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diff --git a/old/13018-h/13018-h.htm b/old/13018-h/13018-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4e47040 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/13018-h/13018-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,19824 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= + "text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Letters, by Frederic G. Kenyon. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + } + + HR { width: 33%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .ctr {text-align: center} + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .note {margin-left: 2em; margin-right: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} /* footnote */ + .blkquot {margin-left: 2em; margin-right: 2em;} /* block indent */ + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right;} /* page numbers + +*/ + .sidenote {width: 20%; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-left: 1em; font-size: smaller; float: right; clear: right;} + + .poem {margin-left:2em; margin-right:2em;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span {display: block; margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em;} + .poem .caesura {vertical-align: -200%;} + + .figure {margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: center; font-size: 0.8em;} + .figure img {border: none;} + a:link {color:black; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:black; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:black; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:red} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning +(1 of 2), by Frederic G. Kenyon + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1 of 2) + +Author: Frederic G. Kenyon + +Release Date: July 25, 2004 [EBook #13018] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BROWNING LETTERS, VOL. 1 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Jonathan Ingram, Bill Hershey and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<p class="figure"> + <a href="images/001.jpg"> + <img width="60%" src="images/001.jpg" alt="001.jpg" /></a><br /> + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning<br /> +From a Photograph of a Marble Bust</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h1>THE LETTERS</h1> +<h3>OF</h3> +<h1>ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING</h1> +<br /> +<br /> +<h2>EDITED WITH BIOGRAPHICAL ADDITIONS</h2> +<h3>BY</h3> +<h2>FREDERIC G. KENYON</h2> + +<h3><i>WITH PORTRAITS</i></h3> +<br /> + +<h2>IN TWO VOLUMES</h2> + +<h3>VOLUME I.</h3> + +<h3><i>THIRD EDITION</i></h3> +<br /> +<h2>LONDON</h2> +<h2>SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE</h2> +<h2>1898</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<a name="PREFACE"></a><h2>PREFACE</h2> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<p>The writer of any narrative of Mrs. Browning's life, or the +editor of a collection of her letters, is met at the outset of +his task by the knowledge that both Mrs. Browning herself +and her husband more than, once expressed their strong +dislike of any such publicity in regard to matters of a +personal and private character affecting themselves. The +fact that expressions to this effect are publicly extant is one +which has to be faced or evaded; but if it could not be +fairly faced, and the apparent difficulty removed, the present +volumes would never have seen the light. It would be a +poor qualification for the task of preparing a record of Mrs. +Browning's life, to be willing therein to do violence to her +own expressed wishes and those of her husband. But the +expressions to which reference has been made are limited, +either formally or by implication, to publications made +during their own lifetime. They shrank, as any sensitive +person must shrink, from seeing their private lives, their +personal characteristics, above all, their sorrows and +bereavements, offered to the inspection and criticism of the +general public; and it was to such publications that their +protests referred. They could not but be aware that the +details of their lives would be of interest to the public which +read and admired their works, and there is evidence that +they recognised that the public has some claims with regard +to writers who have appealed to, and partly lived by, its +favour. They only claimed that during their own lifetime +their feelings should be consulted first; when they should +have passed away, the rights of the public would begin.</p> + +<p>It is in this spirit that the following collection of Mrs. +Browning's letters has now been prepared, in the conviction +that the lovers of English literature will be glad to make a +closer and more intimate acquaintance with one—or, it may +truthfully be said, with two—of the most interesting literary +characters of the Victorian age. It is a selection from a +large mass of letters, written at all periods in Mrs. Browning's +life, which Mr. Browning, after his wife's death, reclaimed +from the friends to whom they had been written, or +from their representatives. No doubt, Mr. Browning's primary +object was to prevent publications which would have been +excessively distressing to his feelings; but the letters, when +once thus collected, were not destroyed (as was the case +with many of his own letters), but carefully preserved, and +so passed into the possession of his son, Mr. R. Barrett +Browning, with whose consent they are now published. In +this collection are comprised the letters to Miss Browning +(the poet's sister, whose consent has also been freely given +to the publication), Mr. H.S. Boyd, Mrs. Martin, Miss +Mitford, Mrs. Jameson, Mr. John Kenyon, Mr. Chorley, +Miss Blagden, Miss Haworth, and Miss Thomson (Madame +Emil Braun).<a name="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> To these have been added a number of +letters which have been kindly lent by their possessors for +the purpose of the present volumes.</p> +<br /> + +<p>The duties of the editor have been mainly those of +selection and arrangement. With regard to the former task +one word is necessary. It may be thought that the almost +entire absence of bitterness (except on certain political +topics), of controversy, of personal ill feeling of any kind, +is due to editorial excisions. This is not the case. The +number of passages that have been removed for fear of +hurting the feelings of persons still living is almost +infinitesimal; and in these the cause of offence is always +something inherent in the facts recorded, not in the spirit +in which they are mentioned. No person had less animosity +than Mrs. Browning; it seems as though she could hardly +bring herself to speak harshly of anyone. The omissions +that have been made are almost wholly of passages +containing little or nothing of interest, or repetitions of what +has been said elsewhere; and they have been made with +the object of diminishing the bulk and concentrating +the interest of the collection, never with the purpose of +modifying the representation of the writer's character.</p> + +<p>The task of arranging the letters has been more arduous +owing to Mrs. Browning's unfortunate habit of prefixing no +date's, or incomplete ones, to her letters. Many of them are +dated merely by the day of the week or month, and can +only be assigned to their proper place in the series on +internal evidence. In some cases, however, the envelopes +have been preserved, and the date is then often provided by +the postmarks. These supply fixed points by which the +others can be tested; and ultimately all have fallen into +line in chronological order, and with at least approximate +dates to each letter.</p> + +<p>The correspondence, thus arranged in chronological +order, forms an almost continuous record of Mrs. Browning's +life, from the early days in Herefordshire to her death in +Italy in 1861; but in order to complete the record, it has +been thought well to add connecting links of narrative, +which should serve to bind the whole together into the +unity of a biography. It is a chronicle, rather than a +biography in the artistic sense of the term; a chronicle of +the events of a life in which there were but few external +events of importance, and in which the subject of the +picture is, for the most part, left to paint her own portrait, +and that, moreover, unconsciously. Still, this is a method +which may be held to have its advantages, in that it can +hardly be affected by the feelings or prejudices of the +biographer; and if it does not present a finished portrait to +the reader, it provides him with the materials from which +he can form a portrait for himself. The external events are +placed upon record, either in the letters or in the connecting +links of narrative; the character and opinions of Mrs. +Browning reveal themselves in her correspondence; and +her genius is enshrined in her poetry. And these three +elements make up all that may be known of her personality, +all with which a biographer has to deal.</p> + +<p>It is essentially her character, not her genius, that is presented +to the reader of these letters. There are some letter-writers +whose genius is so closely allied with their daily life +that it shines through into their familiar correspondence +with their friends, and their letters become literature. +Such, in their very different ways, with very different types +of genius and very different habits of daily life, are Gray, +Cowper, Lamb, perhaps Fitzgerald. But letter-writers such +as these are few. More often the correspondence of men +and women of letters is valuable for the light it throws upon +the character and opinions of those whose character and +opinions we are led to regard with admiration or respect, or +at least interest, on account of their other writings. In +these cases it may be held that the publication is justifiable +or not, according as the character which it reveals is affected +favourably or the reverse. Not all truth, even about famous +men, is useful for publication, but only such as enables us +to appreciate better the works which have made them +famous. Their highest selves are expressed in their literary +work; and it is a poor service to truth to insist on bringing +to light the fact that they also had lower selves—common, +dull, it may be vicious. What illustrates their genius and +enhances our respect for their character, may rightly be +made known; but what shakes our belief and mars our +enjoyment in them, is simply better left in obscurity.</p> + +<p>With regard to Mrs. Browning, however, there is no +room for doubt upon these points. These letters, familiarly +written to her private friends, without the smallest idea of +publication, treating of the thoughts that came uppermost +in the ordinary language of conversation, can lay no claim +to make a new revelation of her genius. On the other +hand, perhaps because the circumstances of Mrs. Browning's +life cut her off to an unusual extent from personal intercourse +with her friends, and threw her back upon letter-writing +as her principal means of communication with them, +they contain an unusually full revelation of her character. +And this is not wholly unconnected with her literary genius, +since her personal convictions, her moral character, entered +more fully than is often the case into the composition of her +poetry. Her best poetry is that which is most full of her +personal emotions. The 'Sonnets from the Portuguese,' +the 'Cry of the Children,' 'Cowper's Grave,' the 'Dead Pan,' +'Aurora Leigh,' and all the Italian poems, owe their value +to the pure and earnest character, the strong love of truth +and right, the enthusiasm on behalf of what is oppressed +and the indignation against all kinds of oppression and +wrong, which were prominent elements in a personality of +exceptional worth and beauty.</p> + +<p>An editor can generally serve his readers best by remaining +in the background; but he is allowed one moment for +the expression of his personal feelings, when he thanks those +who have assisted him in his work. In the present case +there are many to whom it is a pleasure to offer such thanks. +In the first place, I have to thank Mr. R. Barrett Browning +and Miss Browning most cordially for having accepted the +proposal of the publishers (Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co., to +whom likewise my gratitude is due) to put so pleasant and +congenial a task into my hands. Mr. Browning has also +contributed a number of suggestions and corrections while +the sheets have been passing through the press. I have also +to thank those who have been kind enough to offer letters +in their possession for inclusion in these volumes: Lady +Alwyne Compton for the letters to Mr. Westwood; Mrs. +Arthur Severn for the letters to Mr. Ruskin; Mr. G.L. Craik +for the letters to Miss Mulock; Mrs. Commeline for the +letters to Miss Commeline; Mr. T.J. Wise for the letters to +Mr. Cornelius Mathews; Mr. C. Aldrich for the letter to Mrs. +Kinney; Col. T.W. Higginson for a letter to Miss Channing; +and the Rev. G. Bainton for a letter to Mr. Kenyon. It +has not been possible to print all the letters which have +been thus offered; but this does not diminish the kindness +of the lenders, nor the gratitude of the editor.</p> + +<p>Finally, I should wish to offer my sincere thanks to Lady +Edmond Fitzmaurice for much assistance and advice in the +selection and revision of the letters; a labour which her +friendship with Mr. Browning towards the close of his life +has prompted her to bestow most freely and fully upon this +memorial of his wife.</p> + +<p>F.G.K.</p> + +<p><i>July 1897</i>.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<a name="CONTENTS"></a><h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<h3>OF</h3> +<h2>THE FIRST VOLUME</h2> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /> +<h2><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</a></h2> +<h3>1806-1835</h3> +<h4>Birth—Hope End—Early Poems—Sidmouth—'Prometheus'</h4> +<br /> +<br /> +<h2><a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</a></h2> +<h3>1835-1841</h3> +<h4>London—Magazine Poems—'The Seraphim and other Poems'—Torquay—Death<br /> +of Edward Barrett—Return to London</h4> +<br /> +<br /> +<h2><a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</a></h2> +<h3>1841-1843</h3> +<h4>Wimpole Street—'The Greek Christian Poets'—'The English<br /> +Poets'—'The New Spirit of the Age'—Miscellaneous Letters</h4> +<br /> +<br /> +<h2><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</a></h2> +<h3>1844-1846</h3> +<h4>The 'Poems' of 1844—Miss Martineau and Mesmerism—Pro-posed<br /> +Journey to Italy</h4> +<br /> +<br /> +<h2><a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</a></h2> +<h3>1846-1849</h3> +<h4>Friendship with Robert Browning—Love and Marriage—Paris<br /> +and Pisa—Florence—Vallombrosa—Casa Guidi—Italian Politics<br /> +in 1848</h4> +<br /> +<br /> +<h2><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a></h2> +<h3>1849-1851</h3> +<h4>Birth of a Son—Death of Mrs. Browning, senior—Bagni di<br /> +Lucca—New Edition of Poems—Siena—Florentine Life</h4> +<br /> +<br /> +<h3>PORTRAIT OF ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.<br /> +<i>Frontispiece</i> CASA GUIDI</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h1>THE LETTERS</h1> +<h3>OF</h3> +<h1>ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING</h1> + +<br /> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<a name="CHAPTER_I"></a><h2>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3>1806-1835</h3> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<p>Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, still better known to the +world as Elizabeth Barrett Browning, was born on March 6, +1806, the eldest child of Edward and Mary Moulton +Barrett. I Both the date and place of her birth have been +matters of uncertainty and dispute, and even so trustworthy +an authority as the 'Dictionary of National Biography' is +inaccurate with respect to them. All doubt has, however, +been set at rest by the discovery of the entry of her birth +in the parish register of Kelloe Church, in the county of +Durham.<a name="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2"><sup>[2]</sup></a> She was born at Coxhoe Hall, the residence of +Mr. Barrett's only brother, Samuel, about five miles south +of the city of Durham. Her father, whose name was +originally Edward Barrett Moulton, had assumed the +additional surname of Barrett on the death of his maternal +grandfather, to whose estates in Jamaica he was the heir. +Of Mr. Barrett it is recorded by Mr. Browning, in the notes +prefixed by him to the collected edition of his wife's poems, +that 'on the early death of his father he was brought from +Jamaica to England when a very young child, as a ward of the +late Chief Baron Lord Abinger, then Mr. Scarlett, whom he +frequently accompanied in his post-chaise when on circuit. +He was sent to Harrow, but received there so savage a +punishment for a supposed offence (burning the toast)'—which, +indeed, has been a 'supposed offence' at other +schools than Harrow—'by the youth whose fag he had +become, that he was withdrawn from the school by his +mother, and the delinquent was expelled. At the age of +sixteen he was sent by Mr. Scarlett to Cambridge, and thence, +for an early marriage, went to Northumberland.' His wife +was Miss Mary Graham-Clarke, daughter of J. Graham-Clarke, +of Fenham Hall, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, but of her +nothing seems to be known, and her comparatively early +death causes her to be little heard of in the record of her +daughter's life.</p> + +<p>Nothing is to be gained by trying to trace back the +genealogy of the Barrett family, and it need merely be noted +that it had been connected for some generations with the +island of Jamaica, and owned considerable estates there.<a name="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3"><sup>[3]</sup></a> +It is a curious coincidence that Robert Browning was likewise +in part of West Indian descent, and so, too, was John +Kenyon, the lifelong friend of both, by whose means the +poet and poetess were first introduced to one another.</p> + +<p>The family of Mr. Edward Barrett was a fairly large one, +consisting, besides Elizabeth, of two daughters, Henrietta +and Arabel, and eight sons—Edward, whose tragic death at +Torquay saddened so much of his sister's life, Charles (the +'Stormie' of the letters), Samuel, George, Henry, Alfred, +Septimus, and Octavius; Mr. Barrett's inventiveness having +apparently given out with the last two members of his +family, reducing him to the primitive method of simple +enumeration, an enumeration in which, it may be observed, +the daughters counted for nothing. Not many of these, +however, can have been born at Coxhoe; for while Elizabeth +was still an infant—apparently about the beginning of the +year 1809—Mr. Barrett removed to his newly purchased +estate of Hope End, in Herefordshire, among the Malvern +hills, and only a few miles from Malvern itself. It is to +Hope End that the admirers of Mrs. Browning must +look as the real home of her childhood and youth. Here +she spent her first twenty years of conscious life. Here is +the scene of the childish reminiscences which are to be +found among her earlier poems, of 'Hector in the Garden,' +'The Lost Bower,' and 'The Deserted Garden.' And here +too her earliest verses were written, and the foundations +laid of that omnivorous reading of literature of all sorts and +kinds, which was so strong a characteristic of her tastes +and leanings.</p> + +<p>On this subject she may be left to tell her own tale. In +a letter written on October 5, 1843, to Mr. R.H. Horne, she +furnishes him with the following biographical details for his +study of her in 'The New Spirit of the Age.' They supply +us with nearly all that we know of her early life and writings.</p> + +<p>'And then as to stories, my story amounts to the knife-grinder's, +with nothing at all for a catastrophe. A bird in a +cage would have as good a story, Most of my events, and +nearly all my intense pleasures, have passed in my <i>thoughts</i>. +I wrote verses—as I dare say many have done who never +wrote any poems—very early; at eight years old and earlier. +But, what is less common, the early fancy turned into a will, +and remained with me, and from that day to this, poetry +has been a distinct object with me—an object to read, think, +and live for. And I could make you laugh, although you +could not make the public laugh, by the narrative of nascent +odes, epics, and didactics crying aloud on obsolete muses +from childish lips. The Greeks were my demi-gods, and +haunted me out of Pope's Homer, until I dreamt more of +Agamemnon than of Moses the black pony. And thus my +great "epic" of eleven or twelve years old, in four books, +and called "The Battle of Marathon," and of which fifty +copies were printed because papa was bent upon spoiling +me—is Pope's Homer done over again, or rather undone; +for, although a curious production for a child, it gives +evidence only of an imitative faculty and an ear, and a good +deal of reading in a peculiar direction. The love of Pope's +Homer threw me into Pope on one side and into Greek on +the other, and into Latin as a help to Greek—and the +influence of all these tendencies is manifest so long afterwards +as in my "Essay on Mind," a didactic poem written +when I was seventeen or eighteen, and long repented of as +worthy of all repentance. The poem is imitative in its form, +yet is not without traces of an individual thinking and feeling—the +bird pecks through the shell in it. With this it has +a pertness and pedantry which did not even then belong to +the character of the author, and which I regret now more +than I do the literary defectiveness.</p> + +<p>'All this time, and indeed the greater part of my life, we +lived at Hope End, a few miles from Malvern, in a retirement +scarcely broken to me except by books and my own +thoughts, and it is a beautiful country, and was a retirement +happy in many ways, although the very peace of it troubles +the heart as it looks back. There I had my fits of Pope, +and Byron, and Coleridge, and read Greek as hard under +the trees as some of your Oxonians in the Bodleian; +gathered visions from Plato and the dramatists, and eat +and drank Greek and made my head ache with it. Do you +know the Malvern Hills? The hills of Piers Plowman's +Visions? They seem to me my native hills; for, although +I was born in the county of Durham, I was an infant when +I went first into their neighbourhood, and lived there until +I had passed twenty by several years. Beautiful, beautiful +hills they are! And yet, not for the whole world's beauty +would I stand in the sunshine and the shadow of them any +more. It would be a mockery, like the taking back of a +broken flower to its stalk.'<a name="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4"><sup>[4]</sup></a></p> + +<p>So, while the young Robert Browning was enthusiastically +declaiming passages of Pope's Homer, and measuring out +heroic couplets with his hand round the dining table in +Camberwell, Elizabeth Barrett was drinking from the same +fount of inspiration among the Malvern Hills, and was +already turning it to account in the production of her first +epic. The fifty copies of the 'Battle of Marathon,' which +Mr. Barrett, proud of his daughter's precocity, insisted on +having printed, bear the date of 1819. Only five of them +are now known to exist, and these are all in private hands; +even the British Museum possesses only the reprint which +the hero-worship of the present generation caused to be produced +in 1891. Seven years later, when she had just reached +the age of twenty, her first volume of verse was offered to +the world in general. It was entitled 'An Essay on Mind, +and other Poems,' and included, besides the didactic poem +after the manner of Pope which formed the <i>pièce de rèsistance</i>, +a number of shorter pieces, several of which, as she informed +Horne,<a name="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5"><sup>[5]</sup></a> had been written when she was not more than +thirteen.</p> + +<p>It was during the years at Hope End that Elizabeth +Barrett was first attacked by serious illness. 'At fifteen,' +she says in her autobiographical letter, already quoted in +part, 'I nearly died;' and this may be connected with a +statement by Mrs. Richmond Ritchie, to the effect that +'one day, when Elizabeth was about fifteen, the young +girl, impatient for her ride, tried to saddle her pony alone, +in a field, and fell with the saddle upon her, in some way +injuring her spine so seriously that she was for years upon +her back.'<a name="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6"><sup>[6]</sup></a> The latter part of this statement cannot indeed +be quite accurate; for her period of long confinement to a +sick-room was of later date, and began, according to her +own statement, from a different cause. Mr. R. Barrett +Browning states that the injury to the spine was not +discovered for some time, but was afterwards attributed, not +to a fall, but to a strain whilst tightening her pony's girths. +No doubt this injury contributed towards the general weakness +of health to which she was always subject.</p> + +<p>Of her earliest letters, belonging to the Hope End +period, very few have been preserved, and most of those +which remain are of little interest. The first to be printed +here belongs to the period of her mother's last illness, +which ended in her death on October 1, 1828. It is +addressed to Mrs. James Martin, a lifelong friend, whose +name will appear frequently in these pages. At the time +when it was written she was living near Tewkesbury, within +visiting distance of the Barretts.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Hope End: Thursday, [about September 1828].<br /> + +<p>My dear Mrs. Martin,—I am happy to be able to tell +you that Mr. Garden was here two days ago, and that he +has not thought it necessary to adopt any violent measure +with regard to our beloved invalid. He seems entirely to +rely, for her ultimate restoration, upon a discipline as to +diet, and a course of strengthening medicine. This is most +satisfactory to us; and her spirits have been soothed and +tranquillised by his visit. She has slept quietly for the last +few nights, and reports herself to be <i>brisker</i> and stronger, +and to be comparatively free from pain. This account is, +perhaps, too favorable,<a name="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7"><sup>[7]</sup></a> and will appear so to you when +you see her, as I am afraid you will, not looking much +better, <i>much</i> more cheerful, than when you paid us your last +visit. But when we are very <i>willing</i> to hope, we are apt to +be too <i>ready</i> to hope: though really, without being <i>too</i> +sanguine, we may consider quiet nights and diminished pain +to be satisfactory signs of amendment. I know you will be +glad to hear of them, and I hope you will <i>witness</i> them very +soon, in spite of this repulsive snow. It will do mama +good, and I am sure it will give us all pleasure, to benefit by +some of your charitable pilgrimages over the hill.</p> + +<p>With our best regards, and sincerest thanks for your +kind interest</p> + +<p>Believe me, dear Mrs. Martin, most truly yours,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /> +<br /> + +<p><i>To Miss Commeline</i><br /> +Hope End: Monday, [October 1828].</p> + + +<p></p> +<p>My dear Miss Commeline,—Thank you for the sympathy +and interest which you have extended towards us in our heavy +affliction. Even <i>you</i> cannot know <i>all</i> that we have lost; +but God knows, and it has pleased Him to take away the +blessing that He gave. And all <i>must</i> be right since He +doeth all! Indeed we did not foresee this great grief! If we +had we could not have felt it less; but I should not then +have been denied the consolation of being with her at the last.</p> + +<p>It is idle to speak now of such thoughts, and circumstances +have unquestionably been rightly and mercifully +ordered. We are all well and composed—poor papa +supporting us by his own surpassing fortitude. It is an +inexpressible comfort to me to witness his calmness.</p> + +<p>I cannot say that we shall not be glad to see you, but +the weather is dreary and the distance long: and if you +were to come, we might not be able to meet you and to +speak to you with calmness. In that case you would +receive a melancholy impression which I should like to +spare you. Perhaps it would be better for you and less +selfish in us, if we were to defer this meeting a little while +longer—but do what you prefer doing! I can never forget +the regard and esteem entertained for you by one whose +tenderness and watchfulness I have felt every day and hour +since she gave me that life which her loss embitters—whose +memory is more precious to me than any earthly +blessing left behind; I have written what is ungrateful, +and what I ought not to have written, and what I ought +not to feel, and do not always feel, but I did not just then +remember that I had so much left to love.</p> +<br /> +<br /> +<i>To Mrs. Boyd</i><br /> +Hope End: Saturday morning, [1828-1832].<br /> + +<p>My dear Mrs. Boyd,—You were quite wrong in supposing +that papa was likely to complain about 'the number of +letters from Malvern;' and as to my doing so, why did you +suggest that? To fill up a sentence, or to conjure up some +kind of limping excuse for idle people? Among idle people, +perhaps you have written <i>me</i> down. But the reason of my +silence was far more reasonable than yours. I have been +engaged in alternately wishing in earnest and wishing in +vain for the power of saying when I could go to Malvern—and +in being unwell besides. For the last week I have not +been at all well, and indeed was obliged yesterday to go to +bed after breakfast instead of after tea, where I contrived to +abstract myself out of a good deal of pain into Lord +Byron's Life by Moore. To-day this abstraction is not +necessary; I am much better; and, indeed, little remains of +the indisposition but the <i>vulgar fractions</i> of a cough and +cold. I dare say (and Occyta<a name="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8"><sup>[8]</sup></a> agrees with me) cold was at +the bottom of it all, for I was so very wise as to lie down +upon the grass last Monday, when the sun was shining +deceitfully, though the snow was staring at me from the +hedges, with an expression anything but dog-daysical!</p> + +<p>Henrietta's face-ache is quite well, and I don't mean to +give any more bulletins to-day. I hope your 'tolerably +well' is turned into 'quite well' too by this time.</p> + +<p>In reply to your query, I will mention that <i>the existence</i> +actually extended until Thursday without the visit here—a +phenomenon in physics and metaphysics. I was desired by +a note a short time previously, 'to embrace all my circle +with the utmost tenderness,' <i>as proxy</i>. Considering the +extent of the said circle, this was a very comprehensive +request, and a very unreasonable one to offer to anyone less +than the hundred-armed Indian god Baly. I am glad that +your alternative of a house is so near to the right side of +the turnpike—in which case, a <i>miss</i> is certainly not as <i>bad</i> +as a <i>mile</i>. May Place is to be vacated in May, though its +present inhabitants do not leave Malvern. I mention this +to you, but pray don't <i>re-mention</i> it to anybody. The rent +is 15£. Mr. Boyd<a name="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9"><sup>[9]</sup></a> will not be angry with me for not +going to see him sooner than I can. At least, I am sure he +ought not. Though you are all kind enough to wish me to +go, I always think and know (which is consolatory to everything +but my vanity) that no one can wish it half as much +as I myself do.</p> + +<p>Believe me, dear Mrs. Boyd, affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>The fear 1832 brought a great change in the fortunes of +the Barrett family, and may be said to mark the end of the +purely formative period in Elizabeth Barrett's life. Hitherto +she had been living in the home and among the surroundings +of her childhood, absorbing literature rather than producing +it; or if producing it, still mainly for her own +amusement and instruction, rather than with any view of +appealing to the general public. But in 1832 this home +was broken up by the sale, of Hope End,<a name="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10"><sup>[10]</sup></a> and with the +removal thence we seem to find her embarking definitely on +literature as the avowed pursuit and occupation of her life. +Sidmouth in Devonshire was the place to which the Barrett +family now removed, and the letters begin henceforth to be +longer and more frequent, and to tell a more connected tale.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +[Sidmouth: September 1832.]<br /> + +<p>How can I thank you enough, dearest Mrs. Martin, for +your letter? How kind of you to write so soon and so +very kindly! The postmark and handwriting were in themselves +pleasant sights to me, and the kindness yet more +welcome. Believe that I am grateful to you for <i>all</i> your +kindness—for your kindness now, and your kindness in the +days which are past. Some of those past days were very +happy, and some of them very sorrowful—more sorrowful +than even our last days at dear, dear Hope End. <i>Then</i>, I +well recollect, though I could not then thank you as I ought, +how you <i>felt for</i> us and <i>with</i> us. Do not think I can ever +forget <i>that time</i>, or <i>you</i>. I had written a note to you, which +the bearer of Bummy's and Arabel's to Colwall<a name="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11"><sup>[11]</sup></a> omitted +to take. Afterwards I thought it best to spare you any +more farewells, which are upon human lips, of all words, +the most natural, and of all the most painful.</p> + +<p>They told us of our having past your carriage in +Ledbury. Dear Mrs. Martin, I cannot dwell upon the +pain of that first hour of our journey; but you will know +what it must have been. The dread of it, for some hours +before, was almost worse; but it is all over now, blessed be +God. Before the first day's journey was at end, we felt +inexpressibly relieved—relieved from the restlessness and +anxiety which have so long oppressed us—and now we +are calmer and happier than we have been for very long. +If we could only have papa and Bro and Sette<a name="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12"><sup>[12]</sup></a> with us! +About half an hour before we set off, papa found out that +he <i>could not</i> part with Sette, who sleeps with him, and is +always an amusing companion to him. Papa was, however, +unwilling to separate him perforce from his little playfellows, +and asked him whether he wished very much to go. Sette's +heart was quite full, but he answered immediately, 'Oh, no, +papa, I would <i>much</i> rather stay with <i>you</i>.' He is a dear +affectionate little thing. He and Bro being with poor +Papa, we are far more comfortable about him than we +should otherwise be—and perhaps our going was his +sharpest pang. I hope it was, as it is over. Do not +think, dear Mrs. Martin, that you or Mr. Martin can ever +'intrude'—you know you use that word in your letter. I +have often been afraid, on account of papa not having been +for so long a time at Colwall, lest you should fancy that he +did not value your society and your kindness. Do not +fancy it. Painful circumstances produce—as we have often +had occasion to observe—different effects upon different +minds; and some feeling, with which I certainly have no +sympathy has made papa shrink from society of any kind +lately. He would not even attend the religious societies +in Ledbury, which he was so much pledged to support, and +so interested in supporting. If you knew how much he +has talked of you, and asked every particular about you, you +could not fancy that his regard for you was estranged. He +has an extraordinary degree of strength of mind on most +points—and strong feeling, when it is not allowed to run in +the natural channel, will sometimes force its way where it is +not expected. You will think it strange; but never up to +this moment has he even alluded to the subject, before +<i>us</i>—never, at the moment of parting with us. And yet, +though he had not power to say <i>one word</i>, he could play +at cricket with the boys on the very last evening.</p> + +<p>We slept at the York House in Bath. Bath is a beautiful +town <i>as a town</i>, and the country harmonises well with +it, without being a beautiful country. As <i>mere country</i>, +nobody would stand still to look at it; though as town +country, many bodies would. Somersetshire in general +seems to be hideous, and I could fancy from the walls which +intersect it in every direction, that they had been turned to +stone by looking at the <i>Gorgonic</i> scenery. The part of +Devonshire through which our journey lay is nothing <i>very</i> +pretty, though it must be allowed to be beautiful after +Somersetshire. We arrived here almost in the dark, and +were besieged by the crowd of disinterested tradespeople, +who <i>would</i> attend us through the town to our house, to +help to unload the carriages. This was not a particularly +agreeable reception in spite of its cordiality; and +the circumstance of there being not a human being in our +house, and not even a rushlight burning, did not reassure +us. People were tired of expecting us every day for three +weeks. Nearly the whole way from Honiton to this place +is a descent. Poor dear Bummy said she thought we were +going into the <i>bowels of the earth</i>, but suspect she +thought we were going much deeper. Between you and +me, she does not seem <i>delighted</i> with Sidmouth; but her +spirits are a great deal better, and in time she will, I dare +say, be better pleased. <i>We</i> like very much what we have +seen of it. The town is small and not superfluously clean, +but, of course, the respectable houses are not a part of the +town. Ours is one which the Grand Duchess Helena had, +not at all <i>grand</i>, but extremely comfortable and cheerful, +with a splendid sea view in front, and pleasant green, hills and +trees behind. The drawing-room's four windows all +look to the sea, and I am never tired of looking out of +them. I was doing so, with a most hypocritical book +before me, when your letter arrived, and I <i>felt</i> all that you +said in it. I always thought that the sea was the sublimest +object in nature. Mont Blanc—Niagara must be nothing +to it. <i>There</i>, the Almighty's form glasses itself in +tempests—and not only in tempests, but in calm—in space, +in eternal motion, in eternal regularity. How can we look at +it, and consider our puny sorrows, and not say, 'We are +dumb—because <i>Thou</i> didst it'? Indeed, dear Mrs. Martin, +we must feel every hour, and we shall feel every year, that what +He did is <i>well done</i>—and not only well, but mercifully.