es by Alexandre Dumas. German writers were
conspicuously absent, Goethe's _Faust_ and Carlyle's translation of
_Wilhelm, Meister_, being about the only notable German works in the
library. Rossetti did not appear to be a collector of first editions,
nor did it seem that he attached much importance to the mere outsides of
his books, but of the insides he was master indeed. The impression left
upon the mind after a rapid survey of the poet-painter's library was
that he was a careful, but slow and thorough reader (as was seen by the
marginal annotations which nearly every volume contained), and that,
though very far from affected by bibliomania, he was not without pride
in the possession of rare and valuable books.

When I left the house at a late hour that morning Rossetti was not yet
stirring, and so some months passed before I saw him again. If I had
tried to formulate the idea--or say sensation--that possessed me at the
moment, I think I should have said, in a word or two, that outside the
air breathed freely. Within, the gloom, the mediaeval furniture, the
brass censers, sacramental cups, lamps; and crucifixes conspired, I
thought, to make the atmosphere heavy and unwholesome. As for the
man himself who was the central spirit amidst these anachronistic
environments, he had, if possible, attached me yet closer to himself by
contact. Before this I had been attracted to him in admiration of his
gifts: but now I was drawn to him, in something very like pity, for
his isolation and suffering. Not that at this time he consciously
made demand of much compassion, and least of all from me. Health was
apparently whole with him, his spirits were good, and his energies were
at their best. He had not yet known the full bitterness of the shadowed
valley: not yet learned what it was to hunger for any cheerful society
that would relieve him of the burden of the flesh. All that came later.
Rossetti was one of the most magnetic of men, but it was not more his
genius than his unhappiness that held certain of his friends by a spell.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was characteristic of Rossetti that he addressed me in the following
terms probably before I had left his house: for the letter was, no
doubt, written in that interval of sleeplessness which he had spoken of
as his nightly visitant:

I forgot to say--Don't, please, spread details as to story of _Rose
Mary_. I don't want it to be stale or to get forestalled in the
travelling of repo