Richard Muther: The History of Modern Painting, vols. ii. and iii., 1896.
Ford H. M. Hueffer: Ford Madox Brown, 1896.
Dante G. Rossetti: Letters to William Allingham, edited by Dr. Birkbeck Hill, 1897.
M. H. Spielmann: Millais and his Works, 1898.
Antonio Agresti: Poesie di Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Traduzione con uno Studio su la Pittura Inglese, etc., 1899.
Fraulein Wilmersdoerffer: Dante Gabriel Rossetti und sein Einflusz, 1899.
Edited by W. M. Rossetti: Ruskin, Rossetti, Præraphaelitism, 1899.
J. Guille Millais: Life and Letters of Sir John Everett Millais, 1899.
Percy H. Bate: The English Præraphaelite Painters, 1899.
H. C. Marillier: Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1899.
Edited by W. M. Rossetti: Præraphaelite Diaries and Letters, 1899.
There are also books on Burne-Jones and Willaim Morris with which I am not accurately acquainted. It seems strange that no memoir of Thomas Woolner has yet been published; a fine sculptor and remarkable man known to and appreciated by all sorts of people, and certain to have figured extensively in correspondence. He died in October 1892. Mr. Holman-Hunt is understood to have been engaged for a long while past upon a book on Præraphaelitism which would cast into the shade most of the earlier literature on the subject.
W. M. ROSSETTI
London, July 1899.
N.B.When the third number of the magazine was about to appear, with a change of title from The Germ to Art and Poetry, two fly-sheets were drawn up, more, I think, by Messrs. Tupper the printing-firm than by myself. They contain some Opinions of the Press, already referred to in this Introduction, and an explanation as to the change of title. The fly-sheets appear in facsimile as follows:
The Germ
The Subscribers to this Periodical are respectfully informed that in future it will appear under the title of Art and Poetry instead of the original arbitrary one, which occasioned much misapprehensionThis alteration will not be productive of any ill consequence, as the title has never occurred in the work itself, and Label will be supplied for placing on the old wrappers, so as to make them conformable to the new
It should also be noticed that the Numbers will henceforward be published on the last day of the Month for which they are dated
Town Subscribers will oblige by filling up & returning the accompanying form, which will ensure the Numbers being duly forwarded as directed.
Country Subscribers may obtain their copies by kindly forwarding their orders to any Booksellers in their respective Neighborhoods.
Opinions of the press
Original Poems, stories to develop thought and principle, essays concerning Art & other subjects, are the materials which are to compose this unique addition to our periodical literature Among the poetry, there are some rare gems of poetic conception; among the prose essays, we notice the Subject in Art which treats of Art itself in a noble and lofty tone, with the view which he must take of it who would, in the truest sense of the word, be an Artist, and another paper, not less interesting, on the Purpose and Tendency of Early Italian Art A well executed Etching in the medieval style, accompanies each number
John Bull.There are so many original and beautiful thoughts in these pagesindeed some of the poems & tales are in themselves so beautiful in spirit & formthat we have hopes of the writers, when they shall have got rid of those ghosts of mediæval art which now haunt their every page. The essay On the Mechanism of a Historical Picture is a good practical treatise, and indicates the hand of writing which is much wanted among artists
Morning Chronicle.We depart from our usual plan of noticing the periodicals under one heading, for the purpose of introducing to our readers a new aspirant for public favour, which has pecu liar and uncommon claims to attention, for in design & execution it differs from all other periodicals A periodical largely occupied with poetry wears an unpromising aspect to readers who have learned from experience what nonsensical stuff most fugitive Magazine poetry is.... But, when they have read a few extracts which we propose to make, we think they will own that for once appearances are deceitful.... That the contents of this work are the productions of no common minds, the following extracts will sufficiently prove.... We have not space to take any specimens of the prose; but the essays on Art are conceived with an equal appreciation of its meaning & requirements. Being such, this work has our heartiest wishes for its success, but we scarcely dare to hope that it may win the popularity it deserves. The truth is that it is too good for the time. It is not material enough for the age
Critic.It bears unquestionable evidences of true inspirations and, in fact, is so thoroughly spiritual that it is more likely to find the fit audience though few than to attract the multitude The prose articles are much to our taste We know, however, of no periodical of the time which is so genuinely poetical and artistic in its tone.
Standard of Freedom.The Germ: Thoughts towards Nature In Poetry, Literature, and Art.
No. 1. January, 1850
With an Etching by W. HOLMAN HUNTWhen whoso merely hath a little thought
Will plainly think the thought which is in him,
Not imaging another's bright or dim,
Not mangling with new words what others taught;
When whoso speaks, from having either sought
Or only found,will speak, not just to skim
A shallow surface with words made and trim,
But in that very speech the matter brought:
Be not too keen to crySo this is all!
A thing I might myself have thought as well,
But would not say it, for it was not worth!
Ask: Is this truth? For is it still to tell
That, be the theme a point or the whole earth,
Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small?
My Beautiful Lady
I love my lady; she is very fair;
Her brow is white, and bound by simple hair;
Her spirit sits aloof, and high,
Altho' it looks thro' her soft eye
Sweetly and tenderly.
As a young forest, when the wind drives thro',
My life is stirred when she breaks on my view.
Altho' her beauty has such power,
Her soul is like the simple flower
Trembling beneath a shower.
As bliss of saints, when dreaming of large wings,
The bloom around her fancied presence flings,
I feast and wile her absence, by
Pressing her choice hand passionately
Imagining her sigh.
My lady's voice, altho' so very mild,
Maketh me feel as strong wine would a child;
My lady's touch, however slight,
Moves all my senses with its might,
Like to a sudden fright.
A hawk poised high in air, whose nerved wing-tips
Tremble with might suppressed, before he dips,
In vigilance, not more intense
Than I; when her word's gentle sense
Makes full-eyed my suspense.
Her mention of a thingaugust or poor,
Makes it seem nobler than it was before:
As where the sun strikes, life will gush,
And what is pale receive a flush,
Rich huesa richer blush.
My lady's name, if I hear strangers use,
Not meaning herseems like a lax misuse.
I love none by my lady's name;
Rose, Maud, or Grace, are all the same,
So blank, so very tame.
My lady walks as I have seen a swan
Swim thro' the water just where the sun shone.
There ends of willow branches ride,
Quivering with the current's glide,
By the deep river-side.
Whene'er she moves there are fresh beauties stirred;
As the sunned bosom of a humming-bird
At each pant shows some fiery hue,
Burns gold, intensest green or blue:
The same, yet ever new.
What time she walketh under flowering May,
I am quite sure the scented blossoms say,
O lady with the sunlit hair!
Stay, and drink our odorous air
The incense that we bear:
Your beauty, lady, we would ever shade;
Being near you, our sweetness might not fade.
If trees could be broken-hearted,
I am sure that the green sap smarted,
When my lady parted.
This is why I thought weeds were beautiful;
Because one day I saw my lady pull
Some weeds up near a little brook,
Which home most carefully she took,
Then shut them in a book.
A deer when startled by the stealthy ounce,
A bird escaping from the falcon's trounce,
Feels his heart swell as mine, when she
Stands statelier, expecting me,
Than tall white lilies be.
The first white flutter of her robe to trace,
Where binds and perfumed jasmine interlace,
Expands my gaze triumphantly:
Even such his gaze, who sees on high
His flag, for victory.
We wander forth unconsciously, because
The azure beauty of the evening draws:
When sober hues pervade the ground,
And life in one vast hush seems drowned,
Air stirs so little sound.
We thread a copse where frequent bramble spray
With loose obtrusion from the side roots stray,
(Forcing sweet pauses on our walk):
I'll lift one with my foot, and talk
About its leaves and stalk.
Or may be that the prickles of some stem
Will hold a prisoner her long garment's hem;
To disentangle it I kneel,
Oft wounding more than I can heal;
It makes her laugh, my zeal.
Then on before a thin-legged robin hops,
Or leaping on a twig, he pertly stops,
Speaking a few clear notes, till nigh
We draw, when quickly he will fly
Into a bush close by.
A flock of goldfinches may stop their flight,
And wheeling round a birchen tree alight
Deep in its glittering leaves, until
They see us, when their swift rise will
Startle a sudden thrill.
I recollect my lady in a wood,
Keeping her breath and peering(firm she stood
Her slim shape balanced on tiptoe)
Into a nest which lay below,
Leaves shadowing her brow.
I recollect my lady asking me,
What that sharp tapping in the wood might be?
I told her blackbirds made it, which,
For slimy morsels they count rich,
Cracked the snail's curling niche:
She made no answer. When we reached the stone
Where the shell fragments on the grass were strewn,
Close to the margin of a rill;
The air, she said, seems damp and chill,
We'll go home if you will.
Make not my pathway dull so soon, I cried,
See how those vast cloudpiles in sun-glow dyed,
Roll out their splendour: while the breeze
Lifts gold from leaf to leaf, as these
Ash saplings move at ease.
Piercing the silence in our ears, a bird
Threw some notes up just then, and quickly stirred
The covert birds that startled, sent
Their music thro' the air; leaves lent
Their rustling and blent,
Until the whole of the blue warmth was filled
So much with sun and sound, that the air thrilled.
She gleamed, wrapt in the dying day's
Glory: altho' she spoke no praise,
I saw much in her gaze.
Then, flushed with resolution, I told all;
The mighty love I bore her,how would pall
My very breath of life, if she
For ever breathed not hers with me;
Could I a cherub be,
How, idly hoping to enrich her grace,
I would snatch jewels from the orbs of space;
Then back thro' the vague distance beat,
Glowing with joy her smile to meet,
And heap them round her feet.
Her waist shook to my arm. She bowed her head,
Silent, with hands clasped and arms straightened:
(Just then we both heard a church bell)
O God! It is not right to tell:
But I remember well
Each breast swelled with its pleasure, and her whole
Bosom grew heavy with love; the swift roll
Of new sensations dimmed her eyes,
Half closing them in ecstasies,
Turned full against the skies.
The rest is gone; it seemed a whirling round
No pressure of my feet upon the ground:
But even when parted from her, bright
Showed all; yea, to my throbbing sight
The dark was starred with light.