All this was said with perfect courtesy and without the least intention of administering a snub or belittling the writer in question. Swinburne had merely forgotten because there was nothing in that author’s personality that had impressed itself upon him. On the other hand, he would remember the minutest details of conversations in which he had been interested. In spite of his capacity for passionate outbursts and inspired invective, Swinburne was a most attentive listener, provided there were things being said to which it was worth listening. At meal times when his attention became engaged he would forget everything but the conversation. Indifferent as to what stage of the meal he was at, he would turn to whoever it might be that had introduced the subject, and would talk or listen oblivious of the fact that food might be spoiling. Fortunately, he was a small eater. On one occasion when lunching at “The Pines” Mr. Coulson Kernahan happened to remark that he had in his pocket a copy of Christina Rossetti’s then unpublished poem, ‘The Death of a First-born,’ written in memory of the Duke of Clarence. Down went knife and fork as Swinburne half rose from his chair to reach across the table for the manuscript. “She is as a god to mortals when compared to most other living women poets,” he exclaimed. Then, in his thin-high-pitched, but exquisitely modulated voice he half read, half chanted, two stanzas of the poem. One young life lost, two happy young lives blighted With earthward eyes we see: With eyes uplifted, keener, farther sighted We look, O Lord to thee. Grief hears a funeral knell: hope hears the ringing Of birthday bells on high. Faith, Hope and Love make answer with soft singing, Half carol and half cry. He stopped abruptly refusing to read the third and last stanza because it was unequal, and the poem was stronger and finer by its omission. Then he said in a hushed voice, “For the happy folk who are able to think as she thinks, who believe as she believes, the poem is of its kind perfect.” With glowing eyes and with hand that marked time to the music, he read once more the second verse, repeating the line, “half carol and half cry” three times, lowering his voice with each repetition until it became little more than a whisper. Laying the manuscript reverently beside him, he sat perfectly still for a space with brooding eyes, then rising silently left the room with short swift strides. {17}