Etching.—Viola and Olivia.
Viola and Olivia 145
A Dialogue.—John Orchard 146
On a Whit-sunday Morn in the Month of May.—John Orchard 167
Modern Giants.—Laura Savage 169
To the Castle Ramparts—W.M. Rossetti 173
Pax Vobis.—Dante G. Rossetti 176
A Modern Idyl.—Walter H. Deverell 177
“Jesus Wept.”—W.M. Rossetti 179
Sonnets for Pictures.—Dante G Rossetti 180
Papers of “The M. S. Society,”
No IV. Smoke 183
No. V. Rain 186
Review: Christmas Eve and Easter Day.—W.M. Rossetti 187
The Evil under the Sun 192
The Subscribers to this Work are respectfully informed that the future Numbers will appear on the last day of the Month for which they are dated. Also, that a supplementary, or large-sized Etching will occasionally be given.
When Viola, a servant of the Duke,
Of him she loved the page, went, sent by him,
To tell Olivia that great love which shook
His breast and stopt his tongue; was it a whim,
Or jealousy or fear that she must look
Upon the face of that Olivia?
’Tis hard to say if it were whim
Or jealousy, but it was natural,
As natural as what came next, the near
Intelligence of hearts: Olivia
Loveth, her eye abused by a thin wall
Of custom, but her spirit’s eyes were clear.
Clear? we have oft been curious to know
The after-fortunes of those lovers dear;
Having a steady faith some deed must show
That they were married souls—unmarried here—
Having an inward faith that love, called so
In verity, is of the spirit, clear
Of earth and dress and sex—it may be near
What Viola returned Olivia?
A Dialogue on Art
[The following paper had been sent as a contribution to this publication scarcely more than a week before its author, Mr. John Orchard, died. It was written to commence a series of “Dialogues on Art,” which death has rendered for ever incomplete: nevertheless, the merits of this commencement are such that they seemed to warrant its publication as a fragment; and in order that the chain of argument might be preserved, so far as it goes, uninterrupted, the dialogue is printed entire in the present number, despite its length. Of the writer, but little can be said. He was an artist; but ill health, almost amounting to infirmity—his portion from childhood—rendered him unequal to the bodily labour inseparable from his profession: and in the course of his short life, whose youth was scarcely consummated, he exhibited, from time to time, only a very few small pictures, and these, as regards public recognition, in no way successfully. In art, however, he gave to the “seeing eye,” token of that ability and earnestness which the “hearing ear” will not fail to recognize in the dialogue now published; where the vehicle of expression, being more purely intellectual, was more within his grasp than was the physical and toilsome embodiment of art.