th that of a living one bearing a natural
affinity to it, I will say that Gabriel's conversation was perhaps more
spontaneous, and had more variety of tone with less range of subject,
together with the same precision and perspicuity. Very soon the talk
became general, and then Rossetti spoke without appearance of reserve
of his two or three intimate friends, telling me, among other things,
of Theodore Watts, that he "had a head exactly like that of Napoleon I.,
whom Watts," he said with a chuckle, "detests more than any character
in history; depend upon it," he added, "such a head was not given to him
for nothing;" that Frederick Shields was as emotional as Shelley, and
Ford Madox Brown, whom I had met, as sententious as Dr. Johnson. I kept
no sort of record of what passed upon the occasion in question, but I
remember that Rossetti seemed to be playfully battering his friends in
their absence in the assured consciousness that he was doing so in the
presence of a well-wisher; and it was amusing to observe that, after any
particularly lively sally, he would pause to say something in a sobered
tone that was meant to convey the idea that he was really very jealous
of his friends' reputation, and was merely for the sake of amusement
giving rein to a sportive fancy. During dinner (and contrary to his
declared habit, we did not dine in the studio) he talked a good deal
about Oliver Madox Brown, for whom I had conceived a warm admiration,
and to whom I had about that time addressed a sonnet.

"You had a sincere admiration of the boy's gifts?" I asked.

"Assuredly. I have always said that twenty years after his death his
name will be a familiar one. _The Black Swan_ is a powerful story,
although I must honestly say that it displays in its central incident a
certain torpidity that to me is painful. Undoubtedly Oliver had genius,
and must have done great things had he lived. His death was a grievous
blow to his father. I'm glad you've written that sonnet; I wanted you to
toss up your cap for Nolly." He spoke of Oliver's father as indisputably
one of the greatest of living colourists, inquired earnestly into the
progress of his frescoes at Manchester, for one of the figures in which
I had sat, and showed me a little water-colour drawing made by Oliver
himself when very young. Dinner being now over, I asked Rossetti to
redeem his promise to read one of his new ballads; and as his brother,
who had often heard it before, expressed his