t the
occasional references to myself which in the course of these extracts I
shall feel it necessary to introduce, may be understood to be employed
by me as much for their illustrative value (being indicative of
Rossetti's character), as for any purpose less purely impersonal.

The passage of verse referred to was copied out for Rossetti in reply to
an inquiry as to whether I had written poetry. Prompted no doubt by the
encouragement derived in this instance, I submitted from time to time
other verses to Rossetti, as subsequent letters show, but it says
something for the value of his praise that whatever the measure of
it when his sympathies were fairly aroused, and whatever his natural
tendency to look for the characteristic merits rather than defects of
compositions referred to his judgment, his candour was always prominent
among his good qualities when censure alone required to be forthcoming.
Among many frank utterances of an opinion early formed, that whatever
my potentialities as a writer of prose, I had but small vocation as a
writer of poetry, I preserve one such utterance, which will, I trust, be
found not less interesting to other readers from affording a glimpse of
the writer's attitude towards the old controversy touching the several
and distinguishing elements that contribute to make good prose on the
one hand and good verse on the other.

On one occasion he had sent me his fine sonnet on Keats, then just
written, and, in acknowledging the receipt of it with many expressions
of admiration, I remarked that for some days I had been struggling
desperately, in all senses, to incubate a sonnet on the same somewhat
hackneyed subject. I had not written a line or put pen to paper for the
purpose, but I could tell him, in general terms, what my unaccomplished
marvel of sonnet-craft was to be about.

Rossetti replied saying that the scheme for a sonnet was "extremely
beautiful," and urging me to "do it at once." Alas for my intrepidity,
"do it" I did, with the result of awakening my correspondent to the
certainty that, whatever embowerings I had in my mind, that shy bird the
sonnet would seek in vain for a nest to hide in there. It asked so much
special courage to send a first attempt at sonneteering to the greatest
living master of the sonnet that moral daring alone ought to have got me
off lightly, but here is Rossetti's reply, valuable now, as well for the
view it affords of the poet's attitude towards the sonn