14 Chatham Place Blackfriars

Saturday morning

My dear Brown,

I have asked Hannay to come round to-morrow evening. He and you were the only defaulters on Thursday except John Seddon, who it seems is out of town.

Can you come in tomorrow instead?

Do if you can. I will try and get William also, though I heard last night at Millais's that he was rather unwell.

What do you think? My sketches are kicked out at that precious place in Pall Mall. I am of course more than ever resolved to paint my picture of the pigs. Alas! my dear Brown, we are but too transcendent spirits—far, far, in advance of the age.

Do not bring up this subject to-morrow if Hannay or anyone else is present, as it is of no use trumpeting one's grievances. But do come.

Your friend,

Dante G. Rossetti

Sept. 1848

Among my earliest recollections, none is stronger than that of my

father standing before the fire when he came home in the London

winter evening, and singing to us, in his sweet generous tones: some-

time ancient ditties of our own country—such songs as one might translate from

the birds, and the brooks might set to music; sometimes foreign songs those with

which foreign travel had familiarized his youth,—among them the great

tunes which have rung the world's changes since '89. I used to sit on

the carpet hearth-rug, listening to him, and look between his knees into the

fire till it burned my face, while the shapes sights swarming up in it seemed

changed and changed with the music: till the music and the fire and

my heart burned together, and I would take paper and pencil, and try

to fix the shapes that rose within me. For my

hope was to be a painter.

The first book I remember to have read of my own accord was

an old-fashioned work on Art which my mother had,—“Hamilton's

English Conoscente.” It was a kind of continental tour,—sufficiently

Della-Cruscan, from what I can recall of it,—and contained notices

of works of art which the author had seen abroad, with engravings after

some of them. These were in the English fashion of that day, executed

in dots and printed with red ink; tasteless enough, no doubt, but

I yearned towards them, and would toil over them for days. One

especially possessed for me a strong and indefinable charm: it it was

a Saint Agnes in glory, by Bucciolo d'Orli Angiolieri. This plate

I could copy from the first with much more success than I could any

of the others; indeed, it was mainly my love of the figure, and a

desire to obtain some knowledge regarding it, which impelled me,

by one magnanimous effort upon the “Conoscente,” to master in a

few days more of the difficult art of reading than my mother's laborious

inculcations had accomplished during a year or two. However, what I managed

to spell and puzzle out related chiefly to the executive qualities of

the picture, which could be little understood by a mere boy child; of the

artist himself, or the meaning of his work, the author of the book

appeared to know scarcely anything.

As I became older, my boyish impulse towards art grew into a

vital passion; till at last my father took me from school and per-

mitted me my own bent of study. There is no need that I should

dwell much upon the few next years of my life. The beginnings of

Art, entered on at all seriously, present an alternation of extremes:—

on the one hand, the most bewildering phases of mental endeavour,

on the other, a toil rigidly & exact dealing often with trifles. What

was then the precise shape of the cloud within my tabernacle, I could

scarcely say now; or whether indeed I knew its form through so thick a veil or could be sure

of its presence there at all; and as to which statue at the Museum

I drew most — or learned least from,—or which Professor at the Academy

“set” the model in the worst taste,—these are things which no one

need care to know. I may say here that I was wayward enough

in the pursuit, if not in the purpose; that I cared even too little for

what could be taught me by others; and that my original designs

were much greatly outnumbered my school-drawings.

In most cases where study (such study, at least, as involves any

practical elements) has benumbed that subtle transition which brings

youth out of boyhood; there is comes a point, after some while, when

the mind loses its suppleness, and being riveted merely by the continuance

of the mechanical effort, the constrained senses

gradually assume their utmost tension, and any urgent impression

from without will suffice to scatter the spell. The student looks

up: the film of their own fixedness drops at once from before his eyes,

and for the first time he sees his life in the face.

In my twentieth year, I might say that between one path of Art

and another, I worked hard. One afternoon I was returning, after

an unprofitable morning, from a class for the model which I attended; the day

was one of those oppressive lulls in autumn, when application, unless

under sustained excitement, is all but impossible,—when the senses perceptions

seem curdled and the brain full of sand. On ascending the stairs to

my room, I heard voices there, and when I entered, found my sister

Catharine, with another young lady, busily turning over my sketches

and papers, as if in search of something. Catharine laughed, and

introduced her companion as Miss Mary Ethell. There might have

been a little malice in the laugh, for I remembered to have heard

the lady's

name before, and to have then made in fun some teasing

inquiries about her, as one will of one's sisters' friends. I bowed for

the introduction, and stood rebuked. She had her back to the windowwhere the light was strong,

and I could not well see her features at the moment; but I made sure

she was very beautiful, from the way that

she held her hands and her tranquil body. Catharine told me they had been looking together

for a book of hers which I had had by me for some time, and which

she had promised to Miss Ethell. I joined in the search, the book

was found, and soon after they left my room. I had come in utterly

spiritless; but now I fell to and worked well for several hours. In

the evening, when I went down stairs to the family, I found Miss Ethell still with them; she remained rather

late: till she left I did not return to my room, nor, when there, was

my work resumed that night. I had thought her more beautiful

than at first.

For some months about a year after this I am afraid I

neglected my studies almost entirely, except so ,uch of them as

became a duty by the compensation it procured:

and when that year was upon its close, Mary Ethell and

I were promised in marriage.

Her station in life, though not lofty, was one of more ease

than my own, and I had the satisfaction of knowing that it was

the earnestness of her attachment to me had deterred

her parents from placing any obstacle in the way of our union. At the same time All

the more rigidly on this account I now long to

the task now devolve upon me of obtain ing at once such a position which

as should raise me from ever having to reproach ing myself with the any sacrifice made

by her for my sake. It was in this determination that I now set to work with all the energy of

which I was capable, upon a picture of some size, involving various

aspects of study. The subject was a modern one, and indeed it has

often seemed to me that all work, to be truly worthy, should be wrought

out of the age itself, as well as out of the soul of its producer, which

must needs be a soul of the age. At this picture I laboured unceasingly

my days and my nights. And Mary sat to me for

the principal female figure. The exhibition to which I sent it opened

a few weeks after the completion of my twenty-second year.