Ancient lights and certain new reflections, being the memories of a young man; . hen she wasarrayed in the robes of her namesake whose part shesupported. For let it not be imagined that my auntRossetti foisted my cousin Arthur into the positionof hero of the play through any kind of maternaljealousy. Not at all. She was just as anxious toturn me into a genius or to turn anybody into agenius. It was only that she had such much bettermaterial in her own children. Ah, that searching for genius, that reading aloudof poems, that splendid keeping alive of the traditionthat a poet was a seer and a pr
Ancient lights and certain new reflections, being the memories of a young man; . hen she wasarrayed in the robes of her namesake whose part shesupported. For let it not be imagined that my auntRossetti foisted my cousin Arthur into the positionof hero of the play through any kind of maternaljealousy. Not at all. She was just as anxious toturn me into a genius or to turn anybody into agenius. It was only that she had such much bettermaterial in her own children. Ah, that searching for genius, that reading aloudof poems, that splendid keeping alive of the traditionthat a poet was a seer and a priest by the sheer virtueof his craft and mystery ! Nowadays, alas, for awriter to meet with any consideration at all in theworld, he or she must be at least a social began, for the aesthetic set at least, withWilliam Morris. He first turned all poets andpoetesses into long-necked creatures with red ties,or into round-shouldered maidens dressed in bluecurtain serge. For indeed when sestheticism merged itself in social propaganda, the last poor little fortress 104. SHE HAD Sllll MUCH BETTKIt MATEItlAI. IN IIKI; ( Mils. WILLIAM [To. Pre-Raphaelites and Prisons of the arts in England was divested of its gallantgarrison. It might be comic that my aunt Lucyshould turn her residence into a sort of hot-house andforcing school for geniuses; it might be comic thatmy grandfather should proclaim that Mrs. ClaraFletchers sonnets were finer than those of Shake-speare; it might be comic even that all the Pre-Raphaelite poets should back each other up, and allthe Pre-Raphaelite painters spend hours every dayin jobbing each others masterpieces into municipalgalleries. But behind it, there was a feeling thatthe profession of the arts or the humaner letterswas a priestcraft and of itself consecrated its earnestvotary. Nowadays . . Last week upon three memorable days I had forme three memorable conversations. On the Satur-day I was sitting in Kensington Gardens
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