d where the metaphysical
equivalents to a word or a look answer to, and are answered by, the
half-realised conception. Hence it often happens that even where our
touch seems to ourselves delicate and precise, a mind not initiated
in our self-chosen method of abbreviation finds only impenetrable
obscurity. It is then in the tentative condition of mind just indicated
that the spirit of art comes in, and enables a man so to clothe his
thought in lucid words and fitting imagery that strangers may know, when
they see it, all that it is, and how he came by it. Although, therefore,
the praise of friends should not be less delightful, as praise, than
that tendered by strangers, there is an added element of surprise and
satisfaction in the latter which the former cannot bring. Rossetti
certainly never over-valued the applause of his own immediate circle,
but still no man was more sensible of the value of the good opinion of
one or two of his immediate friends. Returning to the correspondence, he
says:

In what I wrote as to critiques on my poems, I meant to
express _special_ gratification from those written by
strangers to myself and yet showing full knowledge of the
subject and full sympathy with it. Such were Formans at the
time, the American one since (and far from alone in America,
but this the best) and more lately your own. Other known and
unknown critics of course wrote on the book when it
appeared, some very favourably and others _quite_
sufficiently abusive.

As to _Cloud Confines_, I told Rossetti that I considered it in
philosophic grasp the most powerful of his productions, and interesting
as being (unlike the body of his works) more nearly akin to the spirit
of music than that of painting.

By the bye, you are right about _Cloud Confines_, which _is_
my very best thing--only, having been foolishly sent to a
magazine, no notice whatever resulted.

Rossetti was not always open to suggestions as to the need of clarifying
obscure phrases in his verses, but on one or two occasions, when I was
so bold as to hint at changes, I found him in highly tractable moods.
I called his attention to what I imagined might prove to be merely a
printer's slip in his poem (a great favourite of mine) entitled _The
Portrait_. The second stanza ran:

Yet this, of all love's perfect prize,
Remains; save what in mournful guise
Takes counsel with my soul alone,-