subjects. Even as it is, the un- beautiful, more full of a finer force than timely end has left many projects unfinish- these poems are the unrivalled sonnets ed forever. The sketches for "The Death which build up the "House of Life." Here, of Lady Macbeth" and for "Mary Mag- for the first time since Milton, the English dalene at the Door of the Pharisee" were language is used with a sonority and pownever worked out on a large scale. er rivalling the natural harmonies of Italbeautiful design for "Desdemona's Death ian or Greek. A singular value is given Song" was indeed transferred to canvas, to the motive of these sonnets by the pobut it is left incompleted, only the head et's belief in the eternal effect and continand hands being painted. For none oth-ual existence of the thoughts and deeds of er than his sister, save for the poet whom he considered the greatest of contemporaries, could the painter swerve from the way of great tasks even for a moment. The It was in these years, between 1860 and 1870, that Rossetti began the series of single female figures, three-quarter length, by which his fame as a painter has been most widely spread. The "Silence," photographed by the Autotype Company, is probably familiar to an American public. It will serve for an illustration of the conception of womanly loveliness which animates the later pictures of the artist. This recalls no Madonna, no Raphael. It is a type that we associate with no other painter: tall, of queenly figure and superb pose; the face shadowed by the abundant waves of crisped black hair; the bone of the face clearly marked, and refined in its delicately square outline; the eyes large, spiritual, and dreamy; the mouth full, Sphinxlipped-too full for a modern taste-as ripe in curve as those of any statue. The expression, nevertheless, is not of sensuous charm: a look of mystery, awe, passion, broods over the solemn countenance. In 1870, Mr. Rossetti, who, without the aid of Academy or Society, had gradually made himself a name among the few great painters of our time, added to his honors the poet's wreath of bay. Few books have been so immediately successful. A very few weeks after publication he was generally admitted to be one of the greatest of living English poets. This is | man. Falsified hopes, abandoned aims, dead loves, lost days, are figured by him as carrying into eternity their reproaches for denied fruition: "All mournful forms, for each was I or she." This sense of responsibility which can set nothing aside as venial where all is immortal gives a certain graveness to all Mr. Rossetti's work. The poems were scarcely published and out of reach of his continual revision before Mr. Rossetti set to work on a new subject, "Rose Mary," the first poem of his second volume. The "Beryl Songs," we are told, were added much later; and indeed we are of opinion that their introduction only serves to interrupt a narrative singularly tragic and direct, and to disturb the rich and romantic beauty of the earlier-completed work. Some time before the completion of this poem, Mr. Rossetti began the unfortunate attempt of curing his insomnia by regular doses of chloral. The remedy proved worse than the disease, and in 1872 serious illness, the result of great nervous prostration and mental strain, attacked the poet. After a sharp struggle, his excellent constitution asserted its strength. There seemed no reason then why a long vista of life and health and happy work should not reach before him. The convalescent was advised to try the effect of country air. He left London for a while, and after a visit to Scotland, went to live for two years at Kelmscott, near Oxford, a village | choly and ill health bred of continual that for some time had been a favorite re- sleeplessness and the baneful fumes of sort with him. In 1874 he returned to chloral. Mr. Rossetti's life grew quieter his beautiful home in Chelsea. For a few and quieter. Saving his brother, Mr. years all went well. The painter worked Theodore Watts, Mr. Philip Marston, hard at his art, a little chagrined, it may whose poetry ever met with his encourbe, that the picture collectors were so im- agement and praise, Mr. Dunn, Mr. Hall patient to possess his single studies that Caine, Mr. Shields the painter, Mr. W. they left him little time to elaborate his B. Scott the painter-poet, Mr. William grand designs. He had just finished the Sharp, whose recent volume proclaims great picture of "Dante's Dream," which that we have a new poet among us-savwas recently exhibited in Liverpool, where- ing these and a very few more, including in Dante is led by Love to see dead Bea- his old friend Mr. Madox Brown, when in trice. He now worked on a favorite can- London, Mr. Rossetti could see no visitvas which he kept in his studio thirty ors. In 1879 we find him writing to his years, and never quite finished. "Found" sister-in-law to say that since he can not is the title. In the gray light of London see the children, he is about to make a dawn a country carter has left his load to poem for their benefit. This poem is lift from the pavement the huddled figure “The White Ship," the most admirably of some desolate woman of the town. In constructed of his works. "The King's the wan, changed face he recognizes the Tragedy" followed in the spring of 1881, sweetheart of his youth. the first draft of that complicated and elaborate ballad having been written in three weeks. So much new work being gathered together, Mr. Rossetti resolved to publish. In the autumn of last year the book appeared, and the deserved triumph of its success is still fresh in our memory. Nor did that honor come alone. At the same time the poet's great picture, "Dante's Dream," was covering him with praises in Liverpool, where it was exhibited, and bought for the permanent Municipal Gallery. But he was very ill, and though no doubt the success of his work was some satisfaction to him, it could not remove the cloud of suffering that depressed him. He left London for the Vale of St. John, in Cumberland, but returned no better. About the beginning of December he suffered from an attack of the nature of par At this time, too, Mr. Rossetti must have been working on his picture of "La Pia," begun about 1867, and finished last year. In 1878 he commenced the "Salutation of Beatrice," which stands in his studio today, lacking the finishing touches. Here Beatrice, "crowned and robed in humility," advances toward us. She is dressed in a robe of simple fashion, silver gray in color, but shot with palest rose. The face is very winning, spiritual, and lovely. She bends in salutation to some person out of the picture. In the background is the hill and gate of San Giorgio, at Florence, and from a point somewhat higher up the hill and in the distance Dante watches her, encompassed in the flaming wings of love. Tanto gentile, e tanto onesta pare." The tones of the picture are clear gray, brown, pale rose, and flamecolor. Yet, later than this, he began the beauti-alysis, but not the ordinary form of that ful study of "Proserpina," one of the love- disease; this partly deprived him of the liest of Rossetti's completed works. The use of his left arm and leg. He be queen of the under-world stands in thought, came dangerously ill. For the moment, her head bent, beside a wall over which the unwearied attention of his physician a spray of ivy trails; a wan gleam of day- preserved his life; but it was not for light, pale with having fallen so far below long. Such of his friends as were in the earth, rests upon the stones and the London-Mr. Burne-Jones, Mr. Shields, green leaves that make a background for Mr. Scott, and a few more-anxious to Proserpina. Resentful dignity is visible prove every chance, besought him to try in the pale grandeur of her face, in the the effect of change of air. He consentfaded purplish curves of the proud, beau-ed, and in the beginning of February left tiful mouth. The color of the picture is rich and quiet, somewhat low in tone. for Birchington-on-Sea, a pretty hamlet of bungalows on the coast, not far from But not even the success of glorious en- Margate. Here his friend Mr. Seddon deavor could entirely baffle the melan-placed the West Cliff Bungalow at his disposal, and Mr. Leyland, who owns many of his finest pictures, was a frequent visitor up to the very last day. Mr. Hall Caine had accompanied Mr. Rossetti to Birchington, and a few weeks later they were joined by Mrs. Rossetti, the poet's mother, to whom he was devotedly attached, and by his sister Christina. But all love, all care, all anxiety were in vain. Mr. Rossetti grew no better; he steadily sank. A disorder of the kidneys finally declared itself; he had lost the power of taking exercise; at last he became confined to his bed. In that extreme and imminent danger he appeared more cheerful than before; he had no fear of death; his intellect was clear and active to the end. Less than a week before his death he composed two of his finest sonnets. They were meant for a favorite design, never to be finished, in which Youth, Manhood, and Age interrogate the Sphinx, and the subject had a sinister appropriateness to the situation. Soon, very soon, he was to learn the answer. On Good Friday Mr. Rossetti was so much worse that his brother was hastily summoned to his bedside. He continued clear-minded and composed, speaking willingly (though now with failing articulation) on any subject of interest, and quoting his favorite passages from Shakspeare. On Easter-Sunday he said to his brother, "I wished to die yesterday, but I can't say that I do to-day," and more than once, with entire calm and simplicity, "I think I shall die to-night." Toward evening he became weaker. Night fell, and soon after nine o'clock he gave two sharp cries, but not so loud as to alarm his aged mother, who was sitting in the room. After that there was a moment's struggle then profound quiet; but the end was not at once. Twenty minutes after, in great peace, he died. His brother, Mr. Shields, Mr. Hall Caine, and his constant friend Mr. Theodore Watts, were with him to the last, and also his mother and sister. The solemn deathbed group included, besides these, the local physician Dr. Harris, who had attended him with great assiduity (his London adviser, the eminent Professor Marshall, had been down the day before), and his devotedly kind nurse Mrs. Abrey. Three minutes too late arrived his sister-in-law (Madox Brown's daughter), who had travelled all day from Manchester. Thus on Easter-Sunday, the day of joy | and resurrection, a great artist left usone of those whose glorious task it is to create beauty, gladness, pity, and sympathy in a world that would else grow hardened in suffering. This Easter was clouded for many by reason of his death: but his works shall live when the fashion that praises them and the fashion that decries them are alike forgotten; shall live, a possession of ours that was not before our time; created for us to give perpetual pleasure, to bring new joy, and raise fresh feeling for all of us who have eyes and see, and for all who have ears and hear. ODD MISS TODD. Bar ER father was odd before her. zillai Todd was one of those men who crop out from the general level of other people like a bowlder from the soft green surface of a meadow. He had a good farm, but he lived on it as Selkirk lived on his island. It was but half tilled; he never cut the huckleberry bushes or ploughed them up, for he ate little besides the hard yet juicy fruit while they lasted. Then no persuasion would induce him to sell the woodland which rose all about his lonely brown house. The trees were his congeners; he knew them individually. It was his delight to lie at length under their aerial canopy, and see the golden flecks of sunshine dance athwart their perfect grace and verdure, or to watch for bits of blue sky, sapphire blue, "like the body of heaven in its clearness," revealed by the parting of a wind-swept bough. The light susurrus of stealing breezes made the purest music to his ear, and he loved to watch the thousand quaint insects that inhabited moss and bark, to trace the busy life of ant-hills, to track beetles on their laborious journeys, or to see how deftly the wren-bird wove her mystic nest, and the partridge made of her pale eggs an open secret. He was no farmer, as all Dorset knew. Hay just enough for his two lonely Ayrshire cows was all he cut, and root crops were unknown to his fields; he raised acres of strawberries, and being a vegetarian, used them while they lasted, selling the vast surplus for money to buy books; corn he grew in abundance, for meal was a necessity, and waving crops of rye; a long range of beehives gave him honey, and he had a wild theory that honey was |