He had already succeeded in having a poem accepted occasionally by one or two Magazines and Weeklies. In 1879 Good Words published a poem entitled “Night,” and in 1880 two Sonnets on Schubert’s “Am Meer.” The Examiner printed some Sonnets and a poem of fifteen lines. In 1881 he contributed a long poem on Victor Hugo to Modern Thought, and in February of 1882 his Sonnet “Spring Wind” was accepted by the Athenæum and it was afterward included in Hall Caine’s Century of Sonnets. Early the following year he spent a delightful week-end with Rossetti, at Birchington, whence he wrote to me:
Feb. 13, 1882.
“Just a line to tell you I am supremely content. Beautiful sea views, steep ‘cavey’ cliffs, a delicious luxurious house, and nice company. By a curious mistake I got out at the wrong place on Sunday, and had a long walk with my bag along the cliffs till I arrived rather tired and hot at my destination. I was surprised not to find Hall Caine there, but it appeared he clearly understood I was to get out at a different station altogether. I was also delayed in arriving, as I asked a countryman my direction and he told me to go to the left—but from the shape of the coast I argued that the right must be the proper way—I went to the right in consequence, and nearly succeeded in going over a cliff’s edge, while my theory was decidedly vanquished by facts. However the walk repaid it. Oh, the larks yesterday! It was as warm as June, and Rossetti and Caine and myself went out and lay in the grass (at least I did) basking in the sun, looking down on the gleaming sea, and hearing these heavenly incarnate little joys sending thrills of sweetness, and vague pain through all my being. I seemed all a-quiver with the delight of it all. And the smell of the wrack! and the cries of the sea-birds! and the delicious wash of the incoming tide! Oh, dear me, I shall hate to go back to-morrow. Caine is writing a sonnet in your book, Watts is writing a review for the Athenæum, Rossetti is about to go on with painting his Joan of Arc, and I am writing the last lines of this note to you.”
Little did he dream as he shook hands with his host on the Monday morning that he was bidding a last farewell to his good friend.
Of that visit he wrote later:
“Of my most cherished memories is a night at Birchington-on-Sea, in March, 1882. It had been a lovely day. Rossetti asked me to go out with him for a stroll on the cliff; and though he leaned heavily and dragged his limbs wearily as if in pain, he grew more cheerful as the sunlight warmed him. The sky was a cloudless blue and the singing of at least a score of larks was wonderful to listen to. Everywhere Spring odours prevailed, with an added pungency from the sea-wrack below. Beyond, the sea reached far to horizons of purple shaded azure. At first I thought Rossetti was indifferent: but this mood gave way. He let go my arm and stood staring seaward silently, then, still in a low tired voice, but with a new tone in it he murmured, ‘It is beautiful—the world and life itself. I am glad I have lived.’ Insensibly thereafter the dejection lifted from off his spirit, and for the rest of that day and that evening he was noticeably less despondent.
“The previous evening Christina Rossetti and myself were seated in the semi-twilight in the low-roofed sitting room. She had been reading to him but he had grown weary and somewhat fretful. Not wishing to disturb him, Miss Rossetti made a sign to me to come over to the window and there drew my attention to a quiet hued but very beautiful sunset. While we were enjoying it Rossetti, having overheard an exclamation of almost rapturous delight from Christina, rose from his great armchair before the fire and walked feebly to the window. He stared blankly upon the dove-tones and pale amethyst of the sky. I saw him glance curiously at his sister, and then again long and earnestly. But at last with a voice full of chagrin he turned away pettishly saying he could not see what it was we admired so much. ‘It is all gray and gloom,’ he added; nor would he hear a word to the contrary, so ignorant was he of the havoc wrought upon his optic nerve by the chloral poison which did so much to shorten his life.... ‘Poor Gabriel,’ Miss Rossetti said, ‘I wish he could have at least one hopeful hour again.’ It was with pleasure therefore next day she heard of what he had said upon the cliff, and how he had brightened. The evening that followed was a happy one, for, as already mentioned Rossetti grew so cheerful, relatively, that it seemed as though the shadow of death had lifted. What makes it doubly memorable to me is that when I opened the door for Miss Rossetti when she bade me good-night, she turned, took my hand again, and said in a whisper, ‘I am so glad about Gabriel, and grateful.’”
To E. A. S.:
11: 4: 82.