</p> + +<p>Mr. and Mrs. H——, with whom papa is slightly acquainted, +have called upon us, and shown us many kind attentions. +They are West India people, not very polished, but certainly +<i>very</i> good-natured. We hear that the place is +extremely full and gay; but this is, of course, only an <i>on dit</i> +to us at present. I have been riding a donkey two or three +times, and enjoy very much going to the edge of the sea. +The air has made me sleep more soundly than I have done +for some time, and I dare say it will do me a great deal of +good in every way.</p> + +<p>You may suppose what a southern climate this is, when +I tell you that myrtles and verbena, three or four feet high, +and hydrangeas are in flower in the gardens—even in ours, +which is about a hundred and fifty yards from the sea. I +have written to the end of my paper. Give our kindest +regards to Mr. Martin, and ever believe me,</p> + +<p>Your affectionate and grateful<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +[Sidmouth:] Wednesday, September 27, 1832 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>How very kind of you, dearest Mrs. Martin, to write to +me so much at length and at such a time. Indeed, it was +exactly the time when, if we were where we have been, we +should have wished you to walk over the hill and talk to us; +and although, after all that the most zealous friends of +letter writing can say for it, it is <i>not</i> such a happy thing as +talking with those you care for, yet it is the next happiest +thing. I am sure I thought so when I read your letter ...</p> + +<p>And now I must tell you about ourselves. Papa and Bro +and Sette have made us so much happier by coming, and +we have the comfort of seeing dear papa in good spirits, +and not only satisfied but pleased with this place. It is +scarcely possible, at least it seems so to me, to do otherwise +than admire the beauty of the country. It is the very land +of green lanes and pretty thatched cottages. I don't mean the +kind of cottages which are generally thatched, with pigstyes +and cabbages and dirty children, but thatched cottages with +verandas and shrubberies, and sounds from the harp or piano +coming through the windows. When you stand upon any of +the hills which stand round Sidmouth, the whole valley seems +to be thickly wooded down to the very verge of the sea, and +these pretty villas to be springing from the ground almost +as thickly and quite as naturally as the trees themselves. +There are certainly many more houses out of the town than +in it, and they all stand apart, yet near, hiding in their own +shrubberies, or behind the green rows of elms which wall in +the secluded lanes on either side. Such a number of green +lanes I never saw; some of them quite black with foliage, +where it is twilight in the middle of the day, and others +letting in beautiful glimpses of the spreading heathy hills or +of the sunny sea. I am sure you would like the transition +from the cliffs, from the bird's eye view to, I was going to +say, the mole's eye view, but I believe moles don't see +quite clearly enough to suit my purpose. There are a great +number of people here. Sam was at an evening party a +week ago where there were a hundred and twenty people; +but they don't walk about the parade and show themselves +as one might expect. <i>We</i> know only the Herrings and +Mrs. and the Miss Polands and Sir John Kean. Mrs. and +Miss Weekes, and Mr. and Mrs. James have called upon us, +but we were out when they came. I suppose it will be necessary +to return their visits and to know them; and when we do, +you shall hear about them, and about everybody whom we +know. I am certainly much better in health, stronger than +I was, and less troubled with the cough. Every day I +attend [<i>word torn out</i>] their walks on my donkey, if +we do not go in a boat, which is still pleasanter. I believe +Henrietta walks out about <i>three</i> times a day. She is +looking particularly well, and often talks, and I am sure +still oftener thinks, of you. You know how fond of you she +is. Papa walks out with her—and <i>us</i>; and we all, down to +Occyta, breakfast and drink tea together. The dining takes +place at five o'clock. To-morrow, if this lovely weather will +stand still and be accommodating, we talk of rowing to +Dawlish, which is about ten miles off. We have had a few +cases of cholera, at least <i>suspicious</i> cases: one a fortnight +before we arrived, and five since, in the course of a month. +All dead except one. I confess a little nervousness; but it is +wearing away. The disease does not seem to make any +progress; and for the last six days there have been no +patients at all.</p> + +<p>Do let us hear very soon, my dear Mrs. Martin, how you +are—how your spirits are, and whether Rome is still in your +distance. Surely no plan could be more delightful for you +than this plan; and if you don't stay <i>very</i> long away, I shall +be sorry to hear of your abandoning it. Do you recollect +your promise of coming to see us? <i>We</i> do.</p> + +<p>You must have had quite enough now of my 'little +hand' and of my details. Do not go to Matton or to the +Bartons or to Eastnor without giving my love. How often +my thoughts are at <i>home</i>! I cannot help calling it so still +in my thoughts. I may like other places, but no other +place can ever appear to me to deserve that name.</p> + +<p>Dearest Mrs. Martin's affectionate<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p><br /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Sidmouth: December 14, 1832.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—I hope you are very angry +indeed with us for not writing. We are as penitent as +we ought to be—that is, I am, for I believe I am the idle +person; yet not altogether idle, but procrastinating and +waiting for news rather more worthy of being read in Rome +than any which even now I can send you.... And +now, my dear Mrs. Martin, I mean to thank you, as I +ought to have done long ago, for your kindness in offering +to procure for me the <i>Archbishop of Dublin's</i><a name="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13"><sup>[13]</sup></a> valuable +opinion upon my 'Prometheus. I am sure that if you +have not thought me very ungrateful, you must be very +indulgent. My mind was at one time so crowded by +painful thoughts, that they shut out many others which are +interesting to me; and among other things, I forgot once +or twice, when I had an opportunity, to thank <i>you</i>, dear Mrs. +Martin. I believe I should have taken advantage of your +proposal, but papa said to me, 'If he criticises your manuscript +in a manner which does not satisfy you, you won't be +easy without defending yourself, and he might be drawn +into taking more trouble than you have now any idea of +giving him.' I sighed a little at losing such an opportunity +of gaining a great advantage, but there seemed to be some +reason in what papa said I have completed a preface and +notes to my translation; and since doing so, a work of +exactly the same character by a Mr. Medwin has been +published, and commended in Bulwer's magazine.<a name="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14"><sup>[14]</sup></a> Therefore +it is probable enough that my trouble, excepting as far +as my own amusement went, has been in vain. But papa +means to try Mr. Valpy, I believe. He left us since I +began to write this letter, with a promise of returning before +Christmas Day. We <i>do</i> miss him. Mr. Boyd has made me +quite angry by publishing his translations by rotation in +numbers of the 'Wesleyan Magazine,' instead of making +them up into a separate publication, as I had persuaded +him to do. There is the effect, you see, of going, even for +a time, out of my reach! The readers of the 'Wesleyan +Magazine' are pious people, but not cultivated, nor, for the +most part, capable of estimating either the talents of +Gregory or his translator's. I have begun already to <i>insist</i> +upon another publication in a separate form, and shall gain +my point, I dare say. I have been reading Bulwer's novels +and Mrs. Trollope's libels, and Dr. Parr's works. I am +sure <i>you</i> are not an admirer of Mrs. Trollope's. She has +neither the delicacy nor the candour which constitute true +nobility of mind and her extent of talent forms but a +scanty veil to shadow her other defects. Bulwer has quite +delighted me. He has all the dramatic talent which Scott +has, and all the passion which Scott has not, and he appears +to me to be besides a far profounder discriminator of +character. There are very fine things in his 'Denounced.' +We subscribe to the best library here, but the best is not a +good one. I have, however, a table-load of my own books, +and with them I can always be satisfied. Do you know +that Mr. Curzon has left Ledbury? We were glad to +receive your letter from Dover although it told us that you +were removing so far from us. Do let us hear of your enjoying +Italy. Is there much English society in Rome, +and is it like English society here? I can scarcely fancy +an invitation card, 'Mrs. Huggin-muggin at home,' carried +through the <i>Via Sacra</i>. I am sure my 'little hand' has done +its duty to-day. I shall leave the corners to Henrietta. +Give our kindest regards to Mr. Martin, and ever believe me, +my dear Mrs. Martin,</p> + +<p>Your affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<p>The letter just printed contains the first allusion in +Miss Barrett's letters to any of her own writings. The +translation of the 'Prometheus Bound' of Aeschylus was +the first-fruits of the removal to Sidmouth. It was written, as +she told Horne eleven years afterwards, 'in twelve days, and +should have been thrown into the fire afterwards—the only +means of giving it a little warmth.'<a name="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15"><sup>[15]</sup></a> Indeed, so dissatisfied +did she subsequently become with it, that she did what she +could to suppress it, and in the collected edition of 1850 +substituted another version, written in 1845, which she +hoped would secure the final oblivion of her earlier attempt.<a name="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16"><sup>[16]</sup></a> +The letter given above shows that the composition of the +earlier version took place at the end of 1832; and in the +following year it was published by Mr. Valpy, along with +some shorter poems, of which Miss Barrett subsequently +wrote that 'a few of the fugitive poems may be worth a +little, perhaps; but they have not so much goodness as to +overcome the badness of the blasphemy of Aeschylus.' +The volume, which was published anonymously, received +two sentences of contemptuous notice from the 'Athenaeum,' +in which the reviewer advised 'those who adventure in the +hazardous lists of poetic translation to touch anyone rather +than Aeschylus, and they may take warning by the author +before us.'<a name="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17"><sup>[17]</sup></a></p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<br /><i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Sidmouth: May 27, 1833.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—I am half afraid of your being +very angry indeed with me; and perhaps it would be quite +as well to spare this sheet of paper an angry look of yours, +by consigning it over to Henrietta. Yet do believe me, +I have been anxious to write to you a long time, and did +not know where to direct my letter. The history of all my +unkindness to you is this: I delayed answering your kind +welcome letter from Rome, for three weeks, because +Henrietta was at Torquay, and I knew that she would like +to write in it, and because I was unreasonable enough to +expect to hear every day of her coming home. At the end +of the three weeks, and on consulting your dates and plans, +I found out that you would probably have quitted Rome +before any letter of mine arrived there. Since then, I have +been inquiring, and all in vain, about where I could find +you out. All I could hear was, that you were somewhere +between Italy and England; and all I could do was, to +wait patiently, and throw myself at your feet as soon as you +came within sight and hearing. And now do be as generous +as you can, my dear Mrs. Martin, and try to forgive one +who never <i>could</i> be guilty of the fault of forgetting you, +notwithstanding appearances. We heard only yesterday of +your being expected at Colwall. And although we cannot +welcome you there, otherwise than in this way, at the +distance of 140 miles, yet we must welcome you in this +way, and assure both of you how glad we are that the same +island holds all of us once more. It pleased us very much +to hear how you were enjoying yourselves in Rome; and +you must please us now by telling us that you are enjoying +yourselves at Colwall, and that you bear the change with +English philosophy. The fishing at Abbeville was a link +between the past and the present; and would make the +transition between the eternal city and the eternal tithes +a little less striking. My wonder is how you could have +persuaded yourselves to keep your promise and leave Italy +as soon as you did. Tell me how you managed it. And +tell me everything about yourselves—how you are and how +you feel, and whether you look backwards or forwards with +the most pleasure, and whether the influenza has been +among your welcomers to England. Henrietta and Arabel +and Daisy<a name="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18"><sup>[18]</sup></a> were confined by it to their beds for several days +and the two former are only now recovering their strength. +Three or four of the other boys had symptoms which were +not strong enough to put them to bed. As for me, I have +been quite well all the spring, and almost all the winter. I +don't know when I have been so long well as I have been +lately; without a cough or anything else disagreeable. +Indeed, if I may place the influenza in a parenthesis, we +have all been perfectly well, in spite of our fishing and +boating and getting wet three times a day. There is good +trout-fishing at the Otter, and the noble river Sid, which, if +I liked to stand in it, <i>might</i> cover my ankles. And lately, +Daisy and Sette and Occyta have studied the art of catching +shrimps, and soak themselves up to their waists like professors. +My love of water concentrates itself in the boat; +and this I enjoy very much, when the sea is as blue and +calm as the sky, which it has often been lately. Of society +we have had little indeed; but Henrietta had more than +much of it at Torquay during three months; and as for me, +you know I don't want any though I am far from meaning +to speak disrespectfully of <i>Mr. Boyds</i>, which has been a +pleasure and comfort to me. His house is not farther than +a five minutes' walk from ours; and I often make it <i>four</i> in +my haste to get there. Ask Eliza Cliffe to lend you the +May number of the 'Wesleyan Magazine;' and if you have +an opportunity of procuring last December's number, <i>do</i> +procure <i>that</i>. There are some translations in each of them, +which I think you will like. The December translation is +my favourite, though I was amanuensis only in the May one. +Henrietta and Arabel have a drawing master, and are +meditating soon beginning to sketch out of doors—that is, +if before the meditation is at an end we do not leave +Sidmouth. Our plans are quite uncertain; and papa has +not, I believe, made up his mind whether or not to take this +house on after the beginning of next month; when our +engagement with our present landlord closes. If we do +leave Sidmouth, you know as well as I do where we shall +go. Perhaps to Boulogne! perhaps to the Swan River. +The West Indians are irreparably ruined if the Bill passes. +Papa says that in the case of its passing, nobody in his +senses would think of even attempting the culture of sugar, +and that they had better hang weights to the sides of the +island of Jamaica and sink it at once. Don't you think +certain heads might be found heavy enough for the purpose? +No insinuation, I assure you, against the Administration, in +spite of the dagger in their right hands. Mr. Atwood seems +to me a demi-god of ingratitude! So much for the 'fickle +reek of popular breath' to which men have erected their +temple of the winds—who would trust a feather to it? I am +almost more sorry for poor Lord Grey who is going to ruin +us, than for our poor selves who are going to be ruined. +You will hear that my 'Prometheus and other Poems' came +into light a few weeks ago—a fortnight ago, I think. I dare +say I shall wish it out of the light before I have done with +it. And I dare say Henrietta is wishing me anywhere, +rather than where I am. Certainly I have past <i>all bounds</i>. +Do write soon, and tell us everything about Mr. Martin and +yourself. And ever believe me, dearest Mrs. Martin,</p> + +<p>Your affectionate<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Sidmouth: September 7, 1833.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—Are you a <i>little</i> angry <i>again</i>? +I do hope not. I should have written long ago if it had not +been for Henrietta; and Henrietta would have written very +lately if it had not been for me: and we must beg of you to +forgive us both for the sake of each other. Thank you for +the kind letter which I have been so tardy in thanking you +for, but which was not, on that account, the less gladly +received. Do believe how much it pleases me <i>always</i> to +see and read dear Mrs. Martin's handwriting. But I must +try to tell you some less ancient truths. We are still in the +ruinous house. Without any poetical fiction, the walls are +too frail for even <i>me</i>, who enjoy the situation in a most +particularly particular manner, to have any desire to pass the +winter within them. One wind we have had the privilege of +hearing already; and down came the tiles while we were at +dinner, and made us all think that down something else was +coming. We have had one chimney pulled down to prevent +it from tumbling down; and have received especial injunctions +from the bricklayers not to lean too much out of the +windows, for fear the walls should follow the destiny of the +chimney. Altogether there is every reasonable probability +that the whole house will in the course of next winter be as +like Persepolis as anything so ugly can be! If another +house which will fit us can be found in Sidmouth, I am +sure papa will take it; but, as he said the other day, 'If I +can't find a house, I must go.' I hope he may find one, +and as near the sea as this ruin. I have enjoyed its moonlight +and its calmness all the summer; and am prepared to +enjoy its tempestuousness of the winter with as true an +enjoyment. What we shall do ultimately, I do not even +dream; and, if I know papa, <i>he</i> does not. My visions of +the future are confined to 'what shall I write or read next,' +and 'when shall we next go out in the boat,' and <i>they</i>, you +know, can do no harm to anybody. Of one thing I have a +comforting certainty—that wherever we may go or stay, the +decree which moves or fixes us will and must be the 'wisest +virtuousest discreetest best!' ...</p> + +<p>So, I will change the subject to myself. You told me +that you were going to read my book, and I want to know +what you think of it. If you were given to compliment and +insincerity, I should be afraid of asking you; because, +among other <i>evident</i> reasons, I might then appear to be +asking for your praise instead of your opinion. As it is—I +want to know what you think of my book. Is the translation +stiff? If you know me at all (and I venture to hope +that you do) you will be certain that I shall <i>like</i> your +honesty, and love you for being honest, even if you put on +the very blackest of black caps....</p> + +<p>Of course you know that the late Bill has ruined the +West Indians. That is settled. The consternation here is +very great. Nevertheless I am glad, and always shall be, +that the negroes are—virtually—free!</p> + +<p>May God bless you, dear Mrs. Martin!</p> + +<p>Ever believe me, your affectionate<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Sidmouth: Friday [1834].<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—I don't know how I shall begin to +persuade you not to be angry with me, but perhaps the best +plan will be to confess as many sins as would cover this +sheet of paper, and then to go on with my merits. Certainly +I am altogether guiltless of your charge of not noticing +your book's arrival because no Calvinism arrived with it. +I told you the bare truth when I told you <i>why</i> I did not +write immediately. The passage relating to Calvinism I +certainly read, and as certainly was sorry for; but as +certainly as both those certainties, such reading and such +regret had nothing whatever to do with the silence which +made you so angry with me.</p> + +<p>The other particular thing of which I should have +written is Mr. Parker and my letters. I am more and, +more sorry that you should have sent them to him at all—not +that their loss is any loss to anybody, but that I scarcely +like the idea—indeed, I don't like it at all—of their +remaining, worthless as they are, at Mr. P.'s mercy. As +for my writing about them, I should not be able to make +up my mind to do <i>that</i>. You know I had nothing to do +with their being sent to Mr. Parker, and was indeed +in complete ignorance of it. Besides, I should be half +ashamed to write to him now on any subject. A very long +interregnum took place in our correspondence, which was +his own work; and when he wrote to me the summer before +last, I delayed from week to week, and then from month to +month, answering it. And now I feel ashamed to write at all.</p> + +<p>Perhaps you will wonder why I am not ashamed to +write to <i>you</i>. Indeed I have meant to do it very, very +often. Don't be severe upon me. I am always afraid of +writing to you too often, and so the opposite fault is apt to +be run into—of writing too seldom. IF THAT is a <i>fault</i>. +You see my scepticism is becoming faster and faster +developed.</p> + +<p>Let me hear from you soon, if you are not angry. I +have been reading the Bridgewater treatise, and am now +trying to understand Prout upon Chemistry. I shall be +worth something at last, shall I not? Who knows but +what I may die a glorious death under the <i>pons asinorum</i> +after all? Prout (if I succeed in understanding him) does +not hold that matter is infinitely divisible; and so I suppose +the seeds of matter—the ultimate molecules—are a kind of +<i>tertium quid</i> between matter and spirit. Certainly I can't +believe that any kind of matter, primal or ultimate, can be +<i>indivisible</i>, which it must according to his view.</p> + +<p>Chalmers's treatise is, as to eloquence, surpassingly +beautiful; as to matter, I could not walk with him all the +way, although I longed to do it, for he walked on flowers, +and under shade—'no tree on which a fine bird did not +sit.' ...</p> + +<p>Believe me, your affectionate friend,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Sidmouth: September 14, [1834].<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Boyd,—I won't ask you to forgive me for +not writing before, because I know very well that you would +rather have not heard from me immediately.... +And so, you and Mrs. Mathew have been tearing to +pieces—to the very rags—all my elaborate theology! And +when Mr. Young is 'strong enough,' he is to help you at +your cruel work! 'The points upon which you and I +differed' are so numerous, that if I really <i>am</i> wrong upon +every one of them, Mrs. Mathew has indeed reason to +'punish me with hard thoughts.' Well, she can't help my +feeling for her much esteem, although I never saw her. +And if I <i>were</i> to see her, I would not argue with her; I +would only ask her to let me love her. I am weary of +controversy in religion, and should be so were I stronger +and more successful in it than I am or care to be. The +command is not 'argue with one another,' but 'love one +another.' It is better to love than to convince. They who +lie on the bosom of Jesus must lie there <i>together</i>!</p> + +<p>Not a word about your book!<a name="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19"><sup>[19]</sup></a> Don't you mean to +tell me anything of it? I saw a review of it—rather a +satisfactory one—I think in an <i>August</i> number of the +'Athenaeum.' If you will look into 'Fraser's Magazine' +for August, at an article entitled 'Rogueries of Tom +Moore,' you will be amused with a notice of the 'Edinburgh +Review's' criticism in the text, and of yourself in a note. +We have had a crowded Bible meeting, and a Church +Missionary and London Missionary meeting besides; and I +went last Tuesday to the Exmouth Bible meeting with +Mrs. Maling, Miss Taylor, and Mr. Hunter. We did not +return until half-past one in the morning.... The Bishop +of Barbadoes and the Dean of Winchester were walking +together on the beach yesterday, making Sidmouth look +quite episcopal. You would not have despised it <i>half so +much</i>, had you been here.</p> + +<p>Do you know any person who would like to send his +or her son to Sidmouth, for the sake of the climate, and +private instruction: and if you do, will you mention it to me? +I am very sorry to hear of Mrs. Boyd being so unwell. +Arabel had a letter two days ago from Annie, and as it +mentions Mrs. Boyd's having gone to Dover, I trust that +she is well again. Should she be returned, give my love to +her.</p> + +<p>The black-edged paper may make you wonder at its +cause. Our dear aunt Mrs. Butler died last month at +Dieppe—and died <i>in Jesus</i>. Miss Clarke is going, if she +is not gone, to Italy for the winter.</p> + +<p>Believe me, affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Write to me whenever you <i>dislike at least</i>, and tell me +what your plans are. I hear nothing about our leaving +Sidmouth.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Commeline</i><br /> +September 22, 1834 [Sidmouth].<br /> + +<p>I am afraid that there can be no chance of my handwriting +at least being unforgotten by you, dear Miss +Commeline, but in the case of your having a very long +memory you may remember the name which shall be written +at the end of this note, and which belongs to one who does +not, nor is likely to forget you! I was much, <i>much</i> obliged +to you for the kind few lines you wrote to me—how long +ago! No, do not remember how long—do not remember +<i>that</i> for fear you should think me unkind, and—what I am +not! I have intended again and again to answer your note, +and I am doing it—<i>at last</i>! Are you all quite well? +Mrs. Commeline and all of you? Shall I ever see any of you +again? Perhaps I shall not; but even if I do not, I shall +not cease to wish you to be well and happy 'in the body or +out of the body.'</p> + +<p>We came to Sidmouth for two months, and you see we +are here still; and when we are likely to go is as uncertain as +ever. I like the place, and some of its inhabitants. I like +the greenness and the tranquillity and the sea; and the +solitude of one dear seat which hangs over it, and which is +too far or too lonely for many others to like besides myself. +We are living in a thatched cottage, with a green lawn +bounded by a <i>Devonshire lane</i>. Do you know what that is? +Milton did when he wrote of 'hedgerow elms and hillocks +green.' Indeed Sidmouth is a nest among elms; and the +lulling of the sea and the shadow of the hills make it a peaceful +one. But there are no majestic features in the country. It is +all green and fresh and secluded; and the grandeur is concentrated +upon the ocean without deigning to have anything +to do with the earth. I often find my thoughts +where my footsteps once used to be! but there is no use in +speaking of that....</p> + +<p>Pray believe me, affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Sidmouth: Friday, December 19, 1834 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—... We have lately had deep +anxiety with regard to our dear papa. He left us two months +ago to do his London business: and a few weeks since we +were told by a letter from him that he was ill; he giving us to +understand that his complaint was of a rheumatic character. +By the next coach, we were so daring (I can scarcely understand +how we managed it) as to send Henry to him: thinking +that it would be better to be scolded than to suffer him +to be alone and in suffering at a London hotel. We were +not scolded: but my prayer to be permitted to follow +Henry was condemned to silence: and what was said being +said emphatically, I was obliged to submit, and to be</p> + +<p>thankful for the unsatisfactory accounts which for many days +afterwards we received.... I cannot help being anxious +and fearful. You know he is <i>all</i> left to us—and that without +him we should indeed be orphans and desolate. Therefore +you may well know what feelings those are with which we +look back upon his danger; and forwards to any threatening +of a return of it.... It may not be so. Do not, when +you write, allude to my fearing about it. Our only feeling +now should certainly be a deep feeling of thankfulness +towards that God of all consolation Who has permitted us +to know His love in the midst of many griefs; and Who +while He has often cast upon us the sorrow and the shadow, +has yet enabled us to recognise it as that 'shadow of the +wings of the Almighty,' wherein we may 'rejoice.' We +shall probably see our dear papa next week. At least we +know that he is only waiting for strength and that he is +already able to go out—I fear, not to <i>walk</i> out. Here we +are all well. Belle Vue is sold, and we shall probably have +to leave it in March: but I do not think that we shall do +so before. Henrietta is still very anxious to leave Sidmouth +altogether; and I still feel that I shall very much grieve to +leave it: so that it is happy for us that neither is the +<i>decider</i> on this point. I have often thought that it is +happier <i>not</i> to do what one pleases, and perhaps you will +agree with me—if you don't please at the present moment +to do something very particular. And do tell me, dear +Mrs. Martin, what you are pleasing to do, and what you are +doing: for it seems to me, and indeed is, a long time since +I heard of you and Mr. Martin <i>in detail</i>. Miss Maria +Commeline sent a note to Henrietta a fortnight ago: and +in it was honorable mention of you—but I won't interfere +with the sublimities of your imagination, by telling you what +it was.... I should like to hear something of Hope End: +whether there are many alterations, and whether the new +lodge, of which I heard, is built. Even now, the thought +stands before me sometimes like an object in a dream that +I shall see no more those hills and trees which seemed to +me once almost like portions of my existence. This is not +meant for murmuring. I have had much happiness at +Sidmouth, though with a character of its own. Henrietta +and Arabel and I are the only guardians just now of the +three youngest boys, the only ones at home: and I assure +you, we have not too little to do. They are no longer <i>little</i> +boys. There is an anxiety among us just now to have letters +from Jamaica—from my dear dear Bro—but the packet is +only 'expected.' The last accounts were comforting ones; +and I am living on the hope of seeing him back again in +the spring. Stormie and Georgie are doing well at Glasgow. +So Dr. Wardlaw says.... Henrietta's particular love to you; +and <i>do</i> believe me always,</p> + +<p>Your affectionate<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>You have of course heard of poor Mrs. Boyd's death. +Mr. Boyd and his daughter are both in London, and likely, +I think, to remain there.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Sidmouth: Tuesday [spring 1835].<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Boyd,—... Now I am going to tell you the +only good news I know, and you will be glad, I know, to +be told what I am going to tell you. Dear Georgie has +taken his degree, and very honorably, at Glasgow, and is +coming to us in all the dignity of a Bachelor of Arts. He +was examined in Logic, Moral Philosophy, Greek and +Latin, of course publicly: and we have heard from a +fellow student of his, that his answers were more pertinent +than those of any other of the examined, and elicited much +applause. Mr. Groube is the fellow student—but he has +ceased to be one, having found the Glasgow studies too +heavy for his health. Stormie shrank from the public +examination, on account of the hesitation in his speech. +He would not go up; although, according to report, as +well qualified as Georgie. Mr. Groube says that the ladies +of Glasgow are preparing to break their hearts for Georgie's +departure: and he and Stormie leave Glasgow on May I. +Now, I am sure you will rejoice with me in the result of +the examination. Do you not, dear friend? I was very +anxious about it; and almost resigned to hear of a failure—for +Georgie was in great alarm and prepared us for the +very worst. Therefore the surprise and pleasure were +great.</p> + +<p>I can't tell you of our plans; although the Glasgow +students come to us in a week and this house will be too +small to receive them. We may leave Sidmouth immediately, +or not at all. I shall soon be quite qualified to +write a poem on the 'Pleasures of <i>Doubt</i>'—and a very good +subject it will be. The pleasures of certainty are generally +far less enjoyable—I mean as pleasures go in this unpleasing +world. Papa is in London, and much better when we +heard from him last—and we are awaiting his decree....</p> + +<p>And now what remains for me to tell you? I believe I +have read more Hebrew than Greek lately; yet the dear +Greek is not less dear than ever. Who reads Greek to +you? Who holds my office? Some one, I hope, with an +articulation of more congenial slowness.</p> + +<p>Give Annie my kind love. May God preserve both of +you!</p> + +<p>Believe me, your affectionate friend,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<a name="CHAPTER_II"></a><h2>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3>1835-1841</h3> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>The residence of the Barretts at Sidmouth had never been +a very settled one—never intended to be permanent, and +yet never having a fixed term nor any reason for a fixed +term. Hence it spread itself gradually over a space of +nearly three years, before the long contemplated move to +London actually took place. During the latter part of that +period, however, extant letters of Miss Barrett are almost +wholly wanting, and there is little information from any +other source as to the course of her life. It was apparently +in the summer of 1835 that Sidmouth was finally left behind, +Mr. Barrett having then taken a house at 74 Gloucester +Place (near Baker Street), which, though never regarded as +more than a temporary residence, continued to be the home +of his family for the next three years.</p> + +<p>The move to London was followed by two results of +great importance for Elizabeth Barrett. In the first place, +her health, which had never been strong, broke down +altogether in the London atmosphere, and it is from some +time shortly after the arrival in Gloucester Place that the +beginning of her invalid life must be dated. On the other +hand, residence in London brought her into the neighbourhood +of new friends; and although the number of those +admitted to see her in her sick-room was always small, we +yet owe to this fact the commencement of some of her +closest friendships, notably those with her distant cousin, +John Kenyon, and with Miss Mitford, the authoress of +'Our Village,' and of a correspondence on a much fuller +and more elaborate scale than any of the earlier period. +To this, no doubt, the fact of her confinement to her room +contributed not a little; for being unable to go out and see +her friends, much of her communication with them was +necessarily by letter. At the same time her literary activity +was increasing. She began to contribute poems to various +magazines, and to be brought thereby into connection with +literary men; and she was also employed on the longer +compositions which went to make up her next volume of +published verse.</p> + +<p>All this was, however, only of gradual development; +and for some time her correspondence is limited to Mr. +Boyd, who was now living in St. John's Wood, and Mrs. +Martin. The exact date of the first letter is uncertain, but +it seems to belong to a time soon after the arrival of the +Barretts in town.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +[74 Gloucester Place, London: autumn 1835.]<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Boyd,—As Georgie is going to do what I +am afraid I shall not be able to do to-day—namely, to visit +<i>you</i>—he must take with him a few lines from <i>Porsonia</i> +<i>greeting</i>, to say how glad I am to feel myself again at only +a short distance from you, and how still gladder I shall be +when the same room holds both of us. Don't be angry +because I have not visited you immediately. You know—or +you <i>will</i> know, if you consider—I cannot open the +window and fly.</p> + +<p>Papa and I were very much obliged to you for the +poison—and are ready to smile upon you whenever you +give us the opportunity, as graciously as Socrates did upon +his executioner. How much you will have to say to me +about the Greeks, unless you begin first to abuse me about +the <i>Romans</i>; and if you begin <i>that</i>, the peroration will be +a very pathetic one, in my being turned out of your doors. +Such is my prophecy.</p> + +<p>Papa has been telling me of your abusing my stanzas on +Mrs. Hemans's death. I had a presentiment that you +would: and behold, why I said nothing to you of them. +Of course, I maintain, <i>versus</i> both you and papa, that they +are very much to be admired: as well as everything else +proceeding from or belonging to ME. Upon which +principle, I hope you will admire George particularly.</p> + +<p>Believe me, dear Mr. Boyd, your affectionate friend,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Arabel's and my love to Annie. Won't she come to see +us?</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +74 Gloucester Place, Portman Square, London: Jan. I, 1836.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—I am half willing and half +unwilling to write to you when, among such dearer interests +and deep anxieties, you may perhaps be scarcely at liberty +to attend to what I write. And yet I <i>will</i> write, if it +be only briefly, that you may not think—if you think of us +at all—that we have changed our hearts with our residence so +much as to forget to sympathise with you, dear Mrs. Martin, +or to neglect to apprise you ourselves of our movements. +Indeed, a letter to you should have been written among my +first letters on arriving in London, only Henrietta (my +scape-goat, <i>you</i> will say) said, '<i>I</i> will write to Mrs. +Martin.' And then after I had waited, and determined to write +without waiting any longer, we heard of poor Mrs. +Hanford's affliction and your anxiety, and I have considered +day after day whether or not I should intrude upon you; +until I find myself—<i>thus</i>!</p> + +<p>I do hope that you have from the hand of God those +consolations which only He in Jesus Christ can give to the +so afflicted. For I know well that you are afflicted with +the afflicted, and that with you sympathy is suffering; and +that while the tenderest earthly comfort is administered by +your presence and kindness to your dear friends, you will +feel bitterly for them what a little thing earthly comfort is, +when the earthly beloved perish before them. May He who +is the Beloved in the sight of His Father and His Church +be near to them and you, and cause you to <i>feel</i> as well +as <i>know</i> the truth, that what is sudden sorrow, to our +judgments, is only long-prepared mercy in <i>His</i> will whose +names are <i>Wisdom</i> and <i>Love</i>. Should it not be, dear +friend, that the tears of our human eyes ought to serve the +happy and touching purpose of reminding us of those +tears of Jesus which He shed in assuming our sorrow with +our flesh? And the memory of those tears involves all +comfort. A recognition of the oneness of the human nature +of that Divine Saviour who ever liveth, with ours which +perishes and sorrows so; an assurance drawn from thence +of <i>His</i> sympathy who sits on the throne of God, with us +who suffer in the dust of earth, and of all those doctrines +of redemption and sanctification and happiness which come +from Him and by Him.</p> + +<p>Now you will forgive me for writing all this, dearest +Mrs. Martin. I like to write my thoughts and feelings out +of my own head and heart, just as they suggest themselves, +when I write to you; and I cannot think of affliction, particularly +when it comes near to me in the affliction or anxiety +of dear friends, without looking back and remembering +what voice of God used to sound softly to me when none other +could speak comfort. You will forgive me, and not be angry +with me for trying, or seeming to try, to be a sermon writer.</p> + +<p>Perhaps, dear Mrs. Martin, when you do feel inclined +and able to write, you would write me a few lines. +Remember, I do not ask for them <i>now</i>. No, do not think +of writing now. I shall very much like to hear how your +dear charge is—whether there should appear any prospect of +improvement; and how poor Mrs. Hanford bears up against +this heavy calamity; and whether the anxiety and nursing +affect your health. But we shall try to hear this from the +Biddulphs; and so do put me out of your head, except +when its thoughts would dwell on those on earth who +sympathise with you and care for you.</p> + +<p>You see we are in London after all, and poor Sidmouth +left afar. I am almost inclined to say 'poor us' instead of +'poor Sidmouth.' But I dare say I shall soon be able +to see in my dungeon, and begin to be amused with +the spiders. Half my soul, in the meantime, seems to +have stayed behind on the seashore, which I love more +than ever now that I cannot walk on it in the body. +London is wrapped up like a mummy, in a yellow mist, so +closely that I have had scarcely a glimpse of its countenance +since we came. Well, I am trying to like it all very much, +and I dare say that in time I may change my taste and my +senses—and succeed. We are in a house large enough to +hold us, for four months, at the end of which time, if the experiment +of our being able to live in London succeed, I <i>believe</i> +that papa's intention is to take an unfurnished house and +have his furniture from Ledbury. You may wonder at me, +but I wish that were settled <i>so</i>, and <i>now</i>. I am +<i>satisfied</i> with London, although I cannot enjoy it. +We are not likely, in the case of leaving it, to return to +Devonshire, and I should look with weary eyes to another +strangership and pilgrimage even among green fields that +know not these fogs. Papa's object in settling here refers +to my brothers. George will probably enter as a barrister +student at the Inner Temple on the fifth or sixth of this +month, and he will have the advantage of his home by our +remaining where we are. Another advantage of London is, that +we shall see here those whom we might see nowhere else. This +year, dear Mrs. Martin, may it bring with it the true pleasure +of seeing <i>you</i>! Three have gone, and we have not seen +you.... May God bless you and all that you care for, +being with you always as the God of consolation and +peace.</p> + +<p>Your affectionate<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p><br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>It is from the middle of this year that Miss Barrett's +active appearance as an author may be dated. Hitherto her +publications had been confined to a few small anonymous +volumes, printed rather to please herself and her friends +than with any idea of appealing to a wider public. She +was now anxious to take this farther step, and, with that +object, to obtain admission to some of the literary +magazines. This was obtained through the instrumentality +of Mr. R.H. Home, subsequently best known as the +author of 'Orion.' He was at this time personally unknown +to Miss Barrett, but an application through a common friend +led both to the opening to the poetess of the pages of the +'New Monthly Magazine,' then edited by Bulwer, and also +to the commencement of a friendship which has left its mark +in the two volumes of published letters to Mr. Home. The +following is Mr. Home's account of the opening of the +acquaintance ('Letters,' i. 7, 8):</p> + + +<blockquote><p>'My first introduction to Miss Barrett was by a note +from Mrs. Orme, inclosing one from the young lady containing +a short poem with the modest request to be frankly +told whether it might be ranked as poetry or merely verse. +As there could be no doubt in the recipient's mind on that +point, the poem was forwarded to Colburn's "New Monthly," +edited at that time by Mr. Bulwer (afterwards the late [first] +Lord Lytton), where it duly appeared in the current number. +The next manuscript sent to me was "The Dead Pan," and +the poetess at once started on her bright and noble career.'</p></blockquote> + +<p>The poem with which Miss Barrett thus made her bow +to the world of letters was 'The Romaunt of Margret,'<a name="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20"><sup>[20]</sup></a> +which appeared in the July number of the magazine. +Mr. Home must, however, have been in error in speaking +of 'The Dead Pan' as its successor, since that was not +written till some years later. More probably it was 'The +Poet's Vow,<a name="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21"><sup>[21]</sup></a> which was printed in the October number of +the 'New Monthly.'</p><br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +[London:] October 14, Friday [1836].<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—Be as little angry with me as you can. +I have not been very well for a day or two, and shall enjoy a +visit to you on Monday so much more than I shall be able +to do to-day, that I will ask you to forgive my not going to you +this week, and to receive me kindly on that day instead—provided, +you know, it is not wet.</p> + +<p>The αχαιιδες [Achaiides] approach the αχαιοι [Achaioi]<a name="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22"><sup>[22]</sup></a> more tremblingly +than usual, with the 'New Monthly Magazine' in their hands. +Now pray don't annoy yourself by reading a single word +which you would rather not read except for the sake of +being kind to me. And my prophecy is, that even by +annoying yourself and making a <i>strenuous</i> effort, the whole +force of friendship would not carry you down the first +page. Georgie says you want to know the verdict of the +'Athenaeum.' That paper unfortunately has been lent out +of the house; but my memory enables me to send you the +words very correctly, I think. After some observations on +other periodicals, the writer goes on to say: 'The "New +Monthly Magazine" has not one heavy article. It is rich +in poetry, including some fine sonnets by the Corn Law +Rhymer, and a fine although too dreamy ballad, "The +Poet's Vow." We are almost tempted to pause and criticise +the work of a writer of so much inspiration and promise as +the author of this poem, and exhort him once again, to +greater clearness of expression and less quaintness in the +choice of his phraseology; but this is not the time or place +for digression.'</p> + +<p>You see my critic has condemned me with a very +gracious countenance. Do put on yours,</p> + +And believe me, affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.<br /> +<br /> + +<p>I forgot to say that you surprised and pleased me at the +same time by your praise of my 'Sea-mew.'<a name="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23"><sup>[23]</sup></a> Love to Annie. +We were glad to hear that she did not <i>continue</i> unwell, and +that you are well again, too. I hope you have had no return +of the rheumatic pain.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +[74 Gloucester Place:] Saturday, [October 1836].<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—I am much disappointed in finding +myself at the end of this week without having once seen +you—particularly when your two notes are waiting all this +time to be answered. Do believe that they were not, either +of them, addressed to an ungrateful person, and that the +only reason of their being received <i>silently</i> was my hope of +answering them more agreeably to both of us—by talking +instead of writing.</p> + +<p>Yes; you have read my mystery.<a name="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24"><sup>[24]</sup></a></p> + +<p>You paid a tithe to your human nature in reading only +<i>nine-tenths</i> of it, and the rest was a pure gift to your friendship +for me, and is taken and will be remembered as such. +But you have a cruel heart for a parody, and this one tried +my sensibility so much that I cried—with laughing. I +confess to you notwithstanding, it was <i>very fair</i>, and dealt +its blow with a shining pointed weapon.</p> + +<p>But what will you say to me when I confess besides +that, in the face of all your kind encouragement, my Drama +of the Angels<a name="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25"><sup>[25]</sup></a> has never been touched until the last three +days? It was <i>not</i> out of pure idleness on my part, nor of +disregard to your admonition; but when my thoughts were +distracted with other things, books just begun inclosing me +all around, a whole load of books upon my conscience, I +could not possibly rise up to the gate of heaven and write +about my angels. You know one can't sometimes sit down +to the sublunary, occupation of reading Greek, unless one +feels <i>free</i> to it. And writing poetry requires a double liberty, +and an inclination which comes only of itself.</p> + +<p>But I have begun. I tried the blank metre once, and +it <i>would not do</i>, and so I had to begin again in lyrics. +Something above an hundred lines is written, and now I +am in two panics, just as if one were not enough. First, +because it seems to me a very daring subject—a subject +almost beyond our sympathies, and therefore quite beyond +the sphere of human poetry. Perhaps when all is written +courageously, I shall have no courage left to publish it. +Secondly, because all my tendencies towards mysticism will +be called into terrible operation by this dreaming upon +angels. Yes; you <i>will</i> read a mystery, +but don't make any rash resolutions about reading anything. +As I have begun, I certainly will go on with the writing.</p> + +<p>Here is a question for you:</p> + +<p>Am I to accept your generous sacrifice of reading nine-tenths +of my 'Vow,' as an atonement for your WANT OF CONFIDENCE IN ME? +Oh, your conscience will understand very well what I mean, without +a dictionary.</p> + +<p>Arabel and I intend to pay you a visit on Monday, and +if we can, and it is convenient to you, we are inclined to +invite ourselves to your dinner table. But this is all +dependent on the weather.</p> + +<p>Believe me, dear Mr. Boyd, your affectionate friend,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +[74 Gloucester Place:] November 26, 1836 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Boyd,—I have been so busy that I have +not been able until this morning to take breath or <i>inspiration</i> +to answer your lyrics. You shall see me soon, but I am +sorry to say it can't be Monday or Tuesday.</p> + +<p>I have had another note from the editor of the 'New +Monthly Magazine'—very flattering, and praying for farther +supplies. The Angels were not ready, and I was obliged +to send something else, which I will not ask you to read. So +don't be very uneasy.</p> + +<p>Arabel's and my best love to Annie. And believe me in +a great hurry, for I won't miss this post,</p> + +<p>Yours affectionately,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +Your lyrics found me dull as prose<br /> +Among a file of papers<br /> +And analysing London fogs<br /> +To nothing but the vapours.<br /> +<br /> +They knew their part; but through the fog<br /> +Their flaming lightning raising;<br /> +They missed my fancy, and instead,<br /> +My choler set a-blazing.<br /> +<br /> +Quoth I, 'I need not care a pin<br /> +For charge unjust, unsparing;<br /> +Yet oh! for ancient bodkin<a name="FNanchor_26_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_26"><sup>[26]</sup></a> keen,<br /> +To punish this <i>Pindáring</i>.<br /> +<br /> +'Yet oh! that I, a female Jove,<br /> +These fogs sublime might float on,<br /> +Where, eagle-like, my dove might show<br /> +A very υγρον νωτον [ugron nôton].<a name="FNanchor_27_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_27"><sup>[27]</sup></a><br /> +<br /> +'Then lightning should for lightning flash,<br /> +Vexation for vexation,<br /> +And shades of St. John's Wood should glow<br /> +In awful conflagration.'<br /> +<br /> +I spoke; when lo! my birds of peace,<br /> +The vengeance disallowing,<br /> +Replied, 'Coo, coo!' But <i>keep in mind</i>,<br /> +That <i>cooing</i> is not <i>cowing</i>.<a name="FNanchor_28_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_28"><sup>[28]</sup></a></div><br /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +74 Gloucester Place: December 7, 1836.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—Indeed I have long felt the +need of writing to you (I mean the need to myself), and +although so many weeks and even months have passed away +in silence, they have not done so in lack of affection and +thought.</p> + +<p>I had wished very much to have been able to tell you in +this letter where we had taken our house, or where we were +going to take it. We remain, however, in our usual state +of conscious ignorance, although there is a good deal of +talking and walking about a house in Wimpole Street—which, +between ourselves, I am not very anxious to live in, +on account of the gloominesses of that street, and of that part +of the street, whose walls look so much like Newgate's turned +inside out. I would rather go on, in my old way, inhabiting +castles in the air than that particular house. Nevertheless, +if it <i>is</i> decided upon, I dare say I shall contrive to be satisfied +with it, and sleep and wake very much as I should in +any other. It will certainly be a point gained to be settled +somewhere, and I do so long to sit in my own armchair—strange +as it will look out of my own room—and to read +from my own books.... For our own particular parts, our +healths continue good—none of us, I think, the worse for +fog or wind. As to wind, we were almost elevated into the +prerogative of <i>pigs</i> in the late storm. We could almost <i>see</i> +it, and the feeling it might have been fatal to us. Bro and +I were moralising about shipwrecks, in the dining-room, +when down came the chimney through the skylight into the +entrance passage. You may imagine the crashing effect of +the bricks bounding from the staircase downwards, breaking +the stone steps in the process, in addition to the falling in +of twenty-four large panes of glass, frames and all. We +were terrified out of all propriety, and there has been a +dreadful calumny about Henrietta and me—that we had +the hall door open for the purpose of going out into the +street with our hair on end, if Bro had not <i>encouraged</i> us by +shutting the door and locking it. I confess to opening the +door, but deny the purpose of it—at least, maintain that I +only meant to keep in reserve a way of escape, <i>in case</i>, as +seemed probable, the whole house was on its way to the +ground. Indeed, we should think much of the <i>mercy</i> of +the escape. Bro had been on the staircase only five +minutes before. Sarah the housemaid was actually there. +She looked up accidentally and saw the nodding chimneys, +and ran down into the drawing-room to papa, shrieking, but +escaping with one graze of the hand from one brick. How +did <i>you</i> fare in the wind? I never much imagined before +that anything so true to nature as a real live storm could +make itself heard in our streets. But it has come too +surely, and carried away with it, besides our chimney, all that +was left to us of the country, in the shape of the Kensington +Garden trees. Now do write to me, dearest Mrs. Martin, +and soon, and tell me all you can of your chances and +mischances, and how Mr. Martin is getting on with the +parish, and yourself with the parishioners. But you have +more the name of living at Colwall than the thing. You +seem to me to lead a far more wandering life than we, for +all our homelessness and 'pilgrim shoon.' Why, you have +been in Ireland since I last said a word to you, even upon +paper....</p> + +<p>I sometimes think that a pilgrim's life is the wisest—at +least, the most congenial to the 'uses of this world.' We +give our sympathies and associations to our hills and fields, +and then the providence of God gives <i>them</i> to another, +It is better, perhaps, to keep a stricter <i>identity</i>, by calling +only our thoughts our own.</p> + +<p>Was there anybody in the world who ever loved London for +itself? Did Dr. Johnson, in his paradise of Fleet Street, +love the pavement and the walls? I doubt <i>that</i>—whether +I ought to do so or not—though I don't doubt at all that one +may be contented and happy here, and love much <i>in</i> the +place. But the place and the privileges of it don't mix together +in one's love, as is done among the hills and by the seaside.</p> + +<p>I or Henrietta must have told you that one of my +privileges has been to see Wordsworth twice. He was very +kind to me, and let me hear his conversation. I went with +him and Miss Mitford to Chiswick, and thought all the way +that I must certainly be dreaming. I saw her almost every +day of her week's visit to London (this was all long ago, +while you were in France); and she, who overflows with +warm affections and generous benevolences, showed me every +present and absent kindness, professing to love me, and +asking me to write to her. Her novel is to be published +soon after Christmas, and I believe a new tragedy is to appear +about the same time, 'under the protection of Mr. Forrest.' +Papa has given me the first two volumes of Wordsworth's +new edition. The engraving in the first is his <i>own face</i>. +You might think me affected if I told you all I felt in seeing +the living face. His manners are very simple, and his +conversation not at all <i>prominent</i>—if you quite understand +what I mean by <i>that</i>. I do myself, for I saw at the same +time Landor—the brilliant Landor!—and <i>felt</i> the difference +between great genius and eminent talent; All these visions +have passed now. I hear and see nothing, except my doves +and the fireplace, and am doing little else than [<i>words torn +out</i>] write all day long. And then people ask me what +I <i>mean</i> in [<i>words torn out</i>]. I hope you were among the +six who understood or half understood my 'Poet's Vow'—that +is, if you read it at all. Uncle Hedley made a long +pause at the first part. But I have been reading, too, +Sheridan Knowles's play of the 'Wreckers.' It is full of +passion and pathos, and made me shed a great many tears. +How do you get on with the reading society? Do you see +much or anything of Lady Margaret Cocks, from whom I +never hear now? I promised to let her have 'Ion,' if I +could, before she left Brighton, but the person to whom it +was lent did not return it to me in time. Will you tell her +this, if you do see her, and give her my kind regards at +the same time? Dear Bell was so sorry not to have seen +you. If she had, you would have thought her looking <i>very</i> +well, notwithstanding the thinness—perhaps, in some measure, +on account of it—and in <i>eminent</i> spirits. I have not +seen her in such spirits for very, very long. And there she +is, down at Torquay, with the Hedleys and Butlers, making +quite a colony of it, and everybody, in each several letter, +grumbling in an undertone at the dullness of the place. +What would <i>I</i> give to see the waves once more! But +perhaps if I were there, I should grumble too. It is a +happiness to them to be <i>together</i>, and that, I am sure, they +all feel....</p> + +Believe me, dearest Mrs. Martin, your affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.<br /> + +<p>Oh that you would call me Ba!<a name="FNanchor_29_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_29_29"><sup>[29]</sup></a></p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +[74 Gloucester Place:]<br /> +Thursday, December 15, 1836 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Boyd,—... Two mornings since, I saw in +the paper, under the head of literary news, that a change of +editorship was taking place in the 'New Monthly Magazine;' +and that Theodore Hook was to preside in the room of Mr. +Hall. I am so much too modest and too wise to expect +the patronage of two editors in succession, that I expect +both my poems in a return cover, by every twopenny post. +Besides, what has Theodore Hook to do with Seraphim? +So, I shall leave that poem of mine to your imagination; +which won't be half as troublesome to you as if I asked you +to read it; begging you to be assured—to write it down in +your critical rubric—that it is the very finest composition you +ever read, <i>next</i> (of course) to the beloved 'De Virginitate' +of Gregory Nazianzen.<a name="FNanchor_30_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_30_30"><sup>[30]</sup></a></p> + +<p>Mr. Stratten has just been here. I admire him more +than I ever did, for his admiration of my doves. By the +way, I am sure he thought them the most agreeable of the +whole party; for he said, what he never did before, that he +could sit here for an hour! Our love to Annie—and forgive +me for Baskettiring a letter to you. I mean, of course, +as to size, not type.</p> +<br /> +<p>Yours affectionately,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Is your poem printed yet?</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +[74 Gloucester Place:] Tuesday [Christmas 1836].<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—I am very much obliged to you for the +<i>two</i> copies of your poem, so beautifully printed, with such +'majestical' types, on such 'magnifical' paper, as to be +almost worthy of Baskett himself. You are too liberal in +sending me more than one copy; and pray accept in return +a duplicate of gratitude.</p> + +<p>As to my 'Seraphim,' they are not returned to me, as in +the case of their being unaccepted, I expressly begged they +might be. Had the old editor been the present one, my +inference would of course be, that their insertion was a +determined matter; but as it is, I don't know what to +think.<a name="FNanchor_31_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_31_31"><sup>[31]</sup></a> A long list of great names, belonging to <i>intending</i> +contributors, appeared in the paper a day or two ago, and +among them was Miss Mitford's.</p> + +<p>Are you wroth with me for not saying a word about going +to see you? Arabel and I won't affirm it mathematically—but +we are, metaphysically, <i>talking</i> of paying our visit to +you next Tuesday. Don't expect us, nevertheless.</p> + +<p>Yours affectionately,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>What are my Christmas good wishes to be? That you +may hold a Field in your right hand, and a Baskerville in +your left, before the year is out! That degree of happiness +will satisfy at least the <i>bodily</i> part of you.</p> + +<p>You may wish, in return, for <i>me</i>, that I may learn to +write rather more legibly than 'at these presents.'</p> + +<p>Our love to Annie.</p> + +<p>Won't you send your new poem to Mr. Barker, to the +care of Mr. Valpy, with your Christmas benedictions?</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i>.<br /> +[74 Gloucester Place:] January 23, 1837 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—I am standing in Henrietta's place, +she says—but not, <i>I</i> say, to answer your letter to <i>her</i> +yesterday, but your letter to <i>me</i>, some weeks ago—which I +meant to answer much more immediately if the <i>ignis fatuus</i> +of a house (you see to what a miserable fatuity I am +reduced, of applying your pure country metaphors to our +brick pollutions) had not been gliding just before us, and I +had not much wished to be able to tell you of our settlement. +As it is, however, I must write, and shall keep a +solemn silence on the solemn subject of our shifting +plans....</p> + +<p>No! I was not at all disappointed in Wordsworth, +although perhaps I should not have singled him from the +multitude as a great man. There is a <i>reserve</i> even in his +countenance, which does not lighten as Landor's does, +whom I saw the same evening. His eyes have more meekness +than brilliancy; and in his slow even articulation +there is rather the solemnity and calmness of <i>truth</i> itself, +than the animation and energy of those who seek for it. +As to my being quite at my ease when I spoke to him, +why how could you ask such a question? I trembled +both in my soul and body. But he was very kind, and sate +near me and talked to me as long as he was in the room—and +recited a translation by Cary of a sonnet of Dante's—and +altogether, it was quite a dream! Landor too—Walter +Savage Landor ... in whose hands the ashes of +antiquity burn again—gave me two Greek epigrams he had lately +written ... and talked brilliantly and prominently until Bro (he +and I went together) abused him for <i>ambitious</i> singularity +and affectation. But it was very interesting. And dear Miss +Mitford too! and Mr. Raymond, a great Hebraist and the ancient +author of 'A Cure for a Heartache!' I never walked in the +skies before; and perhaps never shall again, when so many +stars are out! I shall at least see dear Miss Mitford, who +wrote to me not long ago to say that she would soon be in +London with 'Otto,' her new tragedy, which was written at +Mr. Forrest's own request, he in the most flattering manner +having applied to her a stranger, as the authoress of 'Rienzi,' +for a dramatic work worthy of his acting—after rejecting +many plays offered to him, and among them Mr. Knowles's.... +She says that her play will be quite opposed, in its +execution, to 'Ion,' as unlike it 'as a ruined castle +overhanging the Rhine, to a Grecian temple.' And I do not +doubt that it will be full of ability; although my own +opinion is that she stands higher as the authoress of 'Our +Village' than of 'Rienzi,' and writes prose better than poetry, +and transcends rather in Dutch minuteness and high finishing, +than in Italian ideality and passion. I think besides +that Mr. Forrest's rejection of any play of Sheridan Knowles +must refer rather to its unfitness for the development of his +own personal talent, than to its abstract demerit, whatever +Transatlantic tastes he may bring with him. The published +title of the last play is 'The Daughter,' not 'The Wreckers,' +although I believe it was acted as the last. I am very +anxious to read 'Otto,' not to <i>see</i> it. I am not going to +see it, notwithstanding an offered temptation to sit in the +authoress's own box. With regard to 'Ion,' I think it is a +beautiful work, but beautiful <i>rather</i> morally than +intellectually. Is this right or not? Its moral tone is very +noble, and sends a grand and touching harmony into the +midst of the full discord of this utilitarian age. As dramatic +<i>poetry</i>, it seems to me to want, not beauty, but power, +passion, and condensation. This is my <i>doxy</i> about 'Ion.' +Its author<a name="FNanchor_32_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_32_32"><sup>[32]</sup></a> made me very proud by sending it to me, although +we do not know him personally. I have <i>heard</i> that he is a +most amiable man (who else could have written 'Ion'?), but +that he was a little <i>elevated</i> by his popularity last year!...</p> + +<p>I have read Combe's 'Phrenology,' but not the 'Constitution +of Man.' The 'Phrenology' is very clever, and amusing; +but I do not think it logical or satisfactory. I forget +whether 'slowness of the pulse' <i>is</i> mentioned in it as a +symptom of the poetical aestus. I am afraid, if it be a +symptom, I dare not take my place even in the 'forlorn hope +of poets' in this age so forlorn as to its poetry; for my pulse +is in a continual flutter and my feet not half cold enough +for a pedestal—so I must make my honours over to poor +papa straightway. He has been shivering and shuddering +through the cold weather; and partaking our influenza in +the warmer. I am very sorry that you should have been a +sufferer too. It seems to have been a universal pestilence, +even down in Devonshire, where dear Bummy and the +whole colony have had their share of 'groans.' And one of +my doves shook its pretty head and ruffled its feathers and +shut its eyes, and became subject to pap and nursing and +other infirmities for two or three days, until I was in great +consternation for the result. But it is well again—cooing as +usual; and so indeed we all are. But indeed, I can't write +a sentence more without saying some of the evil it deserves—of +the utilitarianisms of this corrupt age—among some of +the chief of which are steel pens!</p> + +<p>I am so glad that you liked my 'Romaunt,' and so +resigned that you did not understand some of my 'Poet's +Vow,' and so obliged that you should care to go on reading +what I write. They vouchsafed to publish in the first +number of the new series of the 'New Monthly' a little +poem of mine called 'The Island,'<a name="FNanchor_33_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_33_33"><sup>[33]</sup></a> but so incorrectly that I +was glad at the additional oblivion of my signature. If you +see it, pray alter the last senseless line of the first page into +'Leaf sounds with water, in your ear,' and put 'amreeta' +instead of 'amneta' on the second page; and strike out '<i>of</i>' +in the line which names Aeschylus! There are other +blunders, [but] these are intolerable, and cast me out of my +'contentment' for some time. I have begged for [proof] +sheets in future; and as none have come for the ensuing +month, I suppose I shall have nothing in the next number. +They have a lyrical dramatic poem of mine, 'The Two +Seraphim,' which, whenever it appears, I shall like to have +your opinion of. As to the incomprehensible line in the +'Poet's Vow' of which you asked me the meaning, 'One +making one in strong compass,' I meant to express how +that oneness of God, 'in whom are all things,' produces a +oneness or sympathy (sympathy being the tendency of many +to become one) in all things. Do you understand? or is +the explanation to be explained? The unity of God +preserves a unity in men—that is, a perpetual sympathy +between man and man—which sympathy we must be subject +to, if not in our joys, yet in our griefs. I believe the subject +itself involves the necessity of some mysticism; but I must +make no excuses. I am afraid that my very Seraphim will +not be thought to stand in a very clear light, even at +heaven's gate. But this is much <i>asay</i> about nothing ...</p> + +<p>The Bishop of Exeter is staying and preaching at +Torquay. Do you not envy them all for making part of +his congregation? I am sure I do <i>as much</i>. I envy you +your before-breakfast activity. I am never a <i>complete man</i> +without my breakfast—it seems to be some integral part of +my soul. <i>You</i> 'read all O'Connell's speeches.' I never +read any of them—unless they take me by surprise. I keep +my devotion for <i>unpaid</i> patriots; but Miss Mitford is another +devotee of Mr. O'Connell ...</p> + +<p>Dearest Mrs. Martin's affectionate<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Thank you for the 'Ba' in Henrietta's letter. If you +knew how many people, whom I have known only within +this year or two, whether I like them or not, say 'Ba, Ba,' +quite naturally and pastorally, you would not come to me +with the detestable 'Miss B.'</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +London: August 16, 1837.<br /> + +<p>My dear Mrs. Martin,—It seems a long long time since +we had any intercourse; and the answer to your last +pleasant letter to Henrietta <i>must</i> go to you from me. We +have heard of you that you don't mean to return to England +before the spring—which news proved me a prophet, and +disappointed me at the same time, for one can't enjoy even +a prophecy in this world without something vexing. Indeed, +I do long to see you again, dearest Mrs. Martin, and should +always have the same pleasure in it, and affection for you, +if my friends and acquaintances were as much multiplied as +you <i>wrongly</i> suppose them to be. But the truth is that I +have almost none at all, in this place; and, except our +relative Mr. Kenyon, not one literary in any sense. Dear +Miss Mitford, one of the very kindest of human beings, lies +buried in geraniums, thirty miles away. I could not conceive +what Henrietta had been telling you, or what you +meant, for a long time—until we conjectured that it must +have been something about Lady Dacre, who kindly sent +me her book, and intimated that she would be glad to receive +me at her conversations—and you know me better than to +doubt whether I would go or not. There was an equal +unworthiness and unwillingness towards the honor of it. +Indeed, dearest Mrs. Martin, it is almost surprising how we +contrive to be as dull in London as in Devonshire—perhaps +more so, for the sight of a multitude induces a sense of +seclusion which one has not without it; and, besides, there +were at Sidmouth many more known faces and listened-to +voices than we see and hear in this place. No house yet! +And you will scarcely have patience to read that papa has +seen and likes another house in Devonshire Place, and that +he <i>may</i> take it, and we <i>may</i> be settled in it, before the year +closes. I myself think of the whole business indifferently. +My thoughts have turned so long on the subject of houses, +that the pivot is broken—and now they won't turn any more. +All that remains is, a sort of consciousness, that we should +be more comfortable in a house with cleaner carpets, and +taken for rather longer than a week at a time. Perhaps, +after all, we are quite as well <i>sur le tapis</i> as it is. It is a +thousand to one but that the feeling of four red London +walls closing around us for seven, eleven, or twenty-five years, +would be a harsh and hard one, and make us cry wistfully +to 'get out.' I am sure you will look up to your mountains, +and down to your lakes, and enter into this conjecture.</p> + +<p>Talking of mountains and lakes is itself a trying thing +to us poor prisoners. Papa has talked several times of +taking us into the country for two months this summer, and +we have dreamt of it a hundred times in addition; but, +after all, we are not likely to go I dare say. It would have +been very delightful—and who knows what may take place +next summer? We may not absolutely <i>die</i>, without seeing +a tree. Henrietta has seen a great many. You will have +heard, I dare say, of the enjoyment she had in her week at +Camden House. She seems to have walked from seven in +the morning to seven at night; and was quite delighted with +the kindness within doors and the sunshine without. I +assure you that, fresh as she was from the air and dew, she +saluted us amidst the sentiment of our sisterly meeting just +in this way—it was almost her first exclamation—'What a +very disagreeable smell there is here!' And this, although +she had brought geraniums enough from Camden to perfume +the Haymarket!...</p> + +<p>I am happy to announce to you that a new little dove +has appeared from a shell—over which nobody had prognosticated +good—on August 16, 1837. I and the senior doves appear equally +delighted, and we all three, in the capacity of good sitters +and indefatigable pullers-about, take a good deal of credit +upon ourselves....</p> + +<p>Arabel has begun oil painting, and without a master—and +you can't think how much effect and expression she has +given to several of her own sketches, notwithstanding all +difficulties. Poor Henrietta is without a piano, and is not +to have one again <i>until we have another house</i>! This is something +like 'when Homer and Virgil are forgotten.' <i>Speaking +of Homer and Virgil</i>, I have been writing a 'Romance +of the Ganges,'<a name="FNanchor_34_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_34_34"><sup>[34]</sup></a> in order to illustrate an engraving in the +new annual to be edited by Miss Mitford, Finden's tableaux +for 1838. It does not sound a <i>very</i> Homeric undertaking—I +confess I don't hold any kind of annual, gild it as you +please, in too much honour and awe—but from my wish to +please her, and from the necessity of its being done in a +certain time, I was 'quite frightful,' as poor old Cooke used +to say, in order to express his own nervousness. But she +was quite pleased—she is very soon pleased—and the ballad, +gone the way of all writing, now-a-days, to the press. I do +wish I could send you some kind of news that would interest +you; but you see scarcely any except all this selfishness is +in my beat. Dearest Bro draws and reads German, and I +fear is dull notwithstanding. But we are every one of us +more reconciled to London than we were. Well! I must +not write any more. Whenever you think of me, dearest +Mrs. Martin, remember how deeply and unchangeably I +must regard you—both with my <i>mind</i>, my <i>affections</i>, +and that part of either, called my gratitude. BA.</p> + +<p>Henrietta's kindest love and thanks for your letter. She +desires me to say that she and Bro are going to dine with +Mrs. Robert Martin to-morrow. I must tell you that +Georgie and I went to hear Dr. Chalmers preach, three +Sundays ago. His sermon was on a text whose extreme +beauty would diffuse itself into any sermon preached upon it—God +is love. His eloquence was very great, and his views +noble and grasping. I expected much from his imagination, +but not so much from his knowledge. It was truer to +Scripture than I was prepared for, although there seemed +to me some <i>want</i> on the subject of the work of the Holy +Spirit on the heart, which work we cannot dwell upon too +emphatically. 'He worketh in us to will and to do,' and +yet we are apt to will and do without a transmission of the +praise to Him. May God bless you.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Commeline</i><br /> +London: August 19, 1837.<br /> + +<p>My dear Miss Commeline,—I could not hear of your +being in affliction without very frequent thoughts of you +and a desire to express some of them in this way, and +although so much time has passed I do hope that you will +believe in the sympathy with which I, or rather <i>we</i>, have +thought of you, and in the regard we shall not cease to feel +for you even if we meet no more in this world. It is +blessed to know both for ourselves and for each other that +while there is a darkness that <i>must</i> come to all, there is a +light which <i>may</i>; and may He who is the light in the dark +place be with you [now] and always, causing you to feel +rather the glory that is in Him than the shadow which is in +all beside—that so the sweetness of the consolation may pass +the bitterness of even grief. Do give my love to Mrs. +Commeline and to your sisters, and believe me, all of you, +that the friends who have gone from your neighbourhood +have not gone from my old remembrance, either of your +kindness to them, or of their own feelings of interest in +you.</p> + +<p>Trusting to such old remembrances, I will believe that +you care to know what we are doing and how we are +settling—that word which has now been on our lips for +years, which it is marvellous to think how it got upon +human lips at all. We came from Sidmouth to try London +and ourselves, and see whether or not we could live +together; and after more than a year and a half close contact +with smoke we find no very good excuse for not remaining +in it; and papa is going on with his eternal hunt for houses—the +wild huntsman in the ballad is nothing to him, all +except the sublimity—intending very seriously to take the +first he can. He is now about one in particular, but I won't +tell where it is because we have considered so many houses +in particular that our considerations have come to be a jest +in general. I shall be heartily glad, at least I <i>think</i> so, for +it is possible that the reality of being bricked up for a lease +time may not be very agreeable. I think I shall be heartily +glad when a house is taken, and we have made it look like +our own with our furniture and pictures and books. I am +so anxious to see my old books. I believe I shall begin at +the beginning and read every story book through in the joy of +meeting, and shall be as sedentary as ever I was in my own +arm-chair. I remember when I was a child spreading my +vitality, not over trees and flowers (I do that still—I still +believe they have a certain animal susceptibility to pleasure +and pain; 'it is my creed,' and, being Wordsworth's besides, I +am not ashamed of it), but over chairs and tables and books +in particular, and being used to fancy a kind of love in them +to suit my love to them. And so if I were a child I should +have an intense pity for my poor folios, quartos, and +duodecimos, to say nothing of the arm-chair, shut up all +these weeks and months in boxes, without a rational eye to +look upon them. Pray forgive me if I have written a great +deal of nonsense—'Je m'en doute.'</p> + +<p>Henrietta has spent a fortnight at Chislehurst with the +Martins, and was very joyous there, and came back to us +with that happy triumphant air which I always fancy people +'just from the country' put on towards us hapless +Londoners.</p> + +<p>But you must not think I am a discontented person and +grumble all day long at being in London. <i>There are many +advantages here</i>, as I say to myself whenever it is particularly +disagreeable; and if we can't see even a leaf or a sparrow +without soot on it, there are the parrots at the Zoological +Gardens and the pictures at the Royal Academy; and real +live poets above all, with their heads full of the trees and +birds and sunshine of paradise. I have stood face to face +with Wordsworth and Landor; and Miss Mitford, who is in +herself what she is in her books, has become a dear friend of +mine, but a distant one. She visits London at long intervals, +and lives thirty miles away....</p> + +<p>Bro and I were studying German together all last +summer with Henry, before he left us to become a German, +and I believe this is the last of my languages, for I have +begun absolutely to detest the sight of a dictionary or +grammar, which I never liked except as a means, and love +poetry with an intenser love, if that be possible, than I ever +did. Not that Greek is not as dear to me as ever, but I +write more than I read, even of Greek poetry, and am +resolute to work whatever little faculty I have, clear of +imitations and conventionalisms which cloud and weaken +more poetry (particularly now-a-days) than would be +believed possible without looking into it....</p> + +<p>As to society in London, I assure you that none of us +have much, and that as for me, you would wonder at seeing +how possible it is to live as secludedly in the midst of a +multitude as in the centre of solitude. My doves are my +chief acquaintances, and I am so very intimate with <i>them</i> +that they accept and even demand my assistance in building +their innumerable nests. Do tell me if there is any hope of +seeing any of you in London at any time. I say 'do tell +me,' for I will venture to ask you, dear Miss Commeline, to +write me a few lines in one of the idlest hours of one of your +idlest days just to tell me a little about you, and whether +Mrs. Commeline is tolerably well. Pray believe me under +all circumstances,</p> + +<p>Yours sincerely and affectionately,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>The spring of 1838 was marked by two events of interest +to Miss Barrett and her family. In the first place, Mr. +Barrett's apparently interminable search for a house ended +in his selection of 50 Wimpole Street, which continued to +be his home for the rest of his life, and which is, +consequently, more than any other house in London, to be +associated with his daughter's memory. The second event +was the publication of 'The Seraphim, and other Poems,' +which was Miss Barrett's first serious appearance before the +public, and in her own name, as a poet. The early letters +of this year refer to the preparation of this volume, as well +as to the authoress's health, which was at this time in a very +serious condition, owing to the breaking of a blood-vessel. +Indeed, from this time until her marriage in 1846 she held +her life on the frailest of tenures, and lived in all respects the +life of an invalid.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Monday morning, March 27, 1838 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—I do hope that you may not be very +angry, but papa thinks—and, indeed, I think—that as I +have already <i>had</i> two proof sheets and forty-eight pages, +and the printers have gone on to the rest of the poem, it +would not be very welcome to them if we were to ask them +to retrace their steps. Besides, I would rather—<i>I</i> for +myself, <i>I</i>—that you had the whole poem at once and +clearly printed before you, to insure as many chances as +possible of your liking it. I am <i>promised</i> to see the volume +completed in three weeks from this time, so that the dreadful +moment of your reading it—I mean the 'Seraphim' part of +it—cannot be far off, and perhaps, the season being a good +deal advanced even now, you might not, on consideration, +wish me to retard the appearance of the book, except for +some very sufficient reason. I feel very nervous about it—far +more than I did when my 'Prometheus' crept out [of] +the Greek, or I myself out of the shell, in the first 'Essay +on Mind.' Perhaps this is owing to Dr. Chambers's +medicines, or perhaps to a consciousness that my present +attempt <i>is</i> actually, and will be considered by others, more +a trial of strength than either of my preceding ones.</p> + +<p>Thank you for the books, and especially for the <i>editio +rarissima</i>, which I should as soon have thought of your +trusting to me as of your admitting me to stand with gloves +on within a yard of Baxter. This extraordinary confidence +shall not be abused.</p> + +<p>I thank you besides for your kind inquiries about my +health. Dr. Chambers did not think me worse yesterday, +notwithstanding the last cold days, which have occasioned +some uncomfortable sensations, and he still thinks I shall +be better in the summer season. In the meantime he has +ordered me to take ice—out of sympathy with nature, I +suppose; and not to speak a word, out of contradiction to +my particular, human, feminine nature.</p> + +<p>Whereupon I revenge myself, you see, by talking all this +nonsense upon paper, and making you the victim.</p> + +<p>To propitiate you, let me tell you that your commands +have been performed to the letter, and that one Greek +motto (from 'Orpheus') is given to the first part of 'The +Seraphim,' and another from <i>Chrysostom</i> to the second.</p> + +<p>Henrietta desires me to say that she means to go to see +you very soon. Give my very kind remembrance to +Miss Holmes, and believe me,</p> + +<p>Your affectionate friend,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>I saw Mr. Kenyon yesterday. He has a book just +coming out.<a name="FNanchor_35_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_35_35"><sup>[35]</sup></a> I should like you to read it. If you would, +you would thank me for saying so.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyon</i><a name="FNanchor_36_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_36_36"><sup>[36]</sup></a><br /> +[1838.]<br /> + +<p>Thank you, dearest Mr. Kenyon; and I should (and +<i>shall</i>) thank Miss Thomson too for caring to spend a +thought on me after all the Parisian glories and rationalities +which I sympathise with by many degrees nearer than you +seem to do. We, in this England here, are just social +barbarians, to my mind—that is, we know how to read and +write and think, and even talk on occasion; but we carry +the old rings in our noses, and are proud of the flowers +pricked into our cuticles. By so much are they better than +we on the Continent, I always think. Life has a thinner +rind, and so a livelier sap. And <i>that</i> I can see in the books +and the traditions, and always understand people who like +living in France and Germany, and should like it myself, +I believe, on some accounts.</p> + +<p>Where did you get your Bacchanalian song? Witty, +certainly, but the recollection of the <i>scores</i> a little ghastly +for the occasion, perhaps. You have yourself sung into +silence, too, all possible songs of Bacchus, as the god and I +know.</p> + +<p>Here is a delightful letter from Miss Martineau. I cannot +be so selfish as to keep it to myself. The sense of natural +beauty and the <i>good</i> sense of the remarks on rural manners +are both exquisite of their kinds, and Wordsworth is Wordsworth +as she knows him. Have I said that Friday will find +me expecting the kind visit you promise? <i>That</i>, at least, +is what I meant to say with all these words.</p> + +<p>Ever affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyon</i><br /> +Wimpole Street: Sunday evening [1838?].<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Kenyon,—I am <i>so</i> sorry to hear of your +going, and I not able to say 'good-bye' to you, that—I +am <i>not</i> writing this note on that account.</p> + +<p>It is a begging note, and now I am wondering to myself +whether you will think me very childish or womanish, or +silly enough to be both together (I know your thoughts upon +certain parallel subjects), if I go on to do my begging fully. +I hear that you are going to Mr. Wordsworth's—to +Rydal Mount—and I want you to ask <i>for yourself</i>, and then +to send to me in a letter—by the post, I mean, two +cuttings out of the garden—of myrtle or geranium; I care +very little which, or what else. Only I say 'myrtle' because +it is less given to die and I say <i>two</i> to be sure of my +chances of saving one. Will you? You would please me +very much by doing it; and certainly not <i>dis</i> please me by +refusing to do it. Your broadest 'no' would not sound +half so strange to me as my 'little crooked thing' does to +you; but you see everybody in the world is fanciful about +something, and why not <i>E.B.B.</i>?</p> + +<p>Dear Mr. Kenyon, I have a book of yours—M. Rio's. +If you want it before you go, just write in two words, +'Send it,' or I shall infer from your silence that I may keep +it until you come back. No necessity for answering this +otherwise. Is it as bad as asking for autographs, or worse? +At any rate, believe me <i>in earnest</i> this time—besides +being, with every wish for your enjoyment of mountains and +lakes and 'cherry trees,'</p> + +<p>Ever affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +[May 1838.]<br /> + +<p>My dear friend,—I am rather better than otherwise +within the last few days, but fear that nothing will make me +essentially so except the invisible sun. I am, however, a little +better, and God's will is always done in mercy.</p> + +<p>As to the poems, do forgive me, dear Mr. Boyd; and +refrain from executing your cruel threat of suffering 'the +desire of reading them to pass away.'</p> + +<p>I have not one sheet of them; and papa—and, to say the +truth, I myself—would so very much prefer your reading the +preface first, that you must try to indulge us in our phantasy. +The book Mr. Bentley half promises to finish the printing +of this week. At any rate it is likely to be all done in the +next: and you may depend upon having a copy <i>as soon</i> as +I have power over one.</p> + +<p>With kind regards to Miss Holmes,</p> + +<p>Believe me, your affectionate friend,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street; Wednesday [May 1838].<br /> + +<p>Thank you for your inquiry, my dear friend. I had +begun to fancy that between Saunders and Otley and the +'Seraphim' I had fallen to the ground of your disfavour. But +I do trust to be able to send you a copy before next Sunday.</p> + +<p>I am thrown back a little just now by having caught a +very bad cold, which has of course affected my cough. The +worst seems, however, to be past, and Dr. Chambers told me +yesterday that he expected to see me in two days nearly as +well as before this casualty. And I have been, thank God, +pretty well lately; and although when the stethoscope was +applied three weeks ago, it did not speak very satisfactorily +of the state of the lungs, yet Dr. Chambers seems to be +hopeful still, and to talk of the wonders which the summer +sunshine (when it does come) may be the means of doing +for me. And people say that I look rather better than +worse, even now.</p> + +<p>Did you hear of an autograph of Shakespeare's being +sold lately for a very large sum (I <i>think</i> it was above a +hundred pounds) on the credit of its being the only genuine +autograph extant? Is yours quite safe? And are <i>you</i> so, +in your opinion of its veritableness?</p> + +<p>I have just finished a very long barbarous ballad for Miss +Mitford and the Finden's tableaux of this year. The title +is 'The Romaunt of the Page,'<a name="FNanchor_37_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_37_37"><sup>[37]</sup></a> and the subject not of my +own choosing.</p> + +<p>I believe that you will certainly have 'The Seraphim' this +week. Do macadamise the frown from your brow in order +to receive them.</p> + +<p>Give my love to Miss Holmes.</p> + +<p>Your affectionate friend,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +June 7, 1838 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Boyd,—Papa is scarcely inclined, nor am I +for myself, to send my book or books to the East Indies. +Let them alone, poor things, until they can walk about a +little! and then it will be time enough for them to 'learn +to <i>fly</i>.'</p> + +<p>I am so sorry that Emily Harding saw Arabel and went +away without this note, which I have been meaning to write +to you for several days, and have been so absorbed and +drawn away (all except my thoughts) by other things +necessary to be done, that I was forced to defer it. My +ballad,<a name="FNanchor_38_38"></a><a href="#Footnote_38_38"><sup>[38]</sup></a> containing a ladye dressed up like a page and +galloping off to Palestine in a manner that would scandalise +you, went to Miss Mitford this morning. But I augur from +its length that she will not be able to receive it into Finden.</p> + +<p>Arabel has told me what Miss Harding told her of your +being in the act of going through my 'Seraphim' for the +second time. For the feeling of interest in me which +brought this labour upon you, I thank you, my dear friend. +What your opinion <i>is</i>, and <i>will</i> be, I am prepared to hear +with a good deal of awe. You will <i>certainly not approve of +the poem</i>.</p> + +<p>There now! You see I am prepared. Therefore do +not keep back one rough word, for friendship's sake, but be +as honest as—you could not help being, without this request.</p> + +<p>If I should live, I shall write (<i>I believe</i>) better poems +than 'The Seraphim;' which belief will help me to survive +the condemnation heavy upon your lips.</p> + +<p>Affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>'The Seraphim, and other Poems,' a duodecimo of 360 +pages, at last made its appearance at the end of May. At +the time of its publication, English poetry was experiencing +one of its periods of ebb between two flood tides of great +achievement. Shelley, Keats, Byron, Scott, Coleridge were +dead; Wordsworth had ceased to produce poetry of the +first order; no fresh inspiration was to be expected from +Landor, Southey, Rogers, Campbell, and such other writers +of the Georgian era as still were numbered with the living. +On the other hand, Tennyson, though already the most +remarkable among the younger poets, was still but exercising +himself in the studies in language and metrical music by +which his consummate art was developed; Browning had +published only 'Pauline,' 'Paracelsus,' and 'Strafford;' the +other poets who have given distinction to the Victorian age +had not begun to write. And between the veterans of the +one generation and the young recruits of the next there was +a singular want of writers of distinction. There was thus +every opportunity for a new poet when Miss Barrett entered +the lists with her first volume of acknowledged verse.</p> + +<p>Its reception, on the whole, does credit alike to its own +merits and to the critics who reviewed it. It does not +contain any of those poems which have proved the most +popular among its authoress's complete works, except +'Cowper's Grave;' but 'The Seraphim' was a poem which +deserved to attract attention, and among the minor poems +were 'The Poet's Vow,' 'Isobel's Child,' 'The Romaunt of +Margret,' 'My Doves,' and 'The Sea-mew.' The volume did +not suffice to win any wide reputation for Miss Barrett, and +no second edition was called for; on the other hand, it was +received with more than civility, with genuine cordiality, by +several among the reviewers, though they did not fail to note +its obvious defects. The 'Athenaeum'<a name="FNanchor_39_39"></a><a href="#Footnote_39_39"><sup>[39]</sup></a> began its review +with the following declaration:</p> + +<blockquote><p>This is an extraordinary volume—especially welcome as an +evidence of female genius and accomplishment—but it is hardly less +disappointing than extraordinary. Miss Barrett's genius is of a high +order; active, vigorous, and versatile, but unaccompanied by +discriminating taste. A thousand strange and beautiful views flit +across her mind, but she cannot look on them with steady gaze; her +descriptions, therefore, are often shadowy and indistinct, and her +language wanting in the simplicity of unaffected earnestness.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>The 'Examiner,'<a name="FNanchor_40_40"></a><a href="#Footnote_40_40"><sup>[40]</sup></a> after quoting at length from the +preface and 'The Seraphim,' continued:</p> + +<blockquote><p>Who will deny to the writer of such verses as these (and they are not +sparingly met with in the volume) the possession of many of the +highest qualities of the divine art? We regret to have some restriction +to add to an admission we make so gladly. Miss Barrett is indeed a +genuine poetess, of no common order; yet is she in danger of being +spoiled by over-ambition; and of realising no greater or more final +reputation than a hectical one, like Crashaw's. She has fancy, feeling, +imagination, expression; but for want of some just equipoise or other, +between the material and spiritual, she aims at flights which have done +no good to the strongest, and therefore falls infinitely short, except in +such detached passages as we have extracted above, of what a proper +exercise of her genius would infallibly reach.... Very various, and +in the main beautiful and true, are the minor poems. But the entire +volume deserves more than ordinary attention.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>The 'Atlas,'<a name="FNanchor_41_41"></a><a href="#Footnote_41_41"><sup>[41]</sup></a> another paper whose literary judgments +were highly esteemed at that date, was somewhat colder, +and dwelt more on the faults of the volume, but added +nevertheless that 'there are occasional passages of great +beauty, and full of deep poetical feeling. In 'The Romaunt +of Margret' it detected the influence of Tennyson—a suggestion +which Miss Barrett repudiated rather warmly; and it +concluded with the declaration that the authoress 'possesses +a fine poetical temperament, and has given to the public, in +this volume, a work of considerable merit.'</p> + +<p>Such were the principal voices among the critical world +when Miss Barrett first ventured into its midst; and she +might well be satisfied with them. Two years later, the +'Quarterly Review'<a name="FNanchor_42_42"></a><a href="#Footnote_42_42"><sup>[42]</sup></a> included her name in a review of +'Modern English Poetesses,' along with Caroline Norton, +'V.,' and others whose names are even less remembered +to-day. But though the reviewer speaks of her genius and +learning in high terms of admiration, he cannot be said to +treat her sympathetically. He objects to the dogmatic +positiveness of her prefaces, and protests warmly against her +'reckless repetition of the name of God'—a charge which, +in another connection, will be found fully and fairly met in +one of her later letters. On points of technique he criticises +her frequent use of the perfect participle with accented final +syllable—'kissed,' 'bowed,' and the like—and her fondness +for the adverb 'very;' both of which mannerisms he charges +to the example of Tennyson. He condemns the 'Prometheus,' +though recognising it as 'a remarkable performance for a +young lady.' He criticises the subject of 'The Seraphim,' +'from which Milton would have shrunk;' but adds, 'We give +Miss Barrett, however, the full credit of a lofty purpose, and +admit, moreover, that several particular passages in her +poem are extremely fine; equally profound in thought and +striking in expression.' He sums up as follows:</p> + +<blockquote><p>In a word, we consider Miss Barrett to be a woman of undoubted +genius and most unusual learning; but that she has indulged her +inclination for themes of sublime mystery, not certainly without +displaying great power, yet at the expense of that clearness, truth, +and proportion, which are essential to beauty; and has most +unfortunately fallen into the trammels of a school or manner of +writing, which, of all that ever existed—Lycophron, Lucan, and +Gongora not forgotten—is most open to the charge of being <i>vitiis +imitabile exemplar</i>.</p></blockquote> + +<p>So much for the reception of 'The Seraphim' volume by +the outside world. The letters show how it appeared to the +authoress herself.</p> + +<p>The first of them deserves a word of special notice, +because it is likewise the first in these volumes addressed to +Miss Mary Russell Mitford, whose name holds a high and +honourable place in the roll of Miss Barrett's friends. Her +own account of the beginning of the friendship should be +quoted in any record of Mrs. Browning's life.</p> + +<blockquote><p>'My first acquaintance with Elizabeth Barrett commenced +about fifteen years ago.<a name="FNanchor_43_43"></a><a href="#Footnote_43_43"><sup>[43]</sup></a> She was certainly one of +the most interesting persons that I had ever seen. Everybody +who then saw her said the same; so that it is not +merely the impression of my partiality or my enthusiasm. +Of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower of dark curls +falling on either side of a most expressive face, large tender +eyes, richly fringed by dark eyelashes, a smile like a sunbeam, +and such a look of youthfulness that I had some difficulty +in persuading a friend, in whose carriage we went together +to Chiswick, that the translatress of the "Prometheus" of +Aeschylus, the authoress of the "Essay on Mind," was old +enough to be introduced into company, in technical language, +was 'out.' Through the kindness of another invaluable +friend,<a name="FNanchor_44_44"></a><a href="#Footnote_44_44"><sup>[44]</sup></a> to whom I owe many obligations, but none so great +as this, I saw much of her during my stay in town. We +met so constantly and so familiarly that, in spite of the +difference of age,<a name="FNanchor_45_45"></a><a href="#Footnote_45_45"><sup>[45]</sup></a> intimacy ripened into friendship, and +after my return into the country we corresponded freely and +frequently, her letters being just what letters ought to +be—her own talk put upon paper.'<a name="FNanchor_46_46"></a><a href="#Footnote_46_46"><sup>[46]</sup></a></p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Miss Barrett's letters show how warmly she returned this +feeling of friendship, which lasted until Miss Mitford's +death in 1855. Of the earlier letters many must have disappeared: +for it is evident from Miss Mitford's just quoted +words, and also from many references in her published +correspondence, that they were in constant communication +during these years of Miss Barrett's life in London. After +her marriage, however, the extant letters are far more +frequent, and will be found to fill a considerable place in the +later pages of this work.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: Thursday [June 1838].<br /> + +<p>We thank you gratefully, dearest Miss Mitford. Papa +and I and all of us thank you for your more than kindnesses. +The extracts were both gladdening and surprising—and the +one the more for being the other also. Oh! it was <i>so</i> +kind of you, in the midst of your multitude of occupations, +to make time (out of love) to send them to us!</p> + +<p>As to the ballad, dearest Miss Mitford, which you and +Mr. Kenyon are indulgent enough to like, remember that +he passed his criticism over it—before it went to you—and +so if you did not find as many obscurities as he did in it, +the reason is—<i>his</i> merit and not mine. But don't believe +him—no!—don't believe even Mr. Kenyon—whenever he +says that I am <i>perversely</i> obscure. Unfortunately obscure, +not perversely—that is quite a wrong word. And the last +time he used it to me (and then, I assure you, another word +still worse was with it) I begged him to confine them for +the future to his jesting moods. Because, <i>indeed</i>, I am not +in the very least degree perverse in this fault of mine, which +is my destiny rather than my choice, and comes upon me, +I think, just where I would eschew it most. So little has +perversity to do with its occurrence, that my fear of it makes +me sometimes feel quite nervous and thought-tied in +composition....</p> + +<p>I have not seen Mr. Kenyon since I wrote last. All +last week I was not permitted to get out of bed, and was +haunted with leeches and blisters. And in the course of it, +Lady Dacre was so kind as to call here, and to leave a +note instead of the personal greeting which I was not able +to receive. The honor she did me a year ago, in sending +me her book, encouraged me to offer her my poems. I +hesitated about doing so at first, lest it should appear as if +my vanity were dreaming of a <i>return</i>; but Mr. Kenyon's +opinion turned the balance. I was very sorry not to have +seen Lady Dacre and have written a reply to her note expressive +of this regret. But, after all, this inaudible voice +(except in its cough) could have scarcely made her understand +that I was obliged by her visit, had I been able to +receive it.</p> + +<p>Dr. Chambers has freed me again into the drawing-room, +and I am much better or he would not have done so. +There is not, however, much strength or much health, nor +any near prospect of regaining either. It is well that, in +proportion to our feebleness, we may feel our dependence +upon God.</p> + +<p>I feel as if I had not said half, and they have come to ask +me if I have not said <i>all</i>! My beloved friend, may you be +happy in all ways!</p> + +<p>Do write whenever you wish to talk and have no one to +talk to nearer you than I am! <i>Indeed</i>, I did not forget Dr. +Mitford when I wrote those words, although they look +like it.</p> + +<p>Your gratefully affectionate<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: Wednesday morning [June 1838].<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—Do not think me depraved in ingratitude +for not sooner thanking you for the pleasure, +made so much greater by the surprise, which your note of +judgment gave me. The truth is that I have been very +unwell, and delayed answering it immediately until the +painful physical feeling went away to make room for the +pleasurable moral one—and this I fancied it would do every +hour, so that I might be able to tell you at ease all that was +in my thoughts. The fancy was a vain one. The pain +grew worse and worse, and Dr. Chambers has been here +for two successive days shaking his head as awfully as if it +bore all Jupiter's ambrosial curls; and is to be here again +to-day, but with, I trust, a less grave countenance, inasmuch +as the leeches last night did their duty, and I feel much +better—God be thanked for the relief. But I am not yet +as well as before this attack, and am still confined to my +bed—and so you must rather imagine than read what I +thought and felt in reading your wonderful note. Of course +it pleased me very much, very very much—and, I dare say, +would have made me vain by this time, if it had not been +for the opportune pain and the sight of Dr. Chambers's +face.</p> + +<p>I sent a copy of my book to Nelly Bordman <i>before</i> I read +your suggestion. I knew that her kind feeling for me would +interest her in the sight of it.</p> + +<p>Thank you once more, dear Mr. Boyd! May all my +critics be gentle after the pattern of your gentleness!</p> + +<p>Believe me, affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: June 17 [1838].<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—I send you a number of the 'Atlas' +which you may keep. It is a favorable criticism, certainly—but +I confess this of my vanity, that it has not altogether +pleased me. You see what it is to be spoilt.</p> + +<p>As to the 'Athenaeum,' although I am <i>not</i> conscious of +the quaintness and mannerism laid to my charge, and am +very sure that I have always written too naturally (that is, +too much from the impulse of thought and feeling) to have +studied '<i>attitudes</i>,' yet the critic was quite right in stating +his opinion, and so am I in being grateful to him for the +liberal praise he has otherwise given me. Upon the whole, +I like his review better than even the 'Examiner,' notwithstanding +my being perfectly satisfied with <i>that</i>.</p> + +<p>Thank you for the question about my health. I am +very tolerably well—for <i>me</i>: and am said to look better. +At the same time I am aware of being always on the verge +of an increase of illness—I mean, in a very excitable state—with +a pulse that flies off at a word and is only to be +caught by digitalis. But I am better—for the present—while +the sun shines.</p> + +<p>Thank you besides for your criticisms, which I shall +hold in memory, and use whenever I am not particularly +<i>obstinate</i>, in all my SUCCEEDING EDITIONS!</p> + +<p>You will smile at that, and so do <i>I.</i></p> + +<p>Arabel is walking in the Zoological Gardens with the +Cliffes—but I think you will see her before long.</p> + +<p>Your affectionate friend,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Don't let me forget to mention the Essays<a name="FNanchor_47_47"></a><a href="#Footnote_47_47"><sup>[47]</sup></a>. You shall +have yours—and Miss Bordman hers—and the delay has +not arisen from either forgetfulness or indifference on my +part—although I never deny that I don't like giving the +Essay to anybody because I don't like it. Now that sounds +just like 'a woman's reason,' but it isn't, albeit so reasonable! +I meant to say 'because I don't like the ESSAY.'</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: Thursday, June 21 [1838].<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—Notwithstanding this silence so ungrateful +in appearance, I thank you at last, and very sincerely, +for your kind letter. It made me laugh, and amused +me—and gratified me besides. Certainly your 'quality of +mercy is not strained.'</p> + +<p>My reason for not writing more immediately is that +Arabel has meant, day after day, to go to you, and has had +a separate disappointment for every day. She says now, +'<i>Indeed</i>, I hope to see Mr. Boyd to-morrow.' But <i>I</i> say +that I will not keep this answer of mine to run the risk of +another day's contingencies, and that <i>it</i> shall go, whether +<i>she</i> does or not.</p> + +<p>I am better a great deal than I was last week, and have +been allowed by Dr. Chambers to come downstairs again, +and occupy my old place on the sofa. My health remains, +however, in what I cannot help considering myself, and in +what, I <i>believe</i>, Dr. Chambers considers, a very precarious +state, and my weakness increases, of course, under the +remedies which successive attacks render necessary. Dr. +Chambers deserves my confidence—and besides the skill +with which he has met the different modifications of the +complaint, I am grateful to him for a feeling and a +sympathy which are certainly rare in such of his profession +as have their attention diverted, as his must be, by an immense +practice, to fifty objects in a day. But, notwithstanding +all, one breath of the east wind undoes whatever +he labours to do. It is well to look up and remember that in +the eternal reality these second causes are no causes at all.</p> + +<p>Don't leave this note about for Arabel to see. I am +anxious not to alarm her, or any one of my family: and it +may please God to make me as well and strong again as ever. +And, indeed, I am twice as well this week as I was last.</p> + +<p>Your affectionate friend, dear Mr. Boyd,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>I have seen an extract from a private letter of Mr. +Chorley, editor of the 'Athenaeum,'<a name="FNanchor_48_48"></a><a href="#Footnote_48_48"><sup>[48]</sup></a> which speaks <i>huge</i> +praises of my poems. If he were to say a tithe of them in +print, it would be nine times above my expectation!</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +[June 1838.]<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—I begged your servant to wait—how +long ago I am afraid to think—but certainly I must not +make this note very long. I did intend to write to you +to-day in any case. Since Saturday I have had my thanks +ready at the end of my fingers waiting to slide along to the +nib of my pen. Thank you for all your kindness and +criticism, which is kindness too—thank you at last. +Would that I deserved the praises as well as I do most of +the findings-fault—and there is no time now to say more of +<i>them</i>. Yet I believe I have something to say, and will find +a time to say it in.</p> + + +<p>Dr. Chambers has just been here, and does not think +me quite as well as usual. The truth is that I was rather +excited and tired yesterday by rather too much talking and +hearing talking, and suffer for it to-day in my <i>pulse</i>. But +I am better on the whole.</p> + +<p>Mr. Cross,<a name="FNanchor_49_49"></a><a href="#Footnote_49_49"><sup>[49]</sup></a> the great lion, the insect-making lion, came +yesterday with Mr. Kenyon, and afterwards Lady Dacre. +She is kind and gentle in her manner. She told me that +she had 'placed my book in the hands of Mr. Bobus Smith, +the brother of Sidney Smith, and the best judge in England,' +and that it was to be returned to her on Tuesday. If I +<i>should</i> hear the 'judgment,' I will tell you, whether you care +to hear it or not. There is no other review, as far as I am +aware.</p> + +<p>Give my love to Miss Bordman. When is she coming +to see me?</p> + +<p>The thunder did not do me any harm.</p> + +<p>Your affectionate friend, in great haste, although your +servant is not likely to think so, E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +[June 1838.]<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—You must let me <i>feel</i> my thanks to +you, even when I do not <i>say</i> them. I have put up your +various notes together, and perhaps they may do me as +much good hereafter, as they have already, for the most +part, given me pleasure.</p> + +<p>The 'burden pure <i>have</i> been' certainly was a misprint, +as certainly 'nor man nor nature satisfy'<a name="FNanchor_50_50"></a><a href="#Footnote_50_50"><sup>[50]</sup></a> is ungrammatical. +But I am <i>not</i> so sure about the passage in Isobel:</p> + +<p>I am not used to tears at nights +Instead of slumber—nor to prayer.</p> + +<p>Now I think that the passage may imply a repetition of the +words with which it begins, after 'nor'—thus—'nor <i>am I used</i> +to prayer,' &c. Either you or I may be right about it, and +either 'or' or 'nor' may be grammatical. At least, so I pray.<a name="FNanchor_51_51"></a><a href="#Footnote_51_51"><sup>[51]</sup></a></p> + +<p>You did not answer one question. Do you consider +that '<i>apolyptic</i>' stands without excuse?<a name="FNanchor_52_52"></a><a href="#Footnote_52_52"><sup>[52]</sup></a></p> + +<p>I never read Greek to any person except yourself and +Mr. MacSwiney, my brother's tutor. To him I read longer +than a few weeks, but then it was rather guessing and +stammering and tottering through parts of Homer and +extracts from Xenophon than reading. <i>You</i> would not have +called it reading if you had heard it.</p> + +<p>I studied hard by myself afterwards, and the kindness +with which afterwards still you assisted me, if yourself +remembers gladly <i>I</i> remember <i>gratefully</i> and gladly.</p> + +<p>I have just been told that your servant was desired by +you <i>not to wait a minute</i>.</p> + +<p>The wind is unfavorable for the sea. I do not think +there is the least probability of my going before the end of +next week, if then. You shall hear.</p> + +<p>Affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>I am tolerably well. I have been forced to take +digitalis again, which makes me feel weak; but still I am +better, I think.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>In the course of this year the failure in Miss Barrett's +health had become so great that her doctor advised removal +to a warmer climate for the winter. Torquay was the place +selected, and thither she went in the autumn, accompanied +by her brother Edward, her favourite companion from childhood. +Other members of the family, including Mr. Barrett, +joined them from time to time. At Torquay she was able +to live, but no more, and it was found necessary for her to +stay during the summers as well as the winters of the next +three years. Letters from this period are scarce, though it is +clear from Miss Mitford's correspondence that a continuous +interchange of letters was kept up between the two friends, +and her acquaintanceship with Horne was now ripening +into a close literary intimacy. A story relating to Bishop +Phillpotts of Exeter, the hero of so many racy anecdotes, +is contained in a letter of Miss Barrett's which must have +been written about Christmas of either 1838 or 1839:—</p> + +<p>'He [the bishop] was, however, at church on Christmas +Day, and upon Mr. Elliot's being mercifully inclined to +omit the Athanasian Creed, prompted him most episcopally +from the pew with a "whereas;" and further on in the +Creed, when the benign reader substituted the word <i>condemnation</i> +for the terrible one—"Damnation!" exclaimed the +bishop. The effect must have been rather startling.'</p> + +<p>A slight acquaintance with the words of the Athanasian +Creed will suggest that the story had suffered in accuracy +before it reached Miss Barrett, who, of course, was unable +to attend church, and whose own ignorance on the subject +may be accounted for by remembering that she had been +brought up as a Nonconformist. With a little correction, +however, the story may be added to the many others on +record with respect to 'Henry of Exeter.'</p> + +<p>The following letter is shown, by the similarity of its +contents to the one which succeeds it, to belong to November +1839, when Miss Barrett was entering on her second winter +in Torquay.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Beacon Terrace, Torquay: November 24 [1839].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—Henrietta <i>shall not</i> write to-day, +whatever she may wish to do. I felt, in reading your +unreproaching letter to her, as self-reproachful as anybody +could with a great deal of innocence (in the way of the +world) to fall back upon. I felt sorry, very sorry, not to +have written something to you something sooner, which was +a possible thing—although, since the day of my receiving +your welcome letter, I have written scarcely at all, nor that +little without much exertion. Had it been with me as +usual, be sure that you should not have had any silence to +complain of. Henrietta knew I wished to write, and felt, I +suppose, unwilling to take my place when my filling it +myself before long appeared possible. A long story—and +not as entertaining as Mother Hubbard. But I would rather +tire you than leave you under any wrong impression, where +my regard and thankfulness to you, dearest Mrs. Martin, +are concerned.</p> + +<p>To reply to your kind anxiety about me, I may call +myself decidedly better than I have been. Since October I +I have not been out of bed—except just for an hour a day, +when I am lifted to the sofa with the bare permission of my +physician—who tells me that it is so much easier to make +me worse than better, that he dares not permit anything like +exposure or further exertion. I like him (Dr. Scully) very +much, and although he evidently thinks my case in the +highest degree precarious, yet knowing how much I bore +last winter and understanding from him that the worst +<i>tubercular</i> symptoms have not actually appeared, I am +willing to think it may be God's will to keep me here still +longer. I would willingly stay, if it were only for the sake +of that tender affection of my beloved family which it so +deeply affects me to consider. Dearest papa is with us +now—to my great comfort and joy: and looking very +well!—and astonishing everybody with his eternal youthfulness! +Bro and Henrietta and Arabel besides, I can count as +companions—and then there is dear Bummy! We are +fixed at Torquay for the winter—that is, until the end of +May: and after that, if I have any will or power and am +alive to exercise either, I do trust and hope to go away. +The death of my kind friend Dr. Bury was, as you suppose, +a great grief and shock to me. How could it be otherwise, +after his daily kindness to me for a year? And then his +young wife and child—and the rapidity (a three weeks' illness) +with which he was hurried away from the energies and toils +and honors of professional life to the stillness of <i>that</i> death!</p> + +<div class="blkquot"><p>'<i>God's Will</i>' is the only answer to the mystery of the +world's afflictions....</p></div> + +<p>Don't fancy me worse than I am—or that this bed-keeping +is the result of a gradual sinking. It is not so. A +feverish attack prostrated me on October 2—and such will +leave their effects—and Dr. Scully is so afraid of leading me +into danger by saying, 'You may get up and dress as usual' +that you should not be surprised if (in virtue of being the +senior Torquay physician and correspondingly prudent) he +left me in this durance vile for a great part of the winter. I +am decidedly better than I was a month ago, really and +truly.</p> + +<p>May God bless you, dearest Mrs. Martin! My best +and kindest regards to Mr. Martin. Henrietta desires me to +promise for her a letter to Colwall soon; but I think that +one from Colwall should come first. May God bless you! +Bro's fancy just now is painting in water colours and he +performs many sketches. Do you ever in your dreams of +universal benevolence dream of travelling into Devonshire?</p> + +Love your affectionate BA,<br /> + +<p>—found guilty of egotism and stupidity 'by this sign' and +at once!</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +1 Beacon Terrace, Torquay:<br /> +Wednesday, November 27, 1839.<br /> + +<p>If you can forgive me, my ever dear friend, for a silence +which has not been intended, there will be another reason +for being thankful to you, in addition to the many. To do +myself justice, one of my earliest impulses on seeing my +beloved Arabel, and recurring to the kindness with which +you desired that happiness for me long before I possessed +it, was to write and tell you how happy I felt. But she had +promised, she said, to write herself, and moreover she and +only she was to send you the ballad—in expectation of your +dread judgment upon which I delayed my own writing. It +came in the first letter we received in our new house, on the +first of last October. An hour after reading it, I was upon +my bed; was attacked by fever in the night, and from that +bed have never even been lifted since—to these last +days of November—except for one hour a day to the +sofa at two yards' distance. I am very much better now, +and have been so for some time; but my physician is so +persuaded, he says, that it is easier to do me harm than good, +that he will neither permit any present attempt at further +exertion, nor hint at the time when it may be advisable for +him to permit it. Under the circumstances it has of course +been more difficult than usual for me to write. Pray believe, +my dear and kind friend, in the face of all circumstances and +appearances, that I never forget you, nor am reluctant (oh, +how could that be?) to write to you; and that you shall often +have to pay 'a penny for my thoughts' under the new +Postage Act—if it be in God's wisdom and mercy to +spare me through the winter. Under the new act I shall +not mind writing ten words and then stopping. As it is, +they would scarcely be worth eleven pennies.</p> + +<p>Thank you again and again for your praise of the ballad, +which both delighted and <i>surprised</i> me ... as I had +scarcely hoped that you might like it at all. Think of Mr. +Tilt's never sending me a proof sheet. The consequences +are rather deplorable, and, if they had occurred to you, +might have suggested a deep melancholy for life. In my +case, <i>I</i>, who am, you know, hardened to sins of carelessness, +simply look <i>aghast</i> at the misprints and mispunctuations +coming in as a flood, and sweeping away meanings and +melodies together. The annual itself is more splendid than +usual, and its vignettes have illustrated my story—angels, +devils and all—most beautifully. Miss Mitford's tales (in +prose) have suffered besides by reason of Mr. Tilt—but are +attractive and graphic notwithstanding—and Mr. Horne has +supplied a dramatic poem of great power and beauty.</p> + +<p>How I rejoice with you in the glorious revelation (about +to be) of Gregory's second volume! The 'De Virginitate' +poem will, in its new purple and fine linen, be more +dazzling than ever.</p> + +<p>Do you know that George is barrister-at-law of the Inner +Temple—<i>is</i>? I have seen him gazetted.</p> + +<p>My dearest papa is with me now, making me very happy +of course. I have much reason to be happy—more to be +grateful—yet am more obedient to the former than to the +latter impulse. May the Giver of good give gratitude with +as full a hand! May He bless <i>you</i>—and bring us together +again, if no more in the flesh, yet in the spirit! +again, if no more in the flesh, yet in the spirit!</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate friend,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Do write—when you are able and <i>least</i> disinclined. +Do you approve of Prince Albert or not?<a name="FNanchor_53_53"></a><a href="#Footnote_53_53"><sup>[53]</sup></a></p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Torquay: May 29, 1840.<br /> + +<p>My ever dear Friend,—It was very pleasant to me to see +your seal upon a letter once more; and although the letter +itself left me with a mournful impression of your having +passed some time so much less happily than I would wish +and pray for you, yet there remains the pleasant thought to +me still that you have not altogether forgotten me. Do +receive the expression of my most affectionate sympathy +under this and every circumstance—and I fear that the shock +to your nerves and spirits could not be a light one, however +impressed you might be and must be with the surety and +verity of God's love working in all His will. Poor poor +Patience! Coming to be so happy with you, with that +joyous smile I thought so pretty! Do you not remember +my telling you so? Well—it is well and better for her; +happier for her, if God in Christ Jesus have received her, +than her hopes were of the holiday time with you. The +holiday is <i>for ever</i> now....</p> + +<p>I heard from Nelly Bordman only a few days before +receiving your letter, and so far from preparing me for all +this sadness and gloom, she pleased me with her account of +you whom she had lately seen—dwelling upon your +retrograde passage into youth, and the delight you were +taking in the presence and society of some still more youthful, +fair, and gay <i>monstrum amandum</i>, some prodigy of intellectual +accomplishment, some little Circe who never turned +anybodies into pigs. I learnt too from her for the first time +that you were settled at Hampstead! Whereabout at +Hampstead, and for how long? She didn't tell me <i>that</i>, +thinking of course that I knew something more about you +than I do. Yes indeed; you <i>do</i> treat me very shabbily. +I agree with you in thinking so. To think that so many +hills and woods should interpose between us—that I should +be lying here, fast bound by a spell, a sleeping beauty in a +forest, and that <i>you</i>, who used to be such a doughty knight, +should not take the trouble of cutting through even a hazel +tree with your good sword, to find out what had become of +me. Now do tell me, the hazel tree being down at last, +whether you mean to live at Hampstead, whether you have +taken a house there and have carried your books there, and +wear Hampstead grasshoppers in your bonnet (as they did +at Athens) to prove yourself of the soil.</p> + +<p>All this nonsense will make you think I am better, and +indeed I am pretty well just now—quite, however, confined +to the bed—except when lifted from it to the sofa baby-wise +while they make it; even then apt to faint. Bad symptoms +too do not leave me; and I am obliged to be blistered every +few days—but I am free from any attack just now, and am +a good deal less feverish than I am occasionally. There +has been a consultation between an Exeter physician and +my own, and they agree exactly, both hoping that with care +I shall pass the winter, and rally in the spring, both hoping +that I may be able to go about again with some comfort and +independence, although I never can be fit again for anything +like exertion....</p> + +<p>Do you know, did you ever hear anything of Mr. Horne +who wrote 'Cosmo de Medici,' and the 'Death of Marlowe,' +and is now desecrating his powers (I beg your pardon) by +writing the life of Napoleon? By the way, he is the author +of a dramatic sketch in the last Finden.</p> + +<p>He is in my mind one of the very first poets of the day, +and has written to me so kindly (offering, although I never +saw him in my life, to cater for me in literature, and send +me down anything likely to interest me in the periodicals), +that I cannot but think his amiability and genius do honor +to one another.</p> +<br /> + +<p>Do you remember Mr. Caldicott who used to preach in +the infant schoolroom at Sidmouth? He died here the +death of a saint, as he had lived a saintly life, about three +weeks ago. It affected me a good deal. But he was always +so associated in my thoughts more with heaven than earth, +that scarcely a transition seems to have passed upon his +locality. 'Present with the Lord' is true of him now; even +as 'having his conversation in heaven' was formerly. +There is little difference.</p> + +<p>May it be so with us all, with you and with me, my ever +and very dear friend! In the meantime do not forget me.</p> + +<p>I never can forget <i>you</i>.</p> + +<p>Your affectionate and grateful<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Arabel desires her love to be offered to you.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +1 Beacon Terrace, Torquay: July 8, 1840.<br /> + +<p>My ever dear Friend,—I must write to you, although it +is so very long, or at least seems so, since you wrote to me. +But you say to Arabel in speaking of me that I '<i>used</i> to +care for what is poetical;' therefore, perhaps you say to +yourself sometimes that I <i>used</i> to care for <i>you</i>! I am +anxious to vindicate my identity to you, in that respect +above all.</p> + +<p>It is a long, dreary time since I wrote to you. I admit +the pause on my own part, while I charge you with another. +But <i>your</i> silence has embraced more pleasantness and less +suffering to you than mine has to me, and I thank God for +a prosperity in which my unchangeable regard for you +causes me to share directly....</p> + +<p>I have not rallied this summer as soon and well as I +did last. I was very ill early in April at the time of our +becoming conscious to our great affliction—so ill as to +believe it utterly improbable, speaking humanly, that I +ever should be any better. I am, however, a very great +deal better, and gain strength by sensible degrees, however +slowly, and do hope for the best—'the best' meaning one +sight more of London. In the meantime I have not yet +been able to leave my bed.</p> + +<p>To prove to you that I who 'used to care' for poetry do +so still, and that I have not been absolutely idle lately, an +'Athenaeum' shall be sent to you containing a poem on +the subject of the removal of Napoleon's ashes.<a name="FNanchor_54_54"></a><a href="#Footnote_54_54"><sup>[54]</sup></a> It is a +fitter subject for you than for me. Napoleon is no idol of +<i>mine. I</i> never made a 'setting sun' of him. But my +physician suggested the subject as a noble one and then +there was something suggestive in the consideration that +the 'Bellerophon' lay on those very bay-waters opposite to +my bed.</p> + +<p>Another poem (which you won't like, I dare say) is +called 'The Lay of the Rose,'<a name="FNanchor_55_55"></a><a href="#Footnote_55_55"><sup>[55]</sup></a> and appeared lately in a +magazine. Arabel is going to write it out for you, she +desires me to tell you with her best love. Indeed, I have +written lately (as far as manuscript goes) a good deal, only +on all sorts of subjects and in as many shapes.</p> + +<p>Lazarus would make a fine poem, wouldn't he? I lie +here, weaving a great many schemes. I am seldom at a +loss for thread.</p> + +<p>Do write sometimes to me, and tell me if you do anything +besides hearing the clocks strike and bells ring. My +beloved papa is with me still. There are so many mercies +close around me (and his presence is far from the least), +that God's <i>Being</i> seems proved to me, <i>demonstrated</i> to me, +by His manifested love. May His blessing in the full +lovingness rest upon you always! Never fancy I can forget +or think of you coldly.</p> + +<p>Your affectionate and grateful<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>The above letter was written only three days before the +tragedy which utterly wrecked Elizabeth Barrett's life for a +time, and cast a deep shadow over it which never wholly +passed away—the death of her brother Edward through +drowning. On July 11, he and two friends had gone for a +sail in a small boat. They did not return when they were +expected, and presently a rumour came that a boat, answering +in appearance to theirs, had been seen to founder in +Babbicombe Bay; but it was not until three days later that +final confirmation of the disaster was obtained by the +discovery of the bodies. What this blow meant to the +bereaved sister cannot be told: the horror with which she +refers to it, even at a distance of many years, shows how +deeply it struck. It was the loss of the brother whom she +loved best of all; and she had the misery of thinking that +it was to attend on her that he had come to the place +where he met his death. Little wonder if Torquay was +thenceforward a memory from which she shrank, and if +even the sound of the sea became a horror to her.</p> + +<p>One natural consequence of this terrible sorrow is +a long break in her correspondence. It is not until +the beginning of 1841 that she seems to have resumed +the thread of her life and to have returned to +her literary occupations. Her health had inevitably +suffered under the shock, and in the autumn of 1840 +Miss Mitford speaks of not daring to expect more than +a few months of lingering life. But when things were +at the worst, she began unexpectedly to take a turn +for the better. Through the winter she slowly gathered +strength, and with strength the desire to escape from +Torquay, with its dreadful associations, and to return +to London. Meanwhile her correspondence with her +friends revived, and with Horne in particular she was +engaged during 1841 in an active interchange of views with +regard to two literary projects. Indeed, it was only the +return to work that enabled her to struggle against the +numbing effect of the calamity which had overwhelmed her. +Some time afterwards (in October 1843) she wrote to +Mrs. Martin: 'For my own part and experience—I do not +say it as a phrase or in exaggeration, but from very clear and +positive conviction—I do believe that I should be <i>mad</i> at +this moment, if I had not forced back—dammed out—the +current of rushing recollections by work, work, work.' +One of the projects in which she was concerned was +'Chaucer Modernised,' a scheme for reviving interest in the +father of English poetry, suggested in the first instance by +Wordsworth, but committed to the care of Horne, as editor, +for execution. According to the scheme as originally +planned, all the principal poets of the day were to be +invited to share the task of transmuting Chaucer into +modern language. Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, Horne, and +others actually executed some portions of the work; +Tennyson and Browning, it was hoped, would lend a hand +with some of the later parts. Horne invited Miss Barrett +to contribute, and, besides executing modernisations of +'Queen Annelida and False Arcite' and 'The Complaint of +Annelida,'<a name="FNanchor_56_56"></a><a href="#Footnote_56_56"><sup>[56]</sup></a> she also advised generally on the work of the +other writers during its progress through the press. The +other literary project was for a lyrical drama, to be written +in collaboration with Horne. It was to be called 'Psyché +Apocalypté,' and was to be a drama on the Greek model, +treating of the birth and self-realisation of the soul of man.</p> + +<p>The sketch of its contents, given in the correspondence +with Horne, will make the modern reader accept with +equanimity the fact that it never progressed beyond the +initial stage of drafting the plot. It is allegorical, +philosophical, fantastic, unreal—everything which was +calculated to bring out the worst characteristics of Miss +Barrett's style and to intensify her faults. Fortunately her +removal from Torquay to London interrupted the execution +of the scheme. It was never seriously taken up again, and, +though never explicitly abandoned, died a natural death +from inanition, somewhat to the relief of Miss Barrett, who +had come to recognise its impracticability.</p> + +<p>Apart from the correspondence with Horne, which has +been published elsewhere, very few letters are left from this +period; but those which here follow serve to bridge over the +interval until the departure from Torquay, which closes one +well-marked period in the life of the poetess.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +December 11, 1840.<br /> + +<p>My ever dearest Mrs. Martin,—I should have written to +you without this last proof of your remembrance—this +cape, which, warm and pretty as it is, I value so much more +as the work of your hands and gift of your affection towards +me. Thank you, dearest Mrs. Martin, and thank you too +for <i>all the rest</i>—for all your sympathy and love. And do +believe that although grief had so changed me from myself +and warped me from my old instincts, as to prevent my looking +forwards with pleasure to seeing you again, yet that full +amends are made in the looking back with a pleasure more +true because more tender than any old retrospections. Do +give my love to dear Mr. Martin, and say what I could not +have said even if I had seen him.</p> + +<p>Shall you really, dearest Mrs. Martin, come again? +Don't think we do not think of the hope you left us. +Because we do indeed.</p> + +<p>A note from papa has brought the comforting news that +my dear, dear Stormie is in England again, in London, and +looking perfectly well. It is a mercy which makes me very +thankful, and would make me joyful if anything could. +But the meanings of some words change as we live on. +Papa's note is hurried. It was a sixty-day passage, and that +is all he tells me. Yes—there is something besides about +Sette and Occy being either unknown or misknown, through +the fault of their growing. Papa is not near returning, I +think. He has so much to do and see, and so much cause +to be enlivened and renewed as to spirits, that I begged him +not to think about me and stay away as long as he pleased. +And the accounts of him and of all at home are satisfying, +I thank God....</p> + +<p>There is an east wind just now, which I feel. Nevertheless, +Dr. Scully has said, a few minutes since, that I am +as well as he could hope, considering the season.</p> + +<p>May God bless you ever!</p> + +<p>Your gratefully attached<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +March 29, 1841.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—Have you thought 'The +dream has come true'? I mean the dream of the flowers +which you pulled for me and I wouldn't look at, even? I +fear you must have thought that the dream about my ingratitude +has come true.</p> + +<p>And yet it has not. Dearest Mrs. Martin, it has <i>not</i>. +I have not forgotten you or remembered you less affectionately +through all the silence, or longed less for the +letters I did not ask for. But the truth is, my faculties +seem to hang heavily now, like flappers when the spring is +broken. <i>My</i> spring <i>is</i> broken, and a separate exertion +is necessary for the lifting up of each—and then it falls +down again. I never felt so before: there is no wonder +that I should feel so now. Nevertheless, I don't give up +much to the pernicious languor—the tendency to lie +down to sleep among the snows of a weary journey—I +don't give up much to it. Only I find it sometimes at the +root of certain negligences—for instance, of this toward + +<i>you</i>.</p> + +<p>Dearest Mrs. Martin, receive my sympathy, <i>our</i> sympathy, +in the anxiety you have lately felt so painfully, and in the +rejoicing for its happy issue. Do say when you write (I +take for granted, you see, that you will write) how Mrs. +B—— is now—besides the intelligence more nearly touching me, +of your own and Mr. Martin's health and spirits. May God +bless you both!</p> + +<p>Ah! but you did not come: I was disappointed!</p> + +<p>And Mrs. Hanford! Do you know, I tremble in my +reveries sometimes, lest you should think it, guess it to +be half unkind in me not to have made an exertion to see +Mrs. Hanford. It was not from want of interest in her—least +of all from want of love to <i>you</i>. But I have not +stirred from my bed yet. But, to be honest, that was +not the reason—I did not feel as if I <i>could</i>, without a +painful effort, which, on the other hand, could not, I was +conscious, result in the slightest shade of satisfaction to her, +receive and talk to her. Perhaps it is hard for you to <i>fancy</i> +even how I shrink away from the very thought of seeing a +human face—except those immediately belonging to me +in love or relationship—(yours <i>does</i>, you know)—and a +stranger's might be easier to look at than one long +known....</p> + +<p>For my own part, my dearest Mrs. Martin, my heart has +been lightened lately by kind, <i>honest</i> Dr. Scully (who would +never give an opinion just to please me), saying that I am +'quite right' to mean to go to London, and shall probably +be fit for the journey early in June. He says that I may +pass the winter there moreover, and with impunity—that +wherever I am it will probably be necessary for me to remain +shut up during the cold weather, and that under such +circumstances it is quite possible to warm a London room to +as safe a condition as a room <i>here</i>. So my heart is lightened +of the fear of opposition: and the only means of regaining +whatever portion of earthly happiness is not irremediably +lost to me by the Divine decree, I am free to use. In the +meantime, it really does seem to me that I make some progress +in health—if the word in my lips be not a mockery. +Oh, I fancy I shall be strengthened to get home!</p> + +<p>Your remarks on Chaucer pleased me very much. I am +glad you liked what I did—or tried to do—and as to the +criticisms, you were right—and they sha'n't be unattended +to if the opportunity of correction be given to me.</p> + +<p>Ever your affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +August 28, 1841.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I have fluctuated from one +shadow of uncertainty and anxiety to another, all the summer, +on the subject to which my last earthly wishes cling, and I +delayed writing to you to be able to say I am going to +London. I may say so now—as far as the human may say +'yes' or 'no' of their futurity. The carriage, a patent +carriage with a bed in it, and set upon some hundreds of +springs, is, I believe, on its road down to me, and immediately +upon its arrival we begin our journey. Whether we +shall ever complete it remains uncertain—<i>more</i> so than +other uncertainties. My physician appears a good deal +alarmed, calls it an undertaking full of hazard, and myself +the 'Empress Catherine' for insisting upon attempting it. +But I must. I go, as 'the doves to their windows,' to the +only earthly daylight I see here. I go to rescue myself from +the associations of this dreadful place. I go to restore to +my poor papa the companionships family. Enough +has been done and suffered for <i>me</i>. I thank God I am +going home at last.</p> + +<p>How kind it was in you, my very kind and ever very dear +friend, to ask me to visit you at Hampstead! I felt myself +smiling while I read that part of your letter, and laid it down +and suffered the vision to arise of your little room and your +great Gregory and your dear self scolding me softly as in the +happy olden times for not reading slow enough. Well—we +do not know what <i>may</i> happen! I <i>may</i> (even that is +probable) read to you again. But now—ah, my dear friend—if +you could imagine me such as I am!—you would not +think I could visit you! Yet I am wonderfully better this +summer; and if I can but reach home and bear the first +painful excitement, it will do me more good than anything—I +know it will! And if it does not, it will be <i>well</i> even +so.</p> + +<p>I shall tell them to send you the 'Athenaeum' of last +week, where I have a 'House of Clouds,'<a name="FNanchor_57_57"></a><a href="#Footnote_57_57"><sup>[57]</sup></a> which papa +likes so much that he would wish to live in it if it were not +for the damp. There is not a clock in one room—that's +another objection. How are your clocks? Do they go? +and do you like their voices as well as you used to do?</p> + +<p>I think Annie is not with you; but in case of her still +being so, do give her (and yourself too) Arabel's love and +mine. I wish I heard of you oftener. Is there nobody to +write? May God bless you!</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate friend,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +August 31, 1831 [<i>sic</i>].<br /> + +<p>Thank you, my ever dear friend, with almost my last +breath at Torquay, for your kindness about the Gregory, +besides the kind note itself. It is, however, too late. We +go, or mean at present to go, to-morrow; and the carriage +which is to waft us through the air upon a thousand springs +has actually arrived. You are not to think severely upon +Dr. Scully's candour with me as to the danger of the +journey. He <i>does</i> think it 'likely to do me harm;' therefore, +you know, he was justified by his medical responsibility in +laying before me all possible consequences. I have considered +them all, and dare them gladly and gratefully. +Papa's domestic comfort is broken up by the separation in +his family, and the associations of this place lie upon me, +struggle as I may, like the oppression of a perpetual night-mare. +It is an instinct of self-preservation which impels me +to escape—or to try to escape. And In God's mercy—though +God forbid that I should deny either His mercy or +His justice, if He should deny me—we may be together in +Wimpole Street in a few days. Nelly Bordman has kindly +written to me Mr. Jago's favourable opinion of the patent +carriages, and his conviction of my accomplishing the +journey without inconvenience.</p> + +<p>May God bless you, my dear dear friend! Give my love +to dearest Annie! Perhaps, if I am ever really in Wimpole +Street, <i>safe enough for Greek</i>, you will trust the poems to +me which you mention. I care as much for poetry as ever, +and could not more.</p> + +<p>Your affectionate and grateful<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<a name="CHAPTER_III"></a><h2>CHAPTER III</h2> +<h3>1841-1843</h3> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<p>In September 1841 the journey from Torquay was actually +achieved, and Miss Barrett returned to her father's house +in London, from which she was never to be absent for +more than a few hours at a time until the day, five years +later, when she finally left it to join her husband, Robert +Browning. Her life was that of an invalid, confined to +her room for the greater part of each year, and unable to +see any but a few intimate friends. Still, she regained some +sort of strength, especially during the warmth of the summer +months, and was able to throw herself with real interest into +literary work. In a life such as this there are few outward +events to record, and its story is best told in Miss Barrett's +own letters, which, for the most part, need little comment. +The letters of the end of 1841 and beginning of 1842 are +almost entirely written to Mr. Boyd, and the main subject +of them is the series of papers on the Greek Christian poets +and the English poets which, at the suggestion of Mr. Dilke, +then editor of the 'Athenaeum,' she contributed to that +periodical. Of the composition of original poetry we hear +less at this time.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: October 2, 1841.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I thank you for the letter and +books which crossed the threshold of this house before me, +and looked like your welcome to me home. I have read the +passages you wished me to read—I have read them <i>again</i>: +for I remember reading them under your star (or the +greater part of them) a long while ago. You, on the other +hand, may remember of <i>me</i>, that I never could concede to +you much admiration for your Gregory as a poet—not even +to his grand work 'De Virginitate.' He is one of those +writers, of whom there are instances in our own times, who +are only poetical in prose.</p> + +<p>The passage imitative of Chryses I cannot think much +of. Try to be forgiving. It is toasted dry between the two +fires of the Scriptures and Homer, and is as stiff as any dry +toast out of the simile. To be sincere, I like dry toast better.</p> + +<p>The Hymns and Prayers I very much prefer; and +although I remembered a good deal about them, it has +given me a pleasure you will approve of to go through them +in this edition. The one which I like best, which I like far +best, which I think worth all the rest ('De Virginitate' and +all put together), is the <i>second</i> upon page 292, beginning +'Soi charis.' It is very fine, I think, written out of the +heart and for the heart, warm with a natural heat, and not +toasted dry and brown and stiff at a fire by any means.</p> + +<p>Dear Mr. Boyd, I coveted Arabel's walk to you the +other day. I shall often covet my neighbour's walks, I +believe, although (and may God be praised for it!) I am +more happy—that is, nearing to the feeling of happiness +now—than a month since I could believe possible to a heart +so bruised and crushed as mine has [been] be at +home is a blessing and a relief beyond what these words +can say.</p> + +<p>But, dear Mr. Boyd, you said something in a note +to Arabel some little time ago, which I will ask of your +kindness to avoid saying again. I have been through the +whole summer very much better; and even if it were not so +I should dread being annoyed by more medical speculations. +Pray do not suggest any. I am not in a state to admit of +experiments, and my case is a very clear and simple one. I +have not <i>one symptom</i> like those of my old illness; and after +more than fifteen years' absolute suspension of them, their +recurrence is scarcely probable. My case is very clear: not +tubercular consumption, not what is called a 'decline,' but +an affection of the lungs which leans towards it. You know +a blood-vessel broke three years ago, and I never quite got +over it. Mr. Jago, not having seen me, could scarcely be +justified in a conjecture of the sort, when the opinions of +four able physicians, two of them particularly experienced in +diseases of the chest, and the other two the most eminent +of the faculty in the east and west of England, were decided +and contrary, while coincident with each other. Besides, you +see, I am becoming better—and I could not desire more than +that. Dear Mr. Boyd, do not write a word about it any +more, either to me or others. I am sure you would not +willingly disturb me. Nelly Bordman is good and dear, +but I can't let her prescribe for me anything except her own +affection.</p> + +<p>I hope Arabel expressed for me my thankful sense of +Mrs. Smith's kind intention. But, indeed, although I +would see <i>you</i>, dear Mr. Boyd, gladly, or an angel or a +fairy or any very particular friend, I am not fit either in body +or spirit for general society. I <i>can't</i> see people, and if I +could it would be very bad for me. Is Mrs. Smith writing? +Are you writing? Part of me is worn out; but the poetical +part—that is, the <i>love</i> of poetry—is growing in me as freshly +and strongly as if it were watered every day. Did anybody +ever love it and stop in the middle? I wonder if anybody +ever did?...</p> + +<p>Believe me your affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: December 29, 1841.<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—I should not have been half as idle +about transcribing these translations<a name="FNanchor_58_58"></a><a href="#Footnote_58_58"><sup>[58]</sup></a> if I had fancied you +could care so much to have them as Arabel tells me you +do. They are recommended to your mercy, O Greek +Daniel! The <i>last</i> sounds in my ears most like English +poetry; but I assure you I took the least pains with it. +The second is obscure as its original, if it do not (as it does +not) equal it otherwise. The first is yet more unequal to +the Greek. I praised that Greek poem above all of +Gregory's, for the reason that it has <i>unity and completeness</i>, +for which, to speak generally, you may search the streets +and squares and alleys of Nazianzum in vain. Tell me +what you think of my part.</p> + +<p>Ever affectionately yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Have you a Plotinus, and would you trust him to me in +that case? Oh no, you do not tempt me with your musical +clocks. My time goes to the best music when I read or +write; and whatever money I can spend upon my own +pleasures flows away in books.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><a name="FNanchor_59_59"></a><a href="#Footnote_59_59"><sup>[59]</sup></a><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: January 2, 1842.<br /> + +<p>Miss Barrett, inferring Mr. Westwood from the handwriting, +begs his acceptance of the unworthy little book<a name="FNanchor_60_60"></a><a href="#Footnote_60_60"><sup>[60]</sup></a> he +does her the honour of desiring to see.</p> + +<p>It is more unworthy than he could have expected when +he expressed that desire, having been written in very early +youth, when the mind was scarcely free in any measure +from trammels and Popes, and, what is worse, when +flippancy of language was too apt to accompany immaturity +of opinion. The miscellaneous verses are, still more than +the chief poem, 'childish things' in a strict literal sense, +and the whole volume is of little interest even to its writer +except for personal reasons—except for the traces of dear +affections, since rudely wounded, and of that <i>love</i> of poetry +which began with her sooner than so soon, and must last +as long as life does, without being subject to the changes of +life. Little more, therefore, can remain for such a volume +than to be humble and shrink from circulation. Yet +Mr. Westwood's kind words win it to his hands. Will he +receive at the same moment the expression of touched and +gratified feelings with which Miss Barrett read what he +wrote on the subject of her later volumes, still very +imperfect, although more mature and true to the <i>truth</i> +within? Indeed she is thankful for what he said so kindly +in his note to her.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: January 6, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—I have done your bidding and sent +the translations to the 'Athenaeum,' attaching to them an +infamous prefatory note which says all sorts of harm of +Gregory's poetry. You will be very angry with it and me.</p> + +<p>And you <i>may</i> be angry for another reason—that in the +midst of my true thankfulness for the emendations you +sent me, I ventured to reject one or two of them. You +are right, probably, and I wrong; but still, I thought within +myself with a womanly obstinacy not altogether peculiar +to me,—'If he and I were to talk together about them, +he would kindly give up the point to me—so that, now +we cannot talk together, <i>I might as well take it</i>.' Well, +you will see what I have done. Try not to be angry with +me. You shall have the 'Athenaeum' as soon as possible.</p> + +<p>My dear Mr. Boyd, you know how I disbelieved the +probability of these papers being accepted. You will comprehend +my surprise on receiving last night a very courteous: +note from the editor, which I would send to you if it were +legible to anybody except people used to learn reading +from the pyramids. He wishes me to contribute to the +'Athenaeum' some prose papers in the form of reviews—'the +review being a mere form, and the book a mere text.' He is +not very clear—but I fancy that a few translations of +<i>excerpta</i>, with a prose analysis and synthesis of the +original author's genius, might suit his purpose. Now suppose +I took up some of the early Christian Greek poets, and wrote +a few continuous papers <i>so</i>?<a name="FNanchor_61_61"></a><a href="#Footnote_61_61"><sup>[61]</sup></a> Give me your advice, my dear +friend! I think of Synesius, for one. Suppose you send me a list +of the names which occur to you! <i>Will</i> you advise me? Will +you write directly? Will you make allowance for my +teazing you? Will you lend me your little Synesius, and +Clarke's book? I mean the one commenced by Dr. +Clarke and continued by his son. Above all things, however, +I want the advice.</p> + +<p>Ever affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Wednesday, January 13, 1842 (postmark).<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—Thank you, thank you, for your kind +suggestion and advice altogether. I had just (when your +note arrived) finished two hymns of Synesius, one being +the seventh and the other the ninth. Oh! I do remember +that you performed upon the latter, and my modesty should +have certainly bid me 'avaunt' from it. Nevertheless, it is so +fine, so prominent in the first class of Synesius's beauties, +that I took courage and dismissed my scruples, and have +produced a version which I have not compared to yours at +all hitherto, but which probably is much rougher and <i>rather</i> +closer, winning in faith what it loses in elegance. 'Elegance' +isn't a word for me, you know, generally speaking. The +barbarians herd with me, 'by two and three.'</p> + +<p>I had a letter to-day from Mr. Dilke, who agrees to everything, +closes with the idea about 'Christian Greek poets' +(only begging me to keep away from theology), and +suggesting a subsequent reviewal of English poetical +literature, from Chaucer down to our times.<a name="FNanchor_62_62"></a><a href="#Footnote_62_62"><sup>[62]</sup></a> Well, but the +Greek poets. With all your kindness, I have scarcely +sufficient materials for a full and minute survey of them. I +have won a sight of the 'Poetae Christiani,' but the price is +ruinous—<i>fourteen guineas</i>, and then the work consists +almost entirely of Latin poets, deducting Gregory and +Nonnus, and John Damascenus, and a cento from Homer +by somebody or other. Turning the leaves rapidly, I do +not see much else; and you know I may get a separate +copy of John Dam., and have access to the rest. Try +to turn in your head what I should do. Greg. Nyssen +did not write poems, did he? Have I a chance of +seeing your copy of Mr. Clarke's book? It would be +useful in the matters of chronology.</p> + +<p>I humbly beg your pardon, and Gregory's, for the +insolence of my note. It was as brief as it could be, and +did not admit of any extended reference and admiration +to his qualities as an orator. But whoever read it to you +should have explained that when I wrote 'He was an +orator,' the word <i>orator</i> was marked emphatically, so as to +appear printed in capital letters of emphasis. Do not say +'you <i>chose</i>,' 'you <i>chose</i>.' I didn't and don't choose to be +obstinate, indeed; but I can't see the sense of that 'heavenly +soul.'</p> + +<p>Ever your grateful and affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>I shall have room for praising Gregory in these +papers.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +February 4, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My dear Friend,—You must be thinking, if you are not +a St. Boyd for good temper, that among the Gregorys and +Synesiuses I have forgotten everything about you. No; +indeed it has not been so. I have never <i>stopped</i> being +grateful to you for your kind notes, and the two last pieces +of Gregory, although I did not say an overt 'Thank you;' +but I have been very very busy besides, and thus I answered +to myself for your being kind enough to pardon a silence +which was compelled rather than voluntary.</p> + +<p>Do you ever observe that as vexations don't come alone, +occupations don't, and that, if you happen to be engaged +upon one particular thing, it is the signal for your being +waylaid by bundles of letters desiring immediate answers, +and proof sheets or manuscript works whose writers request +your opinion while their 'printer waits'? The old saints +are not responsible for all the filling up of my time. I have +been <i>busy upon busy</i>.</p> + +<p>The first part of my story about the Greek poets went +to the 'Athenaeum' some days ago, but, although graciously +received by the editor, it won't appear this week, or I should +have had a proof sheet (which was promised to me) before +now. I must contrive to include all I have to say on the +subject in <i>three parts</i>. They will admit, they tell me, a +fourth <i>if I please</i>, but evidently they would prefer as much +brevity as I could vouchsafe. Only two poets are in the +first notice, and <i>twenty</i> remain—and neither of the two is +Gregory.</p> + +<p>Will you let me see that volume of Gregory which contains +the 'Christus Patiens'? Send it by any boy on the +heath, and I will remunerate him for the walk and the +burden, and thank you besides. Oh, don't be afraid! I +am not going to charge it upon Gregory, but on the younger +Apollinaris, whose claim is stronger, and I rather wish to +refresh my recollection of the height and breadth of that +tragic misdemeanour.</p> + +<p>It is quite true that I never have suffered much pain, +and equally so that I continue most decidedly better, +notwithstanding the winter. I feel, too—I do hope not +ungratefully—the blessing granted to me in the possibility +of literary occupation,—which is at once occupation and +distraction. Carlyle (not the infidel, but the philosopher) +calls literature a 'fireproof pleasure.' How truly! How +deeply I have felt that truth!</p> + +<p>May God bless you, dear Mr. Boyd. I don't despair of +looking in your face one day yet before my last.</p> + +<p>Ever your affectionate and obliged<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>Arabel's love.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +March 2, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My ever very dear Friend,—Do receive the assurance +that whether I leave out the right word or put in the wrong +one, you never can be other to me than just <i>that</i> while I +live, and why not after I have ceased to live? And now—what +have I done in the meantime, to be called 'Miss +Barrett'? 'I pause for a reply.'</p> + +<p>Of course it gives me very great pleasure to hear you +speak so kindly of my first paper. Some <i>bona avis</i> as +good as a nightingale must have shaken its wings over me +as I began it; and if it will but sit on the same spray +while I go on towards the end, I shall rejoice exactly four-fold. +The third paper went to Mr. Dilke to-day, and I was +so fidgety about getting it away (and it seemed to cling to +my writing case with both its hands), that I would not do +any writing, even as little as this note, until it was quite +gone out of sight. You know it is possible that he, the +editor, may not please to have the <i>fourth</i> paper; but even +in that case, it is better for the 'Remarks' to remain fragmentary, +than be compressed till they are as dry as a <i>hortus +siccus</i> of poets.</p> + +<p>Certainly you do and must praise my number one too +much. Number one (that's myself) thinks so. I do really; +and the supererogatory virtue of kindness may be acknowledged +out of the pale of the Romish Church.</p> + +<p>In regard to Gregory and Synesius, you will see presently +that I have not wronged them altogether.</p> + +<p>As you have ordered the 'Athenaeums,' I will not send +one to-morrow so as to repeat my ill fortune of being too +late. But tell me if you would like to have any from me, +and how many.</p> + +<p>It was very kind in you to pat Flush's<a name="FNanchor_63_63"></a><a href="#Footnote_63_63"><sup>[63]</sup></a> head in defiance +of danger and from pure regard for me. I kissed his head +where you had patted it; which association of approximations +I consider as an imitation of shaking hands with you +and as the next best thing to it. You understand—don't +you?—that Flush is my constant companion, my friend, my +amusement, lying with his head on one page of my folios +while I read the other. (Not <i>your</i> folios—I respect <i>your</i> +books, be sure.) Oh, I dare say, if the truth were known, +Flush understands Greek excellently well.</p> + +<p>I hope you are right in thinking that we shall meet +again. Once I wished <i>not</i> to live, but the faculty of life +seems to have sprung up in me again, from under the +crushing foot of heavy grief.</p> + +<p>Be it all as God wills.</p> + +<p>Believe me, your ever affectionate</p> + +<p>E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Saturday night, March 5, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I am quite angry with myself for +forgetting your questions when I answered your letter.</p> + +<p>Could you really imagine that I have not looked into the +Greek tragedians for years, with my true love for Greek +poetry? That is asking a question, you will say, and not +answering it. Well, then, I answer by a 'Yes' the one you +put to me. I had two volumes of Euripides with me in +Devonshire, and have read him as well as Aeschylus and +Sophocles—that is <i>from</i> them—both before and since I +went there. You know I have gone through every line of +the three tragedians long ago, in the way of regular, consecutive +reading.</p> + +<p>You know also that I had at different times read different +dialogues of Plato; but when three years ago, and a few +months previous to my leaving home, I became possessed +of a complete edition of his works, edited by Bekker, why +then I began with the first volume and went through the +whole of his writings, both those I knew and those I did not +know, one after another: and have at this time read, not +only all that is properly attributed to Plato, but even those +dialogues and epistles which pass falsely under his name—everything +except two books I think, or three, of the treatise +'De Legibus,' which I shall finish in a week or two, as soon +as I can take breath from Mr. Dilke.</p> + +<p>Now the questions are answered.</p> + +<p>Ever your affectionate and grateful friend,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Thursday, March 10, 1842 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I did not know until to-day +whether the paper would appear on Saturday or not; but as +I have now received the proof sheets, there can be no doubt +of it. I have been and <i>am</i> hurried and hunted almost into +a corner through the pressing for the fourth paper, and the +difficulty about books. You will forgive a very short note +to night.</p> + +<p>I have read of Aristotle only his Poetics, his Ethics, and +his work upon Rhetoric, but I mean to take him regularly +into both hands when I finish Plato's last page. Aristophanes +I took with me into Devonshire; and after all, I do not +know much more of <i>him</i> than three or four of his plays may +stand for. Next week, my very dear friend, I shall be at +your commands, and sit in spirit at your footstool, to hear +and answer anything you may care to ask me—but oh! what +have I done that you should talk to <i>me</i> about 'venturing,' +or 'liberty,' or anything of that kind?</p> + +<p>From your affectionate and grateful catechumen,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i>.<br /> +March 29, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I received your long letter and +receive your short one, and thank you for the pleasure of +both. Of course I am very <i>very</i> glad of your approval in +the matter of the papers, and your kindness could not have +wished to give me more satisfaction than it gave actually. +Mr. Kenyon tells me that Mr. Burgess<a name="FNanchor_64_64"></a><a href="#Footnote_64_64"><sup>[64]</sup></a> has been reading and +commending the papers, and has brought me from him a +newly discovered scene of the 'Bacchae' of Euripides, edited +by Mr. Burgess himself for the 'Gentlemen's Magazine,' and +of which he considers that the 'Planctus Mariae,' at least the +passage I extracted from it, is an imitation. Should you +care to see it? Say 'Yes,'—and I will send it to you.</p> + +<p>Do you think it was wrong to make <i>eternity</i> feminine? +I knew that the Greek word was not feminine; but imagined +that the English personification should be so. Am I wrong +in this? Will you consider the subject again?</p> + +<p>Ah, yes! That was a mistake of mine about putting +Constantine for Constantius. I wrote from memory, and +the memory betrayed me. But say nothing about it. +Nobody will find it out. I send you Silentiarius and some +poems of Pisida in the same volume. Even if you had not +asked for them, I should have asked you to look at some +passages which are fine in both. It appears to me that +Silentiarius writes difficult Greek, overlaying his description +with a multitude of architectural and other far fetched words! +Pisida is hard, too, occasionally, from other causes, particularly +in the 'Hexaëmeron,' which is not in the book I send +you but in another very gigantic one (as tall as the Irish +giants), which you may see if you please. I will send a +coach and six with it if you please.</p> + +<p>John Mauropus, of the Three Towns, I owe the knowledge +of to <i>you. You</i> lent me the book with his poems, you know. +He is a great favorite of mine in all ways. I very much +admire his poetry.</p> + +<p>Believe me, ever your affectionate and grateful<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Pray tell me what you think. I am sorry to observe +that the book I send you is marked very irregularly; that +is, marked in some places, unmarked in others, just as I +happened to be near or far from my pencil and inkstand. +Otherwise I should have liked to compare judgments with you.</p> + +<p>Keep the book as long as you please; it is my own.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: April 2, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—... As to your kind desire to +hear whatever in the way of favorable remark I have +gathered together for fruit of my papers, I put on a veil and +tell you that Mr. Kenyon thought it well done, although +'labour thrown away, from the unpopularity of the subject;' +that Miss Mitford was very much pleased, with the warmheartedness +common to her; that Mrs. Jamieson [<i>sic</i>] read +them 'with great pleasure' unconsciously of the author; +and that Mr. Home the poet and Mr. Browning the poet +were not behind in approbation. Mr. Browning is said to +be learned in Greek, especially in the dramatists; and of +Mr. Home I should suspect something similar. Miss +Mitford and Mrs. Jamieson, although very gifted and highly +cultivated women, are not Grecians, and therefore judge the +papers simply as English compositions.</p> + +<p>The single unfavorable opinion <i>is</i> Mr. Hunter's, who +thinks that the criticisms are not given with either sufficient +seriousness or diffidence, and that there is a painful sense of +effort through the whole. Many more persons may say so +whose voices I do not hear. I am glad that yours, my dear +indulgent friend, is not one of them.</p> + +<p>Believe me, your ever affectionate<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +May 17, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—Have you thought all unkindness +out of my silence? Yet the inference is not a true one, +however it may look in logic.</p> + +<p>You do not like Silentiarius <i>very much</i> (that is <i>my</i> +inference), since you have kept him so short a time. And I +quite agree with you that he is not a poet of the same +interest as Gregory Nazianzen, however he may appear to +me of more lofty cadence in his versification. My own +impression is that John of Euchaita is worth two of each of +them as a poet. His poems strike me as standing in the +very first class of the productions of the Christian centuries. +Synesius and John of Euchaita! I shall always think of +those two together—not by their similarity, but their dignity.</p> + +<p>I return you the books you lent me with true thanks, +and also those which Mrs. Smith, I believe, left in your +hands for me. I thank <i>you</i> for them, and <i>you</i> must be good +enough to thank <i>her</i>. They were of use, although of a rather +sublime indifference for poets generally....</p> + +<p>I shall send you soon the series of the Greek papers you +asked for, and also perhaps the first paper of a Survey of the +English Poets, under the pretence of a review of 'The Book +of the Poets,' a bookseller's selection published lately. I +begin from Langland, of Piers Plowman and the Malvern +Hills. The first paper went to the editor last week, and I +have heard nothing as to whether it will appear on Saturday +or not, and perhaps if it does you won't care to have it sent +to you. Tell me if you do or don't. I have suffered +unpleasantly in the heart lately from this tyrannous dynasty +of east winds, but have been well otherwise, and am better, +in <i>that</i>. Flushie means to bark the next time he sees you +in revenge for what you say of him.</p> + +<p>Good bye, dear Mr. Boyd; think of me as</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +June 3, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I disobeyed you in not simply +letting you know of the publication of my 'English Poets,' +because I did not know myself when the publication was to +take place, and I hope you will forgive the innocent crime +and accept the first number going to you with this note. I +warn you that there will be two numbers more at <i>least</i>. +Therefore do not prepare yourself for perhaps the impossible +magnanimity of reading them through.</p> + +<p>And now I am fit for rivalship with your clocks, papa +having given me an Aeolian harp for the purpose. Do you +know the music of an Aeolian harp, and that nothing below +the spherical harmonies is so sweet and soft and mournfully +wild? The amusing part of it is (after the poetical) that +Flushie is jealous and thinks it is alive, and takes it as very +hard that I should say 'beautiful' to anything except his +ears!</p> + +<p>Arabel talks of going to see you; but if you are sensible +to this intense and most overcoming heat, you will pardon +her staying away for the present.</p> + +<p>We have heard to-day that Annie proposes to publish +her Miscellany by subscription; and although I know it to +be the only way, compatible with publication at all, to avoid +a pecuniary loss, yet the custom is so entirely abandoned except +in the case of persons of a lower condition of life than +<i>your daughter</i>, that I am sorry to think of the observations +it may excite. The whole scheme has appeared to me from +the beginning <i>most foolish</i>, and if you knew what I know of +the state and fortune of our ephemeral literature, you would +use what influence you have with her to induce her to +condemn her 'contributions' to the adorning of a private +annual rather than the purpose in unhappy question. I +wish I dared to appeal through my true love for her to her +own good sense once more.</p> + +<p>My very dear friend's affectionate and grateful<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>If you <i>do</i> read any of the papers, let me know, I beseech +you, your full and free opinion of them.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +June 22, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I thank you gratefully for your +two notes, with their united kindness and candour—the latter +still rarer than the former, if less 'sweet upon the tongue.' +Sir William Alexander's tragedy <i>(that</i> is the right name, I +think, Sir William Alexander, Earl of Stirling) you will not +find mentioned among my dramatic notices, because I was +much pressed for room, and had to treat the whole subject +as briefly as possible, striking off, like the Roman, only the +heads of the flowers, and I did not, besides, receive your +injunction until my third paper on the dramatists was +finished and in the press. When you read it you will find +some notice of that tragedy by Marlowe, the first knowledge of +which I owe to you, my dear Mr. Boyd, as how much besides? +And then comes the fourth paper, and I tremble to anticipate +the possible—nay, the very probable—scolding I may +have from you, upon my various heresies as to Dryden and +Pope and Queen Anne's versificators. In the meantime +you have breathing time, for Mr. Dilke, although very +gracious and courteous to my offence of extending the two +papers he asked for <i>into four</i>,<a name="FNanchor_65_65"></a><a href="#Footnote_65_65"><sup>[65]</sup></a> yet could find no room in +the 'Athenaeum' last week for me, and only <i>hopes</i> for it this +week. And after this week comes the British Association +business, which always fills every column for a month, so +that a further delay is possible enough. 'It will increase,' +says Mr. Dilke, 'the zest of the reader,' whereas <i>I</i> say (at +least think) that it will help him quite to forget me. I explain +all this lest you should blame me for neglect to yourself in +not sending the papers. I am so pleased that you like at +least the second article. That is encouragement to me.</p> + +<p>Flushie did not seem to think the harp alive when it was +taken out of the window and laid close to him. He +examined it particularly, and is a philosophical dog. But I +am sure that at first and while it was playing he thought so.</p> + +<p>In the same way he can't bear me to look into a glass, +because he thinks there is a little brown dog inside every +looking glass, and he is jealous of its being so close to <i>me</i>. +He used to tremble and bark at it, but now he is <i>silently</i> +jealous, and contents himself with squeezing close, close to +me and kissing me expressively.</p> + +<p>My very dear friend's ever gratefully affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To John Kenyon</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: Sunday night [September 1842].<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Kenyon,—Having missed my pleasure +to-day by a coincidence worse for me than for you, I must, +tired as I am to-night, tell you—ready for to-morrow's +return of the books—what I have waited three whole +days hoping to tell you by word of mouth. But mind, +before I begin, I don't do so out of despair ever to +see you again, because I trust steadfastly to your kindness +to <i>come</i> again when <i>you</i> are not 'languid' and I am +alone as usual; only that I dare not keep back from you +any longer the following message of Miss Mitford. She +says: 'Won't he take us in his way to Torquay? or from +Torquay? Beg him to do so—and of all love, to tell us +<i>when</i>.' Afterwards, again: 'I think my father is better. +Tell Mr. Kenyon what I say, and stand my friend with him +and beg him to come.'</p> + +<p>Which I do in the most effectual way—in her own +words.</p> + +<p>She is much pleased by means of your introduction. +'Tell dear Mr. Kenyon how very very much I like Mrs. +Leslie. She seems all that is good and kind, and to add +great intelligence and agreeableness to these prime qualities.'</p> + +<p>Now I have done with being a messenger of the gods, +and verily my caduceus is trembling in my hand.</p> + +<p>O Mr. Kenyon! what have you done? You will know +the interpretation of the reproach, your conscience holding +the key of the cypher.</p> + +<p>In the meantime I ought to be thanking you for your +great kindness about this divine Tennyson.<a name="FNanchor_66_66"></a><a href="#Footnote_66_66"><sup>[66]</sup></a> Beautiful! +beautiful! After all, it is a noble thing to be a poet. +But notwithstanding the poetry of the novelties—and +you will observe that his two preceding volumes (only +one of which I had seen before, having inquired for the +other vainly) are included in these two—nothing appears +to me quite equal to 'Oenone,' and perhaps a few besides +of my ancient favorites. That is not said in disparagement +of the last, but in admiration of the first. There is, in +fact, more thought—more bare brave working of the +intellect—in the latter poems, even if we miss something +of the high ideality, and the music that goes with it, of the +older ones. Only I am always inclined to believe that +philosophic thinking, like music, is involved, however +occultly, in high ideality of any kind.</p> + +<p>You have not a key to the cypher of this at least, and I +am so tired that one word seems tumbling over another all +the way.</p> + +<p>Ever affectionately yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>You will let me keep your beautiful ballad and the gods<a name="FNanchor_67_67"></a><a href="#Footnote_67_67"><sup>[67]</sup></a> +a little longer.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +September 14, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I have made you wait a long +time for the 'North American Review,' because when your +request came it was no longer within my reach, and because +since then I have not been so well as usual from a sweep of +the wing of the prevailing epidemic. Now, however, I am +<i>better</i> than I was even before the attack, only wishing that it +were possible to hook-and-eye on another summer to the hem +of the garment of this last sunny one. At the end of such a +double summer, to measure things humanly, I might be able +to go to see you at Hampstead. Nevertheless, winters and +adversities are more fit for us than a constant sun.</p> + +<p>I suppose, dear Mr. Boyd, you want only to have this +review read to you, and not <i>written</i>. Because it isn't out of +laziness that I send the book to you; and Arabel would +copy whatever you please willingly, provided you wished it. +Keep the book as long as you please. I have put a paper +mark and a pencil mark at the page and paragraph where +I am taken up. It seems to me that the condemnation of +'The Seraphim' is not too hard. The poem wants <i>unity</i>.</p> + +<p>As to your 'words of fire' about Wordsworth, if I had +but a cataract at command I would try to quench them. +His powers should not be judged of by my extracts or by +anybody's extracts from his last-published volume.<a name="FNanchor_68_68"></a><a href="#Footnote_68_68"><sup>[68]</sup></a> Do you +remember his grand ode upon Childhood—worth, to my +apprehension, just twenty of Dryden's 'St. Cecilia's Day'—his +sonnet upon Westminster Bridge, his lyric on a lark, in +which the lark's music swells and exults, and the many +noble and glorious passages of his 'Excursion'? You +must not indeed blame me for estimating Wordsworth +at <i>his height</i>, and on the other side I readily confess to you +that he is occasionally, and not unfrequently, heavy and dull, +and that Coleridge had an intenser genius. Tell me if you +know anything of Tennyson. He has just published two +volumes of poetry, one of which is a republication, but +both full of inspiration.</p> + +<p>Ever my very dear friend's affectionate and grateful<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: October 22, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—Waiting first for you to write +to me, and then waiting that I might write to you cheerfully, +has ended by making so long a silence that I am almost +ashamed to break it. And perhaps, even if I were not +ashamed, you would be angry—perhaps you <i>are</i> angry, +and don't much care now whether or not you ever +hear from me again. Still I must write, and I must +moreover ask you to write to me again; and I must in +particular assure you that I have continued to love you +sincerely, notwithstanding all the silence which might seem +to say the contrary. What I should like best just now is to +have a letter speaking comfortable details of your being +comparatively well again; yet I hope on without it that you +really are so much better as to be next to quite well. It +was with great concern that I heard of the indisposition +which hung about you, dearest Mrs. Martin, so long—I +who had congratulated myself when I saw you last on the +promise of good health in your countenance. May God +bless you, and keep you better! And may you take care +of yourself, and remember how many love you in the world, +from dear Mr. Martin down to—E.B.B.</p> + +<p>Well, now I must look around me and consider what +there is to tell you. But I have been uneasy in various +ways, sometimes by reason and sometimes by fantasy; and +even now, although my dear old friend Dr. Scully is something +better, he lies, I fear, in a very precarious state, while +dearest Miss Mitford's letters from the deathbed of her +father make my heart ache as surely almost as the post +comes. There is nothing more various in character, +nothing which distinguishes one human being from another +more strikingly, than the expression of feeling, the manner +in which it influences the outward man. If I were in +her circumstances, I should sit paralysed—it would be +impossible to me to write or to cry. And she, who loves +and feels with the intensity of a nature warm in everything, +seems to turn to sympathy by the very instinct of grief, and +sits at the deathbed of her last relative, writing there, in +letter after letter, every symptom, physical or moral—even +to the very words of the raving of a delirium, and those, +heart-breaking words! I could not write such letters; but +I know she feels as deeply as any mourner in the world can. +And all this reminds me of what you once asked me about +the inscriptions in Lord Brougham's villa at Nice. There +are probably as many different dialects for the heart as for +the tongue, are there not?...</p> + +<p>And now you will kindly like to have a word said about +myself, and it need not be otherwise than a word to give +your kindness pleasure. The long splendid summer, +exhausting as the heat was to me sometimes, did me +essential good, and left me walking about the room and +equal to going downstairs (which I achieved four or +five times), and even to going out in the chair, without +suffering afterwards. And, best of all, the spitting of +blood (I must tell you), which more or less kept by me +continually, <i>stopped quite</i> some six weeks ago, and I +have thus more reasonable hopes of being really and +essentially better than I could have with such a symptom +loitering behind accidental improvements. Weak enough, +and with a sort of pulse which is not excellent, I certainly +remain; but still, if I escape any decided attack this winter—and +I am in garrison now—there are expectations of +further good for next summer, and I may recover some +moderate degree of health and strength again, and be able +to <i>do</i> good instead of receiving it only.</p> + +<p>I write under the eyes of Wordsworth. Not Wordsworth's +living eyes, although the actual living poet had the +infinite kindness to ask Mr. Kenyon twice last summer +when he was in London, if he might not come to see me. +Mr. Kenyon said 'No'—I couldn't have said 'No' to +Wordsworth, though I had never gone to sleep again +afterwards. But this Wordsworth who looks on me now is +Wordsworth in a picture. Mr. Haydon the artist, with the +utmost kindness, has sent me the portrait he was painting +of the great poet—an unfinished portrait—and I am to +keep it until he wants to finish it. Such a head! such +majesty! and the poet stands musing upon Helvellyn! +And all that—poet, Helvellyn, and all—is in my room!<a name="FNanchor_69_69"></a><a href="#Footnote_69_69"><sup>[69]</sup></a></p> + +<p>Give my kind love to Mr. Martin—<i>our</i> kind love, indeed, +to both of you—and believe me, my dearest Mrs. Martin,</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate BA.</p> + +<p>Is there any hope for us of you before the winter ends? +Do consider.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Monday, October 31, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I have put off from day to day +sending you these volumes, and in the meantime <i>I have +had a letter from the great poet</i>! Did Arabel tell you that my +sonnet on the picture was sent to Mr. Haydon, and that Mr. +Haydon sent it to Mr. Wordsworth? The result was that +Mr. Wordsworth wrote to me. King John's barons were never +better pleased with their Charta than I am with this letter.<a name="FNanchor_70_70"></a><a href="#Footnote_70_70"><sup>[70]</sup></a></p> +<br /> + +<p>But I won't tell you any more about it until you have +read the poems which I send you. Read first, to put you +into good humour, the sonnet written on Westminster +Bridge, vol. iii. page 78. Then take from the sixth volume, +page 152, the passage beginning 'Within the soul' down to +page 153 at 'despair,' and again at page 155 beginning with</p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I have seen</span><br /> +A curious child, &c.<br /> +</div> + +<p>down to page 157 to the end of the paragraph. If you admit +these passages to be fine poetry, I wish much that you would +justify me further by reading, out of the <i>second</i> volume, the +two poems called 'Laodamia' and 'Tintern Abbey' at page +172 and page 161. I will not ask you to read any more; but +I dare say you will rush on of your own account, in which +case there is a fine ode upon the 'Power of Sound' in the +same volume. Wordsworth is a philosophical and Christian +poet, with depths in his soul to which poor Byron could +never reach. Do be candid. Nay, I need not say so, +because you always are, as I am,</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +December 4, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—You will think me in a discontented +state of mind when I knit my brows like a 'sleeve of +care' over your kind praises. But the truth is, I <i>won't</i> be +praised for being liberal in Calvinism and love of Byron. +<i>I</i> liberal in commending Byron! Take out my heart and +try it! look at it and compare it with yours; and answer +and tell me if I do not love and admire Byron more warmly +than you yourself do. I suspect it indeed. Why, I am +always reproached for my love to Byron. Why, people say +to me, '<i>You</i>, who overpraise Byron!' Why, when I was +a little girl (and, whatever you may think, my tendency is +not to cast off my old loves!) I used to think seriously of +dressing up like a boy and running away to be Lord Byron's +page. And <i>I</i> to be praised now for being 'liberal' in +admitting the merit of his poetry! <i>I</i>!</p> + +<p>As for the Calvinism, I don't choose to be liberal there +either. I don't call myself a Calvinist. I hang suspended +between the two doctrines, and hide my eyes in God's love +from the sights which other people <i>say</i> they see. I believe +simply that the saved are saved by grace, and that they +shall hereafter know it fully; and that the lost are lost by +their choice and free will—by choosing to sin and die; and +I believe absolutely that the deepest damned of all the lost +will not dare to whisper to the nearest devil that reproach +of Martha: 'If the Lord had been near me, I had not +died.' But of the means of the working of God's grace, +and of the time of the formation of the Divine counsels, I +know nothing, guess nothing, and struggle to guess nothing; +and my persuasion is that when people talk of what was +ordained or approved by God before the foundations of the +world, their tendency is almost always towards a confusion +of His eternal nature with the human conditions of ours; +and to an oblivion of the fact that with <i>Him</i> there can be +no after nor before.</p> + +<p>At any rate, I do not find it good for myself to examine +any more the brickbats of controversy—there is more +than enough to think of in truths clearly revealed; more +than enough for the exercise of the intellect and affections +and adorations. I would rather not suffer myself to be +disturbed, and perhaps irritated, where it is not likely that +I should ever be informed. And although you tell me +that your system of investigation is different from some +others, answer me with your accustomed candour, and +admit, my very dear friend, that this argument does +not depend upon the construction of a Greek sentence or +the meaning of a Greek word. Let a certain word<a name="FNanchor_71_71"></a><a href="#Footnote_71_71"><sup>[71]</sup></a> be +'fore-know' or 'publicly <i>favor</i>,' room for a stormy +controversy yet remains. I went through the Romans with +you partially, and wholly by myself, by your desire, and +in reference to the controversy, long ago; and I could not +then, and cannot now, enter into that view of Taylor and +Adam Clarke, and yourself I believe, as to the <i>Jews and +Gentiles</i>. Neither could I conceive that a particular part of +the epistle represents an actual dialogue between a Jew and +Gentile, since the form of question and answer appears to +me there simply rhetorical. The Apostle Paul was learned in +rhetoric; and I think he described so, by a rhetorical and +vivacious form, that struggle between the flesh and the +spirit common to all Christians; the spirit being triumphant +through God in Christ Jesus. These are my impressions. +Yours are different. And since we should not probably +persuade each other, and since we are both of us fond of +and earnest in what we fancy to be the truth, why should +we cast away the thousand sympathies we rejoice in, +religious and otherwise, for the sake of a fruitless +contention? 'What!' you would say (by the time we had +quarrelled half an hour), 'can't you talk without being +excited?' Half an hour afterwards: 'Pray <i>do</i> lower your +voice—it goes through my head!' In another ten minutes: +'I could scarcely have believed you to be so obstinate.' +In another: 'Your prejudices are insurmountable, and your +reason most womanly—you are degenerated to the last degree.' +In another—why, <i>then</i> you would turn me and Flush +out of the room and so finish the controversy victoriously.</p> + +<p>Was I wrong too, dearest Mr. Boyd, in sending the +poems to the 'Athenaeum'? Well, I meant to be right. I +fancied that you would rather they were sent; and as your +<i>name</i> was not attached, there could be no harm in leaving +them to the editor's disposal. They are not inserted, as I +anticipated. The religious character was a sufficient +objection—their character of <i>prayer</i>. Mr. Dilke begged +me once, while I was writing for him, to write the name of God +and Jesus Christ as little as I could, because those names +did not accord with the secular character of the journal!</p> + +<p>Ever your affectionate and grateful<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Tell me how you like the sonnet; but you won't (I +prophesy) like it. Keep the 'Athenaeum.'</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +December 24, 1842.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I am afraid that you will infer +from my silence that you have affronted me into ill temper +by your parody upon my sonnet. Yet 'lucus a non lucendo' +were a truer derivation. I laughed and thanked you over +the parody, and put off writing to you until I had the headache, +which forced me to put it off again....</p> + +<p>May God bless you, my dear Mr. Boyd. Mr. Savage +Landor once said that anybody who could write a parody +deserved to be shot; but as he has written one himself +since saying so, he has probably changed his mind. Arabel +sends her love.</p> + +<p>Ever your affectionate and grateful<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +January 5, 1842 [1843].<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—My surprise was inexpressible at +your utterance of the name. What! Ossian superior as a +poet to Homer! Mr. Boyd saying so! Mr. Boyd treading +down the neck of Aeschylus while he praises Ossian! +The fact appears to me that anomalous thing among +believers—a miracle without an occasion.</p> + +<p>I confess I never, never should have guessed the name; +not though I had guessed to Doomsday. In the first place I +do not believe in Ossian, and having partially examined the +testimony (for I don't pretend to any exact learning about +it) I consider him as the poetical <i>lay figure</i> upon which Mr. +Macpherson dared to cast his personality. There is a sort +of phraseology, nay, an identity of occasional phrases, from +the antique—but that these so-called Ossianic poems were +ever discovered and translated as they stand in their present +form, I believe in no wise. As Dr. Johnson wrote to +Macpherson, so I would say, 'Mr. Macpherson, I thought +you an impostor, and think so still.'</p> + +<p>It is many years ago since I looked at Ossian, and I +never did much delight in him, as that fact proves. Since +your letter came I have taken him up again, and have just +finished 'Carthon.' There are beautiful passages in it, the +most beautiful beginning, I think, 'Desolate is the dwelling +of Moina,' and the next place being filled by that address to +the sun you magnify so with praise. But the charm of +these things is the <i>only</i> charm of all the poems. There is +a sound of wild vague music in a monotone—nothing is +articulate, nothing <i>individual</i>, nothing various. Take away +a few poetical phrases from these poems, and they are +colourless and bare. Compare them with the old burning +ballads, with a wild heart beating in each. How cold +they grow in the comparison! Compare them with Homer's +grand breathing personalities, with Aeschylus's—nay, but I +cannot bear upon my lips or finger the charge of the +blasphemy of such comparing, even for religion's sake....</p> + +<p>I had another letter from America a few days since, from +an American poet of Boston who is establishing a magazine, +and asked for contributions from my pen. The Americans +are as good-natured to me as if they took me for the high +Radical I am, you know.</p> + +<p>You won't be angry with me for my obliquity (as you +will consider it) about Ossian. You know I always talk +sincerely to you, and you have not made me afraid of telling +you the truth—that is, <i>my</i> truth, the truth of my belief and +opinions.</p> + +<p>I do not defend much in the 'Idiot Boy.' Wordsworth +is a great poet, but he does not always write equally.</p> + +<p>And that reminds me of a distinction you suggest +between Ossian and Homer. <i>I</i> fashion it in this way: +Homer sometimes nods, but Ossian <i>makes his readers nod</i>.</p> + +<p>Ever your affectionate<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Did I tell you that I had been reading through a manuscript +translation of the 'Gorgias' of Plato, by Mr. Hyman of +Oxford, who is a stepson of Mr. Haydon's the artist? It +is an excellent translation with learned notes, but it is <i>not +elegant</i>. He means to try the public upon it, but, as I have +intimated to him, the Christians of the present day are not +civilised enough for Plato.</p> + +<p>Arabel's love.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +[About the end of January 1843.]<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—The image you particularly admire +in Ossian, I admire with you, although I am not sure that +I have not seen it or its like somewhere in a classical poet, +Greek or Latin. Perhaps Lord Byron remembered it when +in the 'Siege of Corinth' he said of his Francesca's uplifted +arm, 'You might have seen the moon shine through.' It +reminds me also that Maclise the artist, a man of poetical +imagination, gives such a transparency to the ghost of +Banquo in his picture of Macbeth's banquet, that we can +discern through it the lights of the festival. That is good +poetry for a painter, is it not?</p> + +<p>I send you the magazines which I have just received +from America, and which contain, one of them, 'The Cry +of the Human,' and the other, four of my sonnets. My +correspondent tells me that the 'Cry' is considered there +one of the most successful of my poems, but you probably +will not think so. Tell me exactly what you do think. At +page 343 of 'Graham's Magazine,' <i>Editor's Table</i>, is a review +of me, which, however extravagant in its appreciation, will +give your kindness pleasure. I confess to a good deal of +pleasure myself from these American courtesies, expressed +not merely in the magazines, but in the newspapers; a heap +of which has been sent to me by my correspondent—the +'New York Tribune,' 'The Union,' 'The Union Flag,' &c.—all +scattered over with extracts from my books and benignant +words about their writer. Among the extracts is the whole +of the review of Wordsworth from the London 'Athenaeum,' +an unconscious compliment, as they do not guess at the +authorship, and one which you won't thank them for. Keep +the magazines, as I have duplicates.</p> + +<p>Dearest Mr. Boyd, since you admit that I am not +prejudiced about Ossian, I take courage to tell you what I +am thinking of.</p> + +<p><i>I am thinking</i> (this is said in a whisper, and in +confidence—of two kinds), <i>I am thinking that you don't +admire him quite as much as you did three weeks ago</i>.</p> + +<p>Ever most affectionately yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Arabel not being here, I send her love without asking +for it.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +January 30, 1843.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—Thank you for your letter +and for dear Mr. Martin's thought of writing one! Ah! <i>I</i> +thought he would not write, but not for the reason you say; +it was something more palpable and less romantic! Well, +I will not grumble any more about not having my letter, +since you are coming, and since you seem, my dear Mrs. +Martin, something in better spirits than your note from +Southampton bore token of. Madeira is the Promised Land, +you know; and you should hope hopefully for your invalid +from his pilgrimage there. You should hope with those +who hope, my dearest Mrs. Martin....</p> + +<p>Our '<i>event</i>' just now is a new purchase of a 'Holy +Family,' supposed to be by Andrea del Sarto. It has displaced +the Glover over the chimney-piece in the drawing-room, +and dear Stormie and Alfred nearly broke their backs +in carrying it upstairs for me to see before the placing. It is +probably a fine picture, and I seem to see my way through +the dark of my ignorance, to admire the grouping and +colouring, whatever doubt as to the expression and divinity +may occur otherwise. Well, you will judge. I won't tell +you <i>how</i> I think of it. And you won't care if I do. There +is also a new very pretty landscape piece, and you may +imagine the local politics of the arrangement and hanging, +with their talk and consultation; while <i>I</i>, on the storey +higher, have my arranging to manage of my pretty new +books and my three hyacinths, and a pot of primroses which +dear Mr. Kenyon had the good nature to carry himself +through the streets to our door. But all the flowers forswear +me, and die either suddenly or gradually as soon as they +become aware of the want of fresh air and light in my room. +Talking of air and light, what exquisite weather this is! +What a summer in winter! It is the fourth day since I +have had the fire wrung from me by the heat of temperature, +and I sit here <i>very warm indeed</i>, notwithstanding that bare +grate. Nay, yesterday I had the door thrown open for +above an hour, and was warm still! You need not ask, you +see, how I am.</p> + +<p>Tell me, have you read Mr. Dickens's 'America;' and +what is your thought of it like? If I were an American, it +would make me rabid, and certain of the free citizens <i>are</i> +furious, I understand, while others 'speak peace and +ensue it,' admire as much of the book as deserves any sort of +admiration, and attribute the blameable parts to the prejudices +of the party with whom the writer 'fell in,' and not +to a want of honesty or brotherhood in his own intentions. +I admire Mr. Dickens as an imaginative writer, and I love +the Americans—I cannot possibly admire or love this book. +Does Mr. Martin? Do <i>you</i>?</p> + +<p>Henrietta would send her love to you if I could hear +her voice nearer than I do actually, as she sings to the +guitar downstairs. And her love is not the only one to be +sent. Give mine to dear Mr. Martin, though he can't make +up his mind to the bore of writing to me. And remember +us all, both of you, as we do you.</p> + +<p>Dearest Mrs. Martin, your affectionate BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To James Martin</i><br /> +February 6, 1843.<br /> + +<p>You make us out, my dear Mr. Martin, to be such perfect +parallel lines that I should be half afraid of completing the +definition by our never meeting, if it were not for what you +say afterwards, of the coming to London, and of promising +to come and see Flush. If you should be travelling while I +am writing, it was only what happened to me when I wrote +not long ago to dearest Mrs. Martin, and everybody in this +house cried out against the fatuity of the coincidence. As +if I could know that she was travelling, when nobody told +me, and I wasn't a witch! If the same thing happens to-day, +believe in the innocence of my ignorance. I shall be consoled +if it does—for certain reasons. But for none in the +world can I help thanking you for your letter, which gave +me so much pleasure from the first sight of the handwriting +to the thought of the kindness spent upon me in it, that +after all I cannot thank you as I would.</p> + +<p>Yet I won't let you fancy me of such an irrational state +of simplicity as not to be fully aware that <i>you</i>, with your +'nature of the fields and forests,' look down disdainfully and +with an inward heat of glorying, upon <i>me</i> who have all my +pastime in books—dead and seethed. Perhaps, if it were +a little warmer, I might even grant that you are right in +your pride. As it is, I grumble feebly to myself something +about the definition of <i>nature</i>, and how we in the town +(which 'God made' just as He made your hedges) have <i>our</i> +share of nature too; and then I have secret thoughts of +the state of the thermometer, and wonder how people can +breathe out of doors. In the meantime, Flush, who is a +better philosopher, pushes deep into my furs, and goes to +sleep. Perhaps I should fear the omen for my correspondent.</p> + +<p>Oh yes! That picture in 'Boz' is beautiful. For my +own part, and by a natural womanly contradiction, I have +never cared so much in my life for flowers as since being +shut out from gardens—unless, indeed, in the happy days of +old when I had a garden of my own, and cut it out into a +great Hector of Troy, in relievo, with a high heroic box nose +and shoeties of columbine.<a name="FNanchor_72_72"></a><a href="#Footnote_72_72"><sup>[72]</sup></a> But that was long ago. Now +I count the buds of my primrose with a new kind of interest, +and you never saw such a primrose! I begin to believe in +Ovid, and look for a metamorphosis. The leaves are turning +white and springing up as high as corn. Want of air, and +of sun, I suppose. I should be loth to think it—want of +friendship to <i>me</i>!</p> + +<p>Do you know that the royal Boz lives close to us, three +doors from Mr. Kenyon in Harley Place? The new +numbers appear to me admirable, and full of life and +blood—whatever we may say to the thick rouging and +extravagance of gesture. There is a beauty, a tenderness, +too, in the organ scene, which is worthy of the gilliflowers. +But my admiration for 'Boz' fell from its 'sticking place,' I +confess, a good furlong, when I read Victor Hugo; and my +creed is, that, <i>not</i> in his tenderness, which is as much his +own as his humour, but in his serious powerful Jew-trial +scenes, he has followed Hugo closely, and never scarcely +looked away from 'Les Trois Jours d'un Condamné.'</p> + +<p>If you should not be on the road, I hope you won't be +very long before you are, and that dearest Mrs. Martin will +put off building her greenhouse—you see I believe she <i>will</i> +build it—until she gets home again.</p> + +<p>How kind of you and of her to have poor old Mrs. +Barker at Colwall!</p> + +<p>Do believe me, both of you, with love from all of <i>us</i>,</p> + +<p>Very affectionately yours,<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +February 21, 1843.<br /> + +<p>Thank you, my very dear friend, I am as well as the +east wind will suffer me to be; and <i>that</i>, indeed, is not very +well, my heart being fuller of all manner of evil than is +necessary to its humanity. But the wind is changed, and +the frost is gone, and it is not quite out of my fancy yet that +I may see you next summer. <i>You and summer are not out +of the question yet</i>. Therefore, you see, I cannot be very +deep in tribulation. But you may consider it a bad symptom +that I have just finished a poem of some five hundred lines +in stanzas, called 'The Lost Bower,'<a name="FNanchor_73_73"></a><a href="#Footnote_73_73"><sup>[73]</sup></a> and about nothing at +all in particular.</p> + +<p>As to Arabel, she is not an icicle. There are flowers +which blow in the frost—when we brambles are brown with +their inward death—and she is of them, dear thing. <i>You</i> +are not a bramble, though, and I hope that when you talk +of 'feeling the cold,' you mean simply to refer to your +sensation, and not to your health. Remember also, dearest +Mr. Boyd, what a glorious winter we have had. Take away +the last ten days and a few besides, and call the whole +summer rather than winter. Ought we to complain, really? +Really, no.</p> + +<p>I venture another prophecy upon the shoulders of the +ast, though my hand shakes so that nobody will read it.</p> + +<p><i>You can't abide my 'Cry of the Human,' and four sonnets</i>. +They have none of them found favor in your eyes.</p> + +<p>In or out of favor,</p> + +<p>Ever your affectionate E.B.B.</p> + +<p>Do you think that next summer you <i>might, could</i>, or +<i>would</i> walk across the park to see me—supposing always +that I fail in my aspiration to go and see you? I only ask +by way of <i>hypothesis</i>. Consider and revolve it so. We live +on the verge of the town rather than in it, and our noises +are cousins to silence; and you should pass into a room +where the silence is most absolute. Flush's breathing is my +loudest sound, and then the watch's tickings, and then my +own heart when it beats too turbulently. Judge of the +quiet and the solitude!</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +April 19, 1843.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—The earth turns round, to be +sure, and we turn with it, but I never anticipated the day +and the hour for <i>you</i> to turn round and be guilty of high +treason to our Greeks. I cry '<i>Ai</i>! <i>ai</i>!' as if I were a +chorus, and all vainly. For, you see, arguing about it will +only convince you of my obstinacy, and not a bit of Homer's +supremacy. Ossian has wrapt you in a cloud, a fog, a true +Scotch mist. You have caught cold in the critical faculty, +perhaps. At any rate, I can't see a bit more of your +reasonableness than I can see of Fingal. <i>Sic transit</i>! +Homer like the darkened half of the moon in eclipse! +You have spoilt for me now the finest image in your +Ossian-Macpherson.</p> + +<p>My dearest Mr. Boyd, you will find as few believers in +the genuineness of these volumes among the most +accomplished antiquarians in poetry as in the genuineness +of Chatterton's Rowley, and of Ireland's Shakespeare. +The latter impostures boasted of disciples in the first +instance, but the discipleship perished by degrees, and the +place thereof, during this present 1843, knows it no more. +So has it been with the belief in Macpherson's Ossian. Of +those who believed in the poems at the first sight of them, +who kept his creed to the end? And speaking so, I speak +of Macpherson's contemporaries whom you respect.</p> + +<p>I do not consider Walter Scott a great poet, but he was +highly accomplished in matters of poetical antiquarianism, +and is certainly citable as an authority on this question.</p> + +<p>Try not to be displeased with me. I cannot conceal +from you that my astonishment is profound and unutterable +at your new religion—your new faith in this pseud-Ossian—and +your desecration, in his service, of the old Hellenic +altars. And by the way, my own figure reminds me to inquire +of you whether you are not sometimes struck with a <i>want</i> +in him—a want very grave in poetry, and very strange +in antique poetry—the want of devotional feeling and +conscience of God. Observe, that all antique poets rejoice +greatly and abundantly in their divine mythology; and +that if this Ossian be both antique and godless, he is an +exception, a discrepancy, a monster in the history of letters +and experience of humanity. As such I leave him.</p> + +<p>Oh, how angry you will be with me. But you seemed +tolerably prepared in your last letter for my being in a +passion.... Ever affectionately yours,</p> + +<p>ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Why should I be angry with Flush? <i>He</i> does not +believe in Ossian. Oh, I assure you he doesn't.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>The following letter was called forth by a criticism of +Mr. Kenyon's on Miss Barrett's poem, <i>The Dead Pan</i>, which +he had seen in manuscript; but it also meets some criticisms +which others had made upon her last volume (see above, +p. 65).</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +Wimpole Street: March 25, 1843.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Cousin,—Your kindness having touched +me much, and your good opinion, whether literary or otherwise, +being of great price to me, it is even with tears in my +eyes that I begin to write to you upon a difference between +us. And what am I to say? To admit, of course, in the +first place, the injuriousness to the 'popularity,' of the +scriptural tone. But am I to sacrifice a principle to +popularity? Would you advise me to do so? Should I be +more worthy of your kindness by doing so? and could you +(apart from the kindness) call my refusal to do so either +perverseness or obstinacy? Even if you could, I hope you +will try a little to be patient with me, and to forgive, at least, +what you find it impossible to approve.</p> + +<p>My dear cousin, if you had not reminded me of +Wordsworth's exclamation—</p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">I would rather be</span><br /> +A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn—<br /> +</div> + +<p>and if he had never made it, I do think that its significance +would have occurred to me, by a sort of instinct, +in connection with this discussion. Certainly <i>I</i> would +rather be a pagan whose religion was actual, earnest, +continual—for week days, work days, and song days—than +I would be a <i>Christian</i> who, from whatever motive, +shrank from hearing or uttering the name of Christ out of +a 'church.' I am no fanatic, but I like truth and earnestness +in all things, and I cannot choose but believe that such +a Christian shows but ill beside such a pagan. What pagan +poet ever thought of casting his gods out of his poetry? +In what pagan poem do they not shine and thunder? And +if <i>I</i>—to approach the point in question—if <i>I</i>, writing +a poem the end of which is the extolment of what +I consider to be Christian truth over the pagan myths +shrank even <i>there</i> from naming the name of my God lest it +should not meet the sympathies of some readers, or lest it +should offend the delicacies of other readers, or lest, +generally, it should be unfit for the purposes of poetry +in what more forcible manner than by that act (I appeal to +Philip against Philip) can I controvert my own poem, or +secure to myself and my argument a logical and unanswerable +shame? If Christ's name is improperly spoken +in that poem, then indeed is Schiller right, and the true +gods of poetry are to be sighed for mournfully. For be +sure that <i>Burns</i> was right, and that a poet without devotion +is below his own order, and that poetry without religion will +gradually lose its elevation. And then, my dear friend, we +do not live among dreams. The Christian religion is true +or it is not, and if it is true it offers the highest and purest +objects of contemplation. And the poetical faculty, which +expresses the highest moods of the mind, passes naturally +to the highest objects. Who can separate these things? +Did Dante? Did Tasso? Did Petrarch? Did Calderon? +Did Chaucer? Did the poets of our best British days? +Did any one of these shrink from speaking out Divine +names when the occasion came? Chaucer, with all his +jubilee of spirit and resounding laughter, had the name of +Jesus Christ and God as frequently to familiarity on his lips +as a child has its father's name. You say 'our religion is +not vital—not week-day—enough.' Forgive me, but <i>that</i> +is a confession of a wrong, not an argument. And if a +poet be a poet, it is his business to work for the elevation +and purification of the public mind, rather than for his +own popularity! while if he be not a poet, no sacrifice of +self-respect will make amends for a defective faculty, nor +<i>ought</i> to make amends.</p> + +<p>My conviction is that the <i>poetry of Christianity</i> will one +day be developed greatly and nobly, and that in the meantime +we are wrong, poetically as morally, in desiring to +restrain it. No, I never felt repelled by any Christian +phraseology in Cowper—although he is not a favorite poet +of mine from other causes—nor in Southey, nor even in +James Montgomery, nor in Wordsworth where he writes +'ecclesiastically,' nor in Christopher North, nor in +Chateaubriand, nor in Lamartine.</p> + +<p>It is but two days ago since I had a letter—and not +from a fanatic—to reproach my poetry for not being +Christian enough, and this is not the first instance, nor the +second, of my receiving such a reproach. I tell you this to +open to you the possibility of another side to the question, +which makes, you see, a triangle of it!</p> + +<p>Can you bear with such a long answer to your letter, +and forbear calling it a 'preachment'? There may be +such a thing as an awkward and untimely introduction of +religion, I know, and I have possibly been occasionally +guilty in this way. But for <i>my principle</i> I must contend, +for it is a poetical principle <i>and more</i>, and an entire sincerity +in respect to it is what I owe to you and to myself. Try to +forgive me, dear Mr. Kenyon. I would propitiate your +indulgence for me by a libation of your own eau de +Cologne poured out at your feet! It is excellent eau de +Cologne, and you are very kind to me, but, notwithstanding +all, there is a foreboding within me that my 'conventicleisms' +will be inodorous in your nostrils.</p> + +<p>[<i>Incomplete</i>.]</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyon</i><br /> +Tuesday [about March 1843].<br /> + +<p>My very dear Cousin,—I have read your letter again +and again, and feel your kindness fully and earnestly. You +have advised me about the poem,<a name="FNanchor_74_74"></a><a href="#Footnote_74_74"><sup>[74]</sup></a> entering into the questions +referring to it with the warmth rather of the author of +it than the critic of it, and this I am sensible of as absolutely +as anyone can be. At the same time, I have a strong +perception rather than opinion about the poem, and also, if +you would not think it too serious a word to use in such a +place, I have a <i>conscience</i> about it. It was not written in a +desultory fragmentary way, the last stanzas thrown in, as they +might be thrown out, but with a <i>design</i>, which leans its whole +burden on the last stanzas. In fact, the last stanzas were in +my mind to say, and all the others presented the mere +avenue to the end of saying them. Therefore I cannot +throw them out—I cannot yield to the temptation even +of pleasing <i>you</i> by doing so; I make a compromise with +myself, and <i>do not throw them out, and do not print the poem</i>. +Now say nothing against this, my dear cousin, because I am +obstinate, as you know, as you have good evidence for +knowing. I <i>will not</i> either alter or print it. Then you have +your manuscript copy, which you can cut into any shape +you please as long as you keep it out of print; and seeing +that the poem really does belong to you, having had its +origin in your paraphrase of Schiller's stanzas, I see a great +deal of poetical justice in the manuscript copyright remaining +in your hands. For the rest I shall have quite enough +to print and to be responsible for without it, and I am +quite satisfied to let it be silent for a few years until either +I or you (as may be the case even with <i>me</i>!) shall have +revised our judgments in relation to it.</p> + +<p>This being settled, you must suffer me to explain (for +mere personal reasons, and not for the good of the poem) +that no mortal priest (of St. Peter's or otherwise) is referred +to in a particular stanza, but the Saviour Himself. Who is +'the High Priest of our profession,' and the only 'priest' +recognised in the New Testament. In the same way the +altar candles are altogether spiritual, or they could not be +supposed, even by the most amazing poetical exaggeration, +to 'light the earth and skies.' I explain this, only that I +may not appear to you to have compromised the principle +of the poem, by compromising any truth (such in my eyes) +for the sake of a poetical effect.</p> + +<p>And now I will not say any more. I know that you will +be inclined to cry, 'Print it in any case,' but I will entreat +of your kindness, which I have so much right to trust in +while entreating, <i>not to say one such word. Be kind, and let +me follow my own way silently</i>. I have not, indeed, like a +spoilt child in a fret, thrown the poem up because I would +not alter it, though you have done much to spoil me. I +act advisedly, and have made up my mind as to what is the +wisest and best thing to do, and personally the pleasantest +to myself, after a good deal of serious reflection. 'Pan is +dead,' and so best, for the present at least.</p> + +<p>I shall take your advice about the preface in every +respect, and thanks for the letter and Taylor's memoirs.</p> + +<p>Miss Mitford talks of coming to town for a day, and of +bringing Flush with her, as soon as the weather settles, and +to-day looks so like it that I have mused this morning on +the possibility of breaking my prison doors and getting into +the next room. Only there is a forbidding north wind, they say.</p> + +<p>Don't be vexed with me, dear Mr. Kenyon. You know +there are obstinacies in the world as well as mortalities, and +thereto appertaining. And then you will perceive through +all mine, that it is difficult for me to act against your judgment +so far as to put my own tenacity into print.</p> + +<p>Ever gratefully and affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>It is to the honour of America that it recognised from +the first the genius of Miss Barrett; and for a large part of +her life some of the closest of her personal and literary +connections were with Americans. The same is true in +both respects of Robert Browning. As appears from some +letters printed farther on in these volumes, at a time when +the sale of his poems in England was almost infinitesimal, +they were known and highly prized in the United States. +Expressions of Mrs. Browning's sympathy with America and +of gratitude for the kindly feelings of Americans recur +frequently in the letters, and it is probable that there are +still extant in the States many letters written to friends and +correspondents there. Only three or four such have been made +available for the present collection; and of these the first +follows here in its place in the chronological sequence. It +was written to Mr. Cornelius Mathews, then editor of +'Graham's Magazine,' who had invited Miss Barrett to send +contributions to his periodical. The warm expression in it +of sympathy with the poetry of Robert Browning, whom she +did not yet know personally, is especially interesting to +readers of this later day, who, like the spectators at a Greek +tragedy, watch the development of a drama of which the +<i>dénouement</i> is already known to them.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Cornelius Mathews</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: April 28, 1843.<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Mathews,—In replying to your kind letter +I send some more verse for Graham's, praying such demi-semi-gods +as preside over contributors to magazines that I +may not appear over-loquacious to my editor. Of course +it is not intended to thrust three or four poems into one +number. My pluralities go to you simply to 'bide your +time,' and be used one by one as the opportunity is presented. +In the meanwhile you have received, I hope, a short letter +written to explain my unwillingness to apply, as you desired +me at first, to Wiley and Putnam—an unwillingness +justified by what you told me afterwards. I did not apply, +nor have I applied, and I would rather not apply at all. +Perhaps I shall hear from them presently. The pamphlet +on International Copyright is welcome at a distance, but it +has not come near me yet; and for all your kindness in +relation to the prospective gift of your works I thank you +again and earnestly. You are kind to me in many ways, +and I would willingly know as much of your intellectual +habits as you teach me of your genial feelings. This +'Pathfinder' (what an excellent name for an American +journal!) I also owe to you, with the summing up of your +performances in it, and with a notice of Mr. Browning's +'Blot on the Scutcheon,' which would make one poet +furious (the 'infelix Talfourd') and another a little +melancholy—namely, Mr. Browning himself. There is truth on +both sides, but it seems to me hard truth on Browning. I +do assure you I never saw him in my life—do not know +him even by correspondence—and yet, whether through +fellow-feeling for Eleusinian mysteries, or whether through +the more generous motive of appreciation of his powers, I +am very sensitive to the thousand and one stripes with +which the assembly of critics doth expound its vocation +over him, and the 'Athenaeum,' for instance, made me quite +cross and misanthropical last week.<a name="FNanchor_75_75"></a><a href="#Footnote_75_75"><sup>[75]</sup></a> The truth is—and the +world should know the truth—it is easier to find a more +faultless writer than a poet of equal genius. Don't let us +fall into the category of the sons of Noah. Noah was once +drunk, indeed, but once he built the ark. Talking of poets, +would your 'Graham's Miscellany' care at all to have +occasional poetical contributions from Mr. Horne? I am +in correspondence with him, and I think I could manage +an arrangement upon the same terms as my engagement +rests on, if you please and your friends please, that is, and +without formality, if it should give you any pleasure. He +is a writer of great power, I think. And this reminds me +that you may be looking all the while for the 'Athenaeum's' +reply to your friend's proposition—of which I lost no time +in apprising the editor, Mr. Dilke, and here are some of +his words: 'An American friend who had been long +in England, and often conversed with me on the subject, +resolved on his return to establish such a correspondence. +In all things worth knowing—all reviews of good books' +(which 'are published first or simultaneously,' says Mr. +Dilke, 'in London'), 'he was anticipated, and after +some months he was driven of necessity to geological +surveys, centenary celebrations, progress of railroads, manufactures, +&c., and thus the prospect was abandoned altogether.' +Having made this experiment, Mr. Dilke is unwilling +to risk another. Neither must we blame him for +the reserve. When the international copyright shall at once +protect the national <i>meum</i> and <i>tuum</i> in literature and give +it additional fullness and value, we shall cease to say +insolently to you that what we want of your books we will +get without your help, but as it is, the Mr. Dilkes of us +have nothing much more courteous to do. I wish I could +have been of any use to your friend—I have done what I +could. In regard to critical papers of mine, I would willingly +give myself up to you, seeing your good nature; but it is +the truth that I never published any prose papers at all +except the series on the Greek Christian poets and the other +series on the English poets in the 'Athenaeum' of last year, +and both of which you have probably seen. Afterwards I +threw up my brief and went back to my poetry, in which I +feel that I must do whatever I am equal to doing at all. +That life is short and art long appears to us more true +than usual when we lie all day long on a sofa and are +as frightened of the east wind as if it were a tiger. Life +is not only short, but uncertain, and art is not only +long, but absorbing. What have I to do with writing +'<i>scandal</i>' (as Mr. Jones would say) upon my neighbour's +work, when I have not finished my own? So I threw up +my brief into Mr. Dilke's hands, and went back to my +verses. Whenever I print another volume you shall have it, +if Messrs. Wiley and Putnam will convey it to you. How +can I send you, by the way, anything I may have to send +you? Why will you not, as a nation, embrace our great +penny post scheme, and hold our envelopes in all acceptation? +You do not know—cannot guess—what a wonderful +liberty our Rowland Hill has given to British spirits, and +how we '<i>flash</i> a thought' instead of 'wafting' it from our +extreme south to our extreme north, paying 'a penny for +our thought' and for the electricity included. I recommend +you our penny postage as the most successful revolution +since the 'glorious three days' of Paris.</p> + +<p>And so, you made merry with my scorn of my +'Prometheus.' Believe me—believe me absolutely—I did +not strike that others might spare, but from an earnest +remorse. When you know me better, you will know, I hope, +that I am <i>true</i>, whether right or wrong, and you know +already that I am right in this thing, the only merit of the +translation being its closeness. Can I be of any use to you, +dear Mr. Mathews? When I can, make use of me. You +surprise and disappoint me in your sketch of the Boston +poet, for the letter he wrote to me struck me as frank and +honest. I wonder if he made any use of the verses I sent +him; and I wonder what I sent him—for I never made a +note of it, through negligence, and have quite forgotten. +Are you acquainted with Mrs. Sigourney? She has offended +us much by her exposition of Mrs. Southey's letter, and I +must say not without cause. I rejoice in the progress of +'Wakondah,' wishing the influences of mountain and river +to be great over him and in him. And so I will say the +'God bless you' your kindness cares to hear, and remain,</p> + +<p>Sincerely and thankfully yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p><i>(Endorsed in another hand)</i><br /> +E.B. Barrett, London, received May 12, 1843,<br /> +4 poems, previously furnished to <i>Graham's Magazine</i>, $50.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +May 1, 1843<br /> + +<p>My dear Cousin,—Here is my copyright for you, and +you will see that I have put 'word' instead of 'sound,' as +certainly the proper 'word.' Do let me thank you once +more for all the trouble and interest you have taken with +me and in me. Observe besides that I have altered the +title according to your unconscious suggestion, and made it +'The Dead Pan,' which is a far better name, I think, than +the repetition of the <i>refrain</i>.</p> + +<p>But I spoil my exemplary docility so far, by confessing +that I don't like 'scornful children' half—no, not half +so well as my 'railing children,' although, to be sure, you +proved to me that the last was nigh upon nonsense. You +proved it—that is, you almost proved it, for don't we say—at +least, <i>mightn't</i> we say—'the thunder was silent'? +'<i>thunder</i>' involving the idea of noise, as much as 'railing +children' do. Consider this—I give it up to you.<a name="FNanchor_76_76"></a><a href="#Footnote_76_76"><sup>[76]</sup></a></p> + +<p>I am ashamed to have kept Carlyle so long, but I quite +failed in trying to read him at my "usual pace—he <i>won't</i> be +read quick. After all, and full of beauty and truth as that +book is, and strongly as it takes hold of my sympathies, +there is nothing new in it—not even a new Carlyleism, +which I do not say by way of blaming the book, +because the author of it might use words like the apostle's: +'To write the same things unto you, to me indeed is not +grievous, and to you it is safe.' The world being blind +and deaf and rather stupid, requires a reiteration of certain +uncongenial truths....</p> + +<p>Thank you for the address.<br /> +Ever affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>I observe that the <i>most questionable rhymes</i> are not +objected to by Mr. Merivale; also—but this letter is too +long already.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +May 3, 1843.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—If <i>you</i> promised (which you +did), <i>I</i> ought to have promised—and therefore we may ask +each other's pardon....</p> + +<p>How is the dog? and how does dear Mr. Martin find +himself in Arcadia? Do we all stand in his recollection +like a species of fog, or a concentrated essence of brick +wall? How I wish—and since I said it aloud to you I +have often wished it over in a whisper—that you would +put away your romance, or cut it in two, and spend six +months of the year in London with us! Miss Mitford +believes that wishes, if wished hard enough, realise themselves, +but my experience has taught me a less cheerful +creed. Only if wishes <i>do</i> realise themselves!</p> + +<p>Miss Mitford is at Bath, where she has spent one week +and is about to spend two, and then goes on her way into +Devonshire. She amused me so the other day by desiring +me to look at the date of Mr. Landor's poems in their first +edition, because she was sure that it must be fifty years +since, and she finds him at this 1843, the very Lothario of +Bath, enchanting the wives, making jealous the husbands, +and 'enjoying,' altogether, the worst of reputations. I +suggested that if she proved him to be seventy-five, as long +as he proved himself enchanting, it would do no manner of +good in the way of practical ethics; and that, besides, for her +to travel round the world to investigate gentlemen's ages +was invidious, and might be alarming as to the safe inscrutability +of ladies' ages. She is delighted with the <i>scenery of Bath</i>, +which certainly, take it altogether, marble +and mountains, is the most beautiful town I ever looked +upon. Cheltenham, I think, is a mere commonplace to it, +although the avenues are beautiful, to be sure....</p> + +<p>Mrs. Southey complains that she has lost half her income +by her marriage, and her friend Mr. Landor is anxious +to persuade, by the means of intermediate friends, Sir +Robert Peel to grant her a pension. She is said to be +in London now, and has at least left Keswick for ever. It +is not likely that Wordsworth should come here this year, +which I am sorry for now, although I should certainly be +sorry if he did come. A happy state of contradiction, not +confined either to that particular movement or no-movement, +inasmuch as I was gratified by his sending me the poem +you saw, and yet read it with such extreme pain as to incapacitate +me from judging of it. Such stuff we are made of!</p> + +<p>This is a long letter—and you are tired, I feel by +instinct!</p> + +<p>May God bless you, my dearest Mrs. Martin. Give my +love to Mr. Martin, and think of me as</p> + +<p>Your very affectionate,<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>Henry and Daisy have been to see the <i>lying in state</i>, as +lying stark and dead is called whimsically, of the Duke of +Sussex. It was a fine sight, they say.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +May 9, 1843 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I thank you much for the +copies of your 'Anti-Puseyistic Pugilism.' The papers +reached my hands quite safely and so missed setting the +world on fire; and I shall be as wary of them evermore +(be sure) as if they were gunpowder. Pray send them to +Mary Hunter. Why not? Why should you think that I +was likely to 'object' to your doing so? She will laugh. +<i>I</i> laughed, albeit in no smiling mood; for I have been +transmigrating from one room to another, and your packet +found me half tired and half excited, and <i>whole</i> grave. But +I could not choose but laugh at your Oxford charge; and +when I had counted your great guns and javelin points and +other military appurtenances of the Punic war, I said to +myself—or to Flush, 'Well, Mr. Boyd will soon be back +again with the dissenters.' Upon which I think Flush +said, 'That's a comfort.'</p> + +<p>Mary's direction is, 111 London Road, Brighton. You +ought to send the verses to her yourself, if you mean to +please her entirely: and I cannot agree with you that there +is the slightest danger in sending them by the post. Letters +are never opened, unless you tempt the flesh by putting +sovereigns, or shillings, or other metallic substances inside +the envelope; and if the devil entered into me causing me +to write a libel against the Queen, I would send it by the +post fearlessly from John o' Groat's to Land's End inclusive.</p> + +<p>One of your best puns, if not the best,</p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +Hatching succession apostolical,<br /> +With other falsehoods diabolical,<br /> +</div> + +<p>lies in an octosyllabic couplet; and what business has <i>that</i> +in your heroic libel?</p> + +<p>The 'pearl' of maidens sends her love to you.</p> + +<p>Your very affectionate<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +May 14, 1843.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I hear with wonder from Arabel +of your repudiation of my word 'octosyllabic' for the two +lines in your controversial poem. Certainly, if you count +the syllables on your fingers, there are ten syllables in each +line: of <i>that</i> I am perfectly aware; but the lines are none +the less belonging to the species of versification called +octosyllabic. Do you not observe, my dearest Mr. Boyd, +that the final accent and rhyme fall on the eighth syllable +instead of the tenth, and that <i>that</i> single circumstance +determines the class of verse—that they are in fact octosyllabic +verses with triple rhymes?</p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +Hatching succession apostolical,<br /> +With other falsehoods diabolical.<br /> +</div> + +<p>Pope has double rhymes in his heroic verses, but how does +he manage them? Why, he admits eleven syllables, throwing +the final accent and rhyme on the tenth, thus:</p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +Worth makes the man, and want of it the f<i>e</i>llow,<br /> +The rest is nought but leather and prun<i>e</i>lla.<br /> +</div> + +<p>Again, if there is a double rhyme to an octosyllabic verse, +there are always <i>nine</i> syllables in that verse, the final accent +and rhyme falling on the eighth syllable, thus:</p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +Compound for sins that we're incl<i>i</i>ned to,<br /> +By damning those we have no m<i>i</i>nd to.<br /> +</div> + +<p>('Hudibras.')</p> + +<p>Again, if there is a triple rhyme to an octosyllabic verse +(precisely the present case) there must always be ten syllables +in that verse, the final accent and rhyme falling on the +eighth syllable; thus from 'Hudibras' again:</p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +Then in their robes the penit<i>e</i>ntials<br /> +Are straight presented with cred<i>e</i>ntials.<br /> +Remember how in arms and p<i>o</i>litics,<br /> +We still have worsted all your h<i>o</i>ly tricks.<br /> +</div> + +<p>You will admit that these last couplets are precisely of the +same structure as yours, and certainly they are octosyllabics, +and made use of by Butler in an octosyllabic poem, whereas +yours, to be rendered of the heroic structure, should run +thus:</p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +Hatching at ease succession apostolical,<br /> +With many other falsehoods diabolical.<br /> +</div> + +<p>I have written a good deal about an oversight on your part +of little consequence; but as you charged me with a mistake +made in cold blood and under corrupt influences from +Lake-mists, why I was determined to make the matter clear +to you. And as to the <i>influences</i>, if I were guilty of +this mistake, or of a thousand mistakes, Wordsworth would +not be guilty <i>in</i> me. I think of him now, exactly as I +thought of him during the first years of my friendship for +you, only with <i>an equal</i> admiration. He was a great +poet to me always, and always, while I have a soul for +poetry, will be so; yet I said, and say in an under-voice, +but steadfastly, that Coleridge was the grander genius. +There is scarcely anything newer in my estimation of +Wordsworth than in the colour of my eyes!</p> + +<p>Perhaps I was wrong in saying '<i>a pun.</i>' But I thought +I apprehended a double sense in your application of the +term 'Apostolical succession' to Oxford's 'breeding' and +'hatching,' words which imply succession in a way unecclesiastical.</p> + +<p>After all which quarrelling, I am delighted to have to +talk of your coming nearer to me—within reach—almost +within my reach. Now if I am able to go in a +carriage at all this summer, it will be hard but that I manage +to get across the park and serenade you in Greek under +your window.</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +May 18, 1843.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—Yes, you have surprised me!</p> + +<p>I always have thought of you, and I always think and +say, that you are truthful and candid in a supreme degree, +and therefore it is not your candour about Wordsworth +which surprises me.</p> + +<p>He had the kindness to send me the poem upon Grace +Darling when it first appeared; and with a curious mixture +of feelings (for I was much gratified by his attention in +sending it) I yet read it with <i>so</i> much pain from the nature +of the subject, that my judgment was scarcely free to consider +the poetry—I could scarcely determine to myself what +I <i>thought</i> of it from feeling too much.</p> + +<p><i>But</i> I do confess to you, my dear friend, that I +suspect—through the mist of my sensations—the poem in +question to be very inferior to his former poems; I confess +that the impression left on my mind is, of its decided +inferiority, and I have heard that the poet's friends and +critics (all except <i>one</i>) are mourning over its appearance; +sighing inwardly, 'Wordsworth is old.'</p> + +<p>One thing is clear to me, however, and over <i>that</i> I +rejoice and triumph greatly. If you can esteem this poem +of 'Grace Darling,' you must be susceptible to the grandeur +and beauty of the poems which preceded it; and the cause +of your past reluctance to recognise the poet's power must +be, as I have always suspected, from your having given a +very partial attention and consideration to his poetry. You +were partial in your attention <i>I</i>, perhaps, was injudicious in +my extracts; but with your truth and his genius, I cannot +doubt but that the time will come for your mutual amity. +Oh that I could stand as a herald of peace, with my wool-twisted +fillet! I do not understand the Greek metres as +well as you do, but I understand Wordsworth's genius +better, and do you forgive that it should console me.</p> + +<p>I will ask about his collegian extraction. Such a question +never occurred to me. Apollo taught him under the laurels, +while all the Muses looked through the boughs.</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT,</p> + +<p>Oh, yes, it delights me that you should be nearer. Of +course you know that Wordsworth is Laureate.<a name="FNanchor_77_77"></a><a href="#Footnote_77_77"><sup>[77]</sup></a></p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +May 19, 1843,<br /> + +<p>Thank you, my dear cousin, for all your kindness to me. +There is ivy enough for a thyrsus, and I almost feel ready +to enact a sort of Bacchus triumphalis 'for jollitie,' as I +see it already planted, and looking in at me through the +window. I never thought to see such a sight as <i>that</i> in my +London room, and am overwhelmed with my own glory.</p> + +<p>And then Mr. Browning's note! Unless you say 'nay' +to me, I shall keep this note, which has pleased me so much, +yet not more than it ought. <i>Now</i>, I forgive Mr. Merivale +for his hard thoughts of my easy rhymes. But all this +pleasure, my dear Mr. Kenyon, I owe to <i>you</i>, and shall +remember that I do.</p> + +<p>Ever affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +May 26, 1843.<br /> + +<p>... I thank you for your part in the gaining of my bed, +dearest Mrs. Martin, most earnestly; and am quite ready to +believe that it was gained by <i>wishdom</i>, which believing is +wisdom! No, you would certainly never recognise my +prison if you were to see it. The bed, like a sofa and no +Bed; the large table placed out in the room, towards the +wardrobe end of it; the sofa rolled where a sofa should be +rolled—opposite the arm-chair: the drawers crowned with +a coronal of shelves fashioned by Sette and Co. (of papered +deal and crimson merino) to carry my books; the washing +table opposite turned into a cabinet with another coronal of +shelves; and Chaucer's and Homer's busts in guard over +these two departments of English and Greek poetry; three +more busts consecrating the wardrobe which there was no +annihilating; and the window—oh, I must take a new +paragraph for the window, I am out of breath.</p> + +<p>In the window is fixed a deep box full of soil, where are +<i>springing up</i> my scarlet runners, nasturtiums, and +convolvuluses, although they were disturbed a few days ago by +the revolutionary insertion among them of a great ivy root with +trailing branches so long and wide that the top tendrils are +fastened to Henrietta's window of the higher storey, while +the lower ones cover all my panes. It is Mr. Kenyon's gift. +He makes the like to flourish out of mere flowerpots, and +embower his balconies and windows, and why shouldn't this +flourish with me? But certainly—there is no shutting +my eyes to the fact that it does droop a little. Papa +prophesies hard things against it every morning, 'Why, Ba, +it looks worse and worse,' and everybody preaches despondency. +I, however, persist in being sanguine, looking out +for new shoots, and making a sure pleasure in the meanwhile +by listening to the sound of the leaves against the pane, as +the wind lifts them and lets them fall. Well, what do you +think of my ivy? Ask Mr. Martin, if he isn't jealous +already.</p> + +<p>Have you read 'The Neighbours,' Mary Howitt's translation +of Frederica Bremer's Swedish? Yes, perhaps. +Have you read 'The Home,' fresh from the same springs? +<i>Do</i>, if you have not. It has not only charmed me, but +made me happier and better: it is fuller of Christianity +than the most orthodox controversy in Christendom; and +represents to my perception or imagination a perfect and +beautiful embodiment of Christian outward life from the +inward, purely and tenderly. At the same time, I should +tell you that Sette says, 'I might have liked it ten years +ago, but it is too young and silly to give me any pleasure +now.' For <i>me</i>, however, it is not too young, and perhaps +it won't be for you and Mr. Martin. As to Sette, he is +among the patriarchs, to say nothing of the lawyers—and +there we leave him....</p> + +<p>Ever your affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street:<br /> +Wednesday, or is it Thursday? [summer 1843].<br /> + +<p>My dear Cousin,—... I send you my friend Mr. Horne's +new epic,<a name="FNanchor_78_78"></a><a href="#Footnote_78_78"><sup>[78]</sup></a> and beg you, if you have an opportunity, to drop +it at Mr. Eagles' feet, so that he may pick it up and look +at it. I have not gone through it (I have another copy), +but it appears to me to be full of fine things. As to the +author's fantasy of selling it for a farthing, I do not enter +into the secret of it—unless, indeed, he should intend +a sarcasm on the age's generous patronage of poetry, +which is possible.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +June 30, 1843.<br /> + +<p>Thank you, my dear Mr. Kenyon, for the Camden +Society books, and also for these which I return; and also +for the hope of seeing you, which I kept through yesterday. +I honor Mrs. Coleridge for the readiness of reasoning and +integrity in reasoning, for the learning, energy, and +impartiality which she has brought to her purpose, and I +agree with her in many of her objects; and disagree, by +opposing her opponents with a fuller front than she is +always inclined to do. In truth, I can never see anything +in these sacramental ordinances except a prospective sign +in one (Baptism), and a memorial sign in the other, +the Lord's Supper, and could not recognise either under +any modification as a peculiar instrument of grace, mystery, +or the like. The tendencies we have towards making +mysteries of God's simplicities are as marked and sure +as our missing the actual mystery upon occasion. God's +love is the true mystery, and the sacraments are only too +simple for us to understand. So you see I have read the +book in spite of prophecies. After all I should like to +cut it in two—it would be better for being shorter—and +it might be clearer also. There is, in fact, some dullness +and perplexity—a few passages which are, to my impression, +contradictory of the general purpose—something +which is not generous, about nonconformity—and what +I cannot help considering a superfluous tenderness for +Puseyism. Moreover she is certainly wrong in imagining +that the ante-Nicene fathers did not as a body teach +regeneration by baptism—even Gregory Nazianzen, the most +spiritual of many, did, and in the fourth century. But, +after all, as a work of theological controversy it is very +un-bitter and well-poised, gentle, and modest, and as the +work of a woman <i>you</i> must admire it and <i>we</i> be proud of +it—<i>that</i> remains certain at last.</p> + +<p>Poor Mr. Haydon! I am so sorry for his reverse in the +cartoons.<a name="FNanchor_79_79"></a><a href="#Footnote_79_79"><sup>[79]</sup></a> It is a thunderbolt to him. I wonder, in the +pauses of my regret, whether Mr. Selous is <i>your</i> friend—whether +'Boadicea visiting the Druids,' suggested by you, +I think, as a subject, is this victorious 'Boadicea' down +for a hundred pound prize? You will tell me when you +come.</p> + +<p>I have just heard an uncertain rumour of the arrival +of your brother. If it is not all air, I congratulate you +heartily upon a happiness only not past my appreciation.</p> + +<p>Ever affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>I send the copy of 'Orion' for <i>yourself</i>, which you asked +for. It is in the fourth edition.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +July 8, 1843.<br /> + +<p>Thank you, my dearest Mrs. Martin, for your kind sign +of interest in the questioning note, although I will not +praise the <i>stenography</i> of it. I shall be as brief to-day +as you, not quite out of revenge, but because I have +been writing to George and am the less prone to activities +from having caught cold in an inscrutable manner, +and being stiff and sore from head to foot and inclined to +be a little feverish and irritable of nerves. No, it is not +of the slightest consequence; I tell you the truth. But I +would have written to you the day before yesterday if it +had not been for this something between cramp and +rheumatism, which was rather unbearable at first, but +yesterday was better, and is to-day better than better, and +to-morrow will leave me quite well, if I may prophesy. I +only mention it lest you should have upbraided me for +not answering your note in a moment, as it deserved to be +answered. So don't put any nonsense into Georgie's head—forgive +me for beseeching you! I have been very well—downstairs +seven or eight times; lying on the floor in Papa's room; +meditating <i>the chair</i>, which would have amounted to +more than a meditation except for this little contrariety. +In a day or two more, if this cool warmth perseveres in serving +me, and no Ariel refills me 'with aches,' I shall fulfil your kind +wishes perhaps and be out—and so, no more about me!...</p> + +<p>Oh, I do believe you think me a Cockney—a +metropolitan barbarian! But I persist in seeing no merit +and no superior innocence in being shut up even in +precincts of rose-trees, away from those great sources of +human sympathy and occasions of mental elevation and +instruction without which many natures grow narrow, +many others gloomy, and perhaps, if the truth were +known, very few prosper entirely, lit is not that I, who +have always lived a good deal in solitude and live in it still +more now, and love the country even painfully in my +recollections of it, would decry either one or the other—solitude +is most effective in a contrast, and if you do +not break the bark you cannot bud the tree, and, in short +(not to be <i>in long</i>), I could write a dissertation, which I will +spare you, 'about it and about it.' ...</p> + +<p>Tell George to lend you—nay, I think I will be +generous and let him give you, although the author +gave me the book—the copy of the new epic, 'Orion,' +which he has with him. You have probably observed +the advertisement, and are properly instructed that Mr. +Horne the poet, who has sold three editions already at a +farthing a copy, and is selling a fourth at a shilling, and is +about to sell a fifth at half a crown (on the precise principle +of the aërial machine—launching himself into popularity +by a first impulse on the people), is my unknown friend, +with whom I have corresponded these four years without +having seen his face. Do you remember the beech leaves +sent to me from Epping Forest? Yes, you must. Well, +the sender is the poet, and the poem I think a very noble +one, and I want you to think so too. So hereby I empower +you to take it away from George and keep it for my sake—if +you will!</p> + +<p>Dear Mr. Martin was so kind as to come and see me as +you commanded, and I must tell you that I thought him +looking so better than well that I was more than commonly +glad to see him. Give my love to him, and join me in +as much metropolitan missionary zeal as will bring you +both to London for six months of the year. Oh, I wish +you would come! Not that it is necessary for <i>you</i>, but +that it will be <i>so</i> good for <i>us</i>.</p> + +<p>My ivy is growing, and I have <i>green blinds</i>, against +which there is an outcry. They say that I do it out of +envy, and for the equalisation of complexions.</p> + +<p>Ever your affectionate,<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: August 1843.<br /> + +<p>Dear Mr. Westwood,—I thank you very much for the +kindness of your questioning, and am able to answer that +notwithstanding the, as it seems to you, fatal significance of +a woman's silence, I am alive enough to be sincerely grateful +for any degree of interest spent upon me. As to Flush, +he should thank you too, but at the present moment he is +quite absorbed in finding a cool place in this room to lie +down in, having sacrificed his usual favorite place at my +feet, his head upon them, oppressed by the torrid necessity +of a thermometer above 70. To Flopsy's acquaintance he +would aspire gladly, only hoping that Flopsy does not +'delight to bark and bite,' like dogs in general, because +if he does Flush would as soon be acquainted with a <i>cat</i>, he +says, for he does not pretend to be a hero. Poor Flush! +'the bright summer days on which I am ever likely to take +him out for a ramble over hill and meadow' are never likely +to shine! But he follows, or rather leaps into my wheeled +chair, and forswears merrier company even now, to be near +me. I am a good deal better, it is right to say, and look +forward to a possible prospect of being better still, though I +may be shut out from climbing the Brocken otherwise than +in a vision.</p> + +<p>You will see by the length of the 'Legend'<a name="FNanchor_80_80"></a><a href="#Footnote_80_80"><sup>[80]</sup></a> which I +send to you (in its only printed form) <i>why</i> I do not send it +to you in manuscript. Keep the book as long as you please. +My new volume is not yet in the press, but I am writing +more and more in a view to it, pleased with the thought that +some kind hands are already stretched out in welcome +and acceptance of what it may become. Not as idle as I +appear, I have also been writing some fugitive verses for +American magazines. This is my confession. Forgive +its tediousness, and believe me thankfully and very sincerely +yours,</p> + +<p>ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: September 2, 1843.<br /> + +<p>Dear Mr. Westwood,—Your letter comes to remind me +how much I ought to be ashamed of myself.... I received +the book in all safety, and read your kind words about my +'Rosary' with more grateful satisfaction than appears from +the evidence. It is great pleasure to me to have written for +such readers, and it is great hope to me to be able to write +for them. The transcription of the 'Rosary' is a compliment +which I never anticipated, or you should have had the manuscript +copy you asked for, although I have not a perfect one +in my hands. The poem is full of faults, as, indeed, all my +poems appear to myself to be when I look back upon them +instead of looking down. I hope to be worthier in poetry +some day of the generous appreciation which you and your +friends have paid me in advance.</p> + +<p>Tennyson is a great poet, I think, and Browning, the +author of 'Paracelsus,' has to my mind very noble capabilities. +Do you know Mr. Horne's 'Orion,' the poem published for +a farthing, to the wonder of booksellers and bookbuyers who +could not understand 'the speculation in its eyes?' There +are very fine things in this poem, and altogether I recommend +it to your attention. But what is 'wanting' in +Tennyson? He can think, he can feel, and his language is +highly expressive, characteristic, and harmonious. I am +very fond of Tennyson. He makes me thrill sometimes to +the end of my fingers, as only a true great poet can.</p> + +<p>You praise me kindly, and if, indeed, the considerations +you speak of could be true of me, I am not one who could +lament having 'learnt in suffering what I taught in song.' +In any case, working for the future and counting gladly on +those who are likely to consider any work of mine acceptable +to themselves, I shall be very sure not to forget my friends +at Enfield.</p> + +<p>Dear Mr. Westwood, I remain sincerely yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +September 4, 1843. Finished September 5.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin, ... I have had a great +gratification within this week or two in receiving a letter—nay, +two letters—from Miss Martineau, one of the last +strangers in the world from whom I had any right to expect +a kindness. Yet most kind, most touching in kindness, +were both of these letters, so much so that I was not far +from crying for pleasure as I read them. She is very +hopelessly ill, you are probably aware, at Tynemouth in +Northumberland, suffering agonies from internal cancer, +and conquering occasional repose by the strength of opium, +but 'almost forgetting' (to use her own words) 'to wish for +health, in the intense enjoyment of pleasures independent +of the body.' She sent me a little work of hers called +'Traditions of Palestine.' Her friends had hoped by the +stationary character of some symptoms that the disease was +suspended, but lately it is said to be gaining ground, and +the serenity and elevation of her mind are more and more +triumphantly evident as the bodily pangs thicken....</p> + +<p>And now I am going to tell you what will surprise you, +if you do not know it already. Stormie and Georgie are +passing George's vacation on the Rhine. You are certainly +surprised if you did not know it. Papa signed and sealed +them away on the ground of its being good and refreshing +for both of them, and I was even mixed up a little with the +diplomacy of it, until I found <i>they were going</i>, and then it +was a hard, terrible struggle with me to be calm and see +them go. But <i>that</i> was childish, and when I had heard +from them at Ostend I grew more satisfied again, and +attained to think less of the fatal influences of <i>my star</i>. +They went away in great spirits, Stormie 'quite elated,' to +use his own words, and then at the end of the six weeks +they <i>must</i> be at home at Sessions; and no possible way of +passing the interim could be pleasanter and better and more +exhilarating for themselves. The plan was to go from +Ostend by railroad to Brussels and Cologne, then to pass +down the Rhine to Switzerland, spend a few days at Geneva, +and a week in Paris as they return. The only fear is that +Stormie won't go to Paris. We have too many friends there—a +strange obstacle.</p> + +<p>Dearest Mrs. Martin, I am doing something more than +writing you a letter, I think.</p> + +<p>May God bless you all with the most enduring consolations! +Give my love to Mr. Martin, and believe also, both +of you, in my sympathy. I am glad that your poor Fanny +should be so supported. May God bless her and all of +you!</p> + +<p>Dearest Mrs. Martin's affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>I am very well for <i>me</i>, and was out in the chair +yesterday.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +September 8, 1843.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I ask you humbly not to fancy +me in a passion whenever I happen to be silent. For a +woman to be silent is ominous, I know, but it need not be +significant of anything quite so terrible as ill-humour. And +yet it always happens so; if I do not write I am sure to be +cross in your opinion. You set me down directly as 'hurt,' +which means <i>irritable</i>; or 'offended,' which means <i>sulky</i>; +your ideal of me having, in fact, 'its finger in its eye' all day +long.</p> + +<p>I, on the contrary, humbled as I was by your hard +criticism of my soft rhymes about Flush,<a name="FNanchor_81_81"></a><a href="#Footnote_81_81"><sup>[81]</sup></a> waited for Arabel +to carry a message for me, begging to know whether you +would care at all to see my 'Cry of the Children'<a name="FNanchor_82_82"></a><a href="#Footnote_82_82"><sup>[82]</sup></a> before I +sent it to you. But Arabel went without telling me that +she was going: twice she went to St. John's Wood and made +no sign; and now I find myself thrown on my own resources. +Will you see the 'Cry of the Human'<a name="FNanchor_83_83"></a><a href="#Footnote_83_83"><sup>[83]</sup></a> or not? It will not +please you, probably. It wants melody. The versification +is eccentric to the ear, and the subject (the factory miseries) +is scarcely an agreeable one to the fancy. Perhaps altogether +you had better not see it, because I know you think me +to be deteriorating, and I don't want you to have further +hypothetical evidence of so false an opinion. Humbled as +I am, I say 'so false an opinion.' Frankly, if not humbly, +I believe myself to have gained power since the time of the +publication of the 'Seraphim,' and lost nothing except happiness. +Frankly, if not humbly!</p> + +<p>With regard to the 'House of Clouds'<a name="FNanchor_84_84"></a><a href="#Footnote_84_84"><sup>[84]</sup></a> I disagree both +with you and Miss Mitford, thinking it, comparatively with +my other poems, neither so bad nor so good as you two +account it. It has certainly been singled out for great +praise both at home and abroad, and only the other day +Mr. Horne wrote to me to reproach me for not having +mentioned it to him, because he came upon it accidentally +and considered it 'one of my best productions.' Mr. +Kenyon holds the same opinion. As for Flush's verses, +they are what I call cobweb verses, thin and light enough; +and Arabel was mistaken in telling you that Miss Mitford +gave the prize to them. Her words were, 'They are as +tender and true as anything you ever wrote, but nothing is +equal to the "House of Clouds."' Those were her words, +or to that effect, and I refer to them to you, not for the sake +of Flush's verses, which really do not appear even to myself, +their writer, worth a defence, but for the sake of <i>your</i> judgment +of <i>her</i> accuracy in judging.</p> + +<p>Lately I have received two letters from the profoundest +woman thinker in England, Miss Martineau—letters which +touched me deeply while they gave me pleasure I did not +expect.</p> + +<p>My poor Flush has fallen into tribulation. Think of +Catiline, the great savage Cuba bloodhound belonging to +this house, attempting last night to worry him just as the +first Catiline did Cicero. Flush was rescued, but not before +he had been wounded severely: and this morning he is on +three legs and in great depression of spirits. My poor, poor +Flushie! He lies on my sofa and looks up to me with most +pathetic eyes.</p> + +<p>Where is Annie? If I send my love to her, will it ever +be found again?</p> + +May God bless you both!<br /> + +<p>Dearest Mr. Boyd's affectionate and grateful<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Monday, September 19, 1843.<br /> + +<p>My own dear Friend,—I should have written instantly +to explain myself out of appearances which did me injustice, +only I have been in such distress as to have no courage for +writing. Flush was stolen away, and for three days I could +neither sleep nor eat, nor do anything much more rational +than cry. <i>Confiteor tibi</i>, oh reverend father. And if you +call me very silly, I am so used to the reproach throughout +the week as to be hardened to the point of vanity. The +worst of it is, now, that there will be no need of more +'Houses of Clouds' to prove to you the deterioration of my +faculties. Q.E.D.</p> + +<p>In my own defence, I really believe that my distress +arose somewhat less from the mere separation from dear +little Flushie than from the consideration of how he was +breaking his heart, cast upon the cruel world. Formerly, +when he has been prevented from sleeping on my bed he +has passed the night in moaning piteously, and often he has +refused to eat from a strange hand. And then he loves me, +heart to heart; there was no exaggeration in my verses about +him, if there was no poetry. And when I heard that he cried +in the street and then vanished, there was little wonder that +I, on my part, should cry in the house.</p> + +<p>With great difficulty we hunted the dog-banditti into +their caves of the city, and bribed them into giving back +their victim. Money was the least thing to think of in +such case; I would have given a thousand pounds if I had +had them in my hand. The audacity of the wretched men +was marvellous. They said that they had been 'about +stealing Flush these two years,' and warned us plainly to +take care of him for the future.</p> + +<p>The joy of the meeting between Flush and me would be +a good subject for a Greek ode—I recommend it to you. +It might take rank next to the epical parting of Hector and +Andromache. He dashed up the stairs into my room and +into my arms, where I hugged him and kissed him, black +as he was—black as if imbued in a distillation of St. Giles's. +Ah, I can break jests about it <i>now</i>, you see. Well, to go +back to the explanations I promised to give you, I must tell +you that Arabel <i>perfectly forgot</i> to say a word to me about +'Blackwood' and your wish that I should send the magazine. +It was only after I heard that you had procured it yourself, +and after I mentioned this to her, that she remembered her +omission all at once. Therefore I am quite vexed and +disappointed, I beg you to believe—<i>I</i>, who have pleasure +in giving you any printed verses of mine that you care to have. +Never mind! I may print another volume before long, and +lay it at your feet. In the meantime, you <i>endure</i> my 'Cry of +the Children' better than I had anticipated—just because I +never anticipated your being able to read it to the end, and was +over-delicate of placing it in your hands on that very account. +My dearest Mr. Boyd, you are right in your complaint against +the rhythm. The first stanza came into my head in a hurricane, +and I was obliged to make the other stanzas like it—<i>that</i> +is the whole mystery of the iniquity. If you look Mr. Lucas +from head to foot, you will never find such a rhythm on his +person. The whole crime of the versification belongs to +<i>me</i>. So blame <i>me</i>, and by no means another poet, and I +will humbly confess that I deserve to be blamed in some +<i>measure</i>. There is a roughness, my own ear being witness, +and I give up the body of my criminal to the rod of your +castigation, kissing the last as if it were Flush.</p> + +<p>A report runs in London that Mr. Boyd says of +Elizabeth Barrett: 'She is a person of the most perverted +judgment in England.' Now, if this be true, I shall not +mend my evil position in your opinion, my very dear friend, +by confessing that I differ with you, the more the longer I +live, on the ground of what you call 'jumping lines.' I am +speaking not of particular cases, but of the principle, the +general principle, of these cases, and the tenacity of my +judgment does not arise from the teaching of 'Mr. Lucas,' +but from the deeper study of the old master-poets—English +poets—those of the Elizabeth and James ages, before the +corruption of French rhythms stole in with Waller and +Denham, and was acclimated into a national inodorousness +by Dryden and Pope. We differ so much upon this subject +that we must proceed by agreeing to differ, and end, perhaps, +by finding it agreeable to differ; there can be no possible +use in an argument. Only you must be upright in justice, +and find Wordsworth innocent of misleading me. So far +from having read him more within these three years, I have +read him <i>less</i>, and have taken no new review, I do assure +you, of his position and character as a poet, and these facts +are testified unto by the other fact that my poetry, neither +in its best features nor its worst, is adjusted after the fashion +of his school.</p> + +<p>But I am writing too much; you will have no patience +with me. 'The Excursion' is accused of being lengthy, +and so you will tell me that I convict myself of plagiarism, +<i>currente calamo</i>.</p> + +<p>I have just finished a poem of some eight hundred +lines, called 'The Vision of Poets,'<a name="FNanchor_85_85"></a><a href="#Footnote_85_85"><sup>[85]</sup></a> philosophical, +allegorical—anything but popular. It is in stanzas, every one +an octosyllabic triplet, which you will think odd, and I +have not <i>sanguinity</i> enough to defend.</p> + +<p>May God bless you, my dearest Mr. Boyd! Yes, I +heard—I was glad to hear—of your having resumed that +which used to be so great a pleasure to you—Miss Marcus's +society. I remain,</p> + +<p>Affectionately and gratefully yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>My love to dear Annie.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +October 1843.<br /> + +<p>You are probably right in respect to Tennyson, for +whom, with all my admiration of him, I would willingly +secure more exaltation and a broader clasping of truth. +Still, it is not possible to have so much beauty without a +certain portion of truth, the position of the Utilitarians being +true in the inverse. But I think as I did of 'uses' and +'responsibilities,' and do hold that the poet is a preacher +and must look to his doctrine.</p> + +<p>Perhaps Mr. Tennyson will grow more solemn, like the +sun, as his day goes on. In the meantime we have the +noble 'Two Voices,' and, among other grand intimations of a +teaching power, certain stanzas to J.K. (I think the initials +are) on the death of his brother,<a name="FNanchor_86_86"></a><a href="#Footnote_86_86"><sup>[86]</sup></a> which very deeply affected +me.</p> + +<p>Take away the last stanzas, which should be applied +more definitely to the <i>body</i