hem unsparingly, saying
they were a purely modern extravagance, the highest intellects of other
times being ever the sanest, Shakspeare, Cervantes, Goethe, Coleridge,
Wordsworth; the root of the evil had been Shelley, who was mad, and in
imitation of whose madness, modern men of genius must many of them
be mad also, until it had come to such a pass-that if a gifted man
conducted himself throughout life with probity and propriety we
instantly began to doubt the value of his gifts. Rossetti evidently
thought that in all this I was covertly hitting out at himself, and
cut short the conversation with an unequivocal hint that he had no
affectations, and could not account himself an authority with respect to
them.

With such talk a few of our evenings were spent, but too soon the
insatiable craving for the drug came with renewed force, and then all
pleasant intercourse was banished. Night after night we sat up until
eleven, twelve, and one o'clock, watching the long hours go by with
heavy steps; waiting, waiting, waiting for the time at which he could
take his first draught, and drop into his pillowed place and snatch a
dreamless sleep of three or four hours' duration.

In order to break the monotony of nights such as I describe I sometimes
read from Fielding, Richardson, and Sterne, but more frequently induced
Rossetti to recite. Thus, with failing voice, he would again and again
attempt, at my request, his _Cloud Confines_, or passages from _The
King's Tragedy_, and repeatedly, also, Poe's _Ulalume_ and _Raven_. I
remember that, touching the last-mentioned of these poems, he remarked
that out of his love of it while still a boy his own _Blessed Damozel_
originated. "I saw," he said, "that Poe had done the utmost it was
possible to do with the grief of the lover on earth, and so I determined
to reverse the conditions, and give utterance to the yearning of the
loved one in heaven." At that time of the year the night closed in as
early as seven or eight o'clock, and then in that little house among
the solitary hills his disconsolate spirit would sometimes sink beyond
solace into irreclaimable depths of depression.

It was impossible that such a condition of things should last, and it
was with unspeakable relief that I heard Rossetti express a desire to
return home. Mr. Watts, who at that time was at Stratford-upon-Avon, had
promised to join us, but now wrote to say that this was impossible. Had
it been otherwise, Rossetti w