Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti

by Sir Hall Caine

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 mine could not appear in any book which
contained such rigid rules as to rhyme, as are contained in
Watts’s letter. I neither follow them, nor agree with them
as regards the English language. Every sonnet-writer should
show full capability of conforming to them in many
instances, but never to deviate from them in English must
pinion both thought and diction, and, (mastery once proved)
a series gains rather than loses by such varieties as do not
lessen the only absolute aim—that of beauty. The English
sonnet too much tampered with becomes a sort of bastard
madrigal. Too much, invariably restricted, it degenerates
into a Shibboleth.
Dante’s sonnets (in reply to your question—not as part of
the above point) vary in arrangement. I never for a moment
thought of following in my book the rhymes of each
individual sonnet.
If sonnets of mine remain admissible, I should prefer
printing the two On Cassandra to The Monochord and Wine
of Circe.
I would not be too anxious, were I you, about anything in
choice of sonnets except the brains and the music.

Again he wrote:

I talked to Watts about his letter. He seems to agree with
me as to advisable variation of form in preference to
transmuting valuable thought. It would not be afc all found
that my best sonnets are always in the mere form which I
think the best. The question with me is regulated by what I
have to say. But in truth, if I have a distinction as a
sonnet-writer, it is that I never admit a sonnet which is
not fully on the level of every other.... Again, as to this
blessed question, though no one ever took more pleasure in
continually using the form I prefer when not interfering
with thought, to insist on it would after a certain point be
ruin to common sense.
As to what you say of The One Hope—it is fully equal to
the very best of my sonnets, or I should not have wound up
the series with it. But the fact is, what is peculiar
chiefly in the series is, that scarcely one is worse than
any other. You have much too great a habit of speaking of a
special octave, sestette, or line. Conception, my boy,
fundamental brainwork, that is what makes the difference
in all art. Work your metal as much as you like, but first
take care that it is gold and worth working. A Shakspearean
sonnet is better than the most perfect in form, because
Shakspeare wrote it.
As for Drayton, of course his one incomparable sonnet is the
Love-Parting. That is almost the best in the language, if
not quite. I think I have now answered queries, and it is
late. 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 of
Donne’s are remarkable—no doubt you glean some. None of
Shakspeare’s is more indispensable than the wondrous one on
Last (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 the
death of a worldly man, and he wrote other good ones. To
return to the old, I think Stillingfleet’s To Williamson very fine....
I would like to send you a list of my special favourites
among 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 in
varying degrees.
There should be an essential reform in the printing of
Shakspeare’s sonnets. After sonnet 125 should occur the
words End of Part I. The couplet-piece, numbered 126,
should be called Epilogue to Part I.. Then, before 127,
should be printed Part II. After 152, should be put End of
Part II.—and the two last sonnets should be called Epilogue
to Part II. About these two last I have a theory of my own.
Did you ever see the excellent remarks on these sonnets in
my brother’s Lives of Famous Poets? I think a simple point
he mentions (for first time) fixes Pembroke clearly as the
male friend. I am glad you like his own two fine sonnets. I
wish he would write more such. By the bye, you speak with
great scorn of the closing couplet in sonnets. I do not
certainly think that form the finest, but I do think this
and every variety desirable in a series, and have often used
it myself. I like your letters on sonnets; write on all
points in question. The two last of Shakspeare’s sonnets
seem to me to have a very probable (and rather elaborate)
meaning never yet attributed to them. Some day, when I see
you, we will talk it over. Did you ever see a curious book
by one Brown (I don’t mean Armitage Brown) on Shakspeare’s
sonnets? By the bye, he is not the source of my notion as
above, but a matter of fact he names helps in it. I never
saw Massey’s book on the subject, but fancy his views and
Brown’s are somewhat allied. You should look at what my
brother says, which is very concise and valuable. I hope I
am not omitting to answer you in any essential point, but my
writing-table is a chaos into which your last letters have,
for the moment, sunk beyond recovery.
I consider the foregoing, perhaps, the most valuable of
Rossetti’s letters to me. I cannot remember that we ever
afterwards talked over the two last sonnets of Shakspeare;
if we did so, the meaning attached to them by him did not
fix 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 has
an effect upon my ear similar to that produced by the
couplets at the ends of some of the acts of Shakspeare’s
plays, which were in many instances interpolated by the
actors to enable them to make emphatic exits.
I must now group together a number of short notes on
sonnets:
I think Blanco White’s sonnet difficult to overrate in
thought—probably in this respect unsurpassable, but easy
to overrate as regards its workmanship. Of course there is
the one fatally disenchanting line:
While fly and leaf and insect stood revealed.
The poverty of vision which could not see at a glance that
fly and insect were one and the same, is, as you say, enough
to account for its being the writer’s only sonnet (there is
one more however which I don’t know).
I’ll copy you overpage a sonnet which I consider a very fine
one, but which may be said to be quite unknown. It is by
Charles Whitehead, who wrote the very admirable and
exceptional novel of Richard Savage, published somewhere
about 1840.
Even as yon lamp within my vacant room
With arduous flame disputes the doubtful night,
And can with its involuntary light
But lifeless things that near it stand illume;
Yet all the while it doth itself consume,
And ere the sun hath reached his morning height
With courier beams that greet the shepherd’s sight,
There where its life arose must be its tomb:—
So wastes my life away, perforce confined
To 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 mind
Must leave its lamp cold ere the sun appear!
I am sure you will agree with me in admiring that. I quote
from memory, and am not sure that I have given line 6 quite
correctly....
I have just had Blanco White’s only other sonnet (On being
called an Old Man at 50) copied out for you. I do certainly
think it ought to go in, though no better than so-so, as you
say. But it is just about as good as the former one, but for
the leading and splendid thought in the latter. Both are but
proseman’s diction.
There is a sonnet of Chas. Wells’s On Chaucer which is not
worthy of its writer, but still you should have it. It
occurs among some prefatory tributes in Chaucer
Modernised, edited by E. H. Home. I don’t know how you are
to get a copy, but the book is in the British Museum Reading
Room. The sonnet is signed C. W. only.
The sonnet by Wells seemed to me in every respect poor, and
as it was no part of my purpose (as an admirer of Wells) to
advertise what the poet could not do, I determined—against
Rossetti’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 name
before, but it ought to be available for reference, and I do
not agree with you in considering it weak in any sense
except that of structure.
There is a sonnet by Ebenezer Jones, beginning “I never
wholly 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 sonnet
to appear in Main’s book. Why not in yours? But I have long
ceased to know him, nor is any friend of mine in
communication with him.... My brother has written in his
time a few sonnets. Two of them I think very fine—
especially the one called Shelley’s Heart, which he has
lately worked upon again with immense advantage.... You do
not tell me from whom you have received sonnets. The reason
which prevents my coming forward, in such a difficulty, with
a new sonnet of my own, is this:—which indeed you have
probably surmised: I know nothing would gratify malevolence,
after the controversy which ensued on your lecture, more
than to be able to assert, however falsely, that we had been
working in concert all along, that you were known to me from
the first, and that your advocacy had no real
spontaneity.... When you first entered on the subject, and
wrote your lecture, you were a perfect stranger to me, and
that fact greatly enhanced my pleasure in its enthusiastic
tone. I hope sincerely that we may have further and close
opportunities of intercourse, but should like whatever you
may write of me to come from the old source of intellectual
affinity only. That you should think the subject worthy of
further labour is a pleasure to me, but I only trust it may
not be a disadvantage to your book in unfriendly eyes,
particularly if that view happened to be the proposed
publisher’s, in which case I should much prefer that this
section of your work were withdrawn for a more propitious
occasion.... I am very glad Brown is furthering your sonnet-
book—he knows so many bards. Of course if I were you, I
should keep an eye on the mouths even of gift-horses; but
were a creditable stud to be trotted out, of course I should
be willing; as were I one among many, the objection I noted
would not exist. I do not mean for a moment to say that many
very fine sonnets might not be obtained from poets not yet
known or not widely known; but known names would be the
things to parry the difficulty.

Later he wrote:

As you know, I want to contribute to your volume if I can do
so without fear of the consequences hinted at in a former
letter as likely to ensue, so I now enclose a sonnet of my
own. If you are out in March 1881, you may be before my new
edition, but I am getting my stock together. Not a word of
this however, as it mustn’t get into gossip paragraphs at
present. The House of Life is now a hundred sonnets—all
lyrics being removed. Besides this series, I have forty-five
sonnets extra. I think, as you are willing, I shall use the
title I sent you—A Sonnet Sequence. I fancy the
alternative 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 was Pride of Youth, but as this formed part of The House of Life series, it was withdrawn, and Raleigh’s Cell in the Tower was 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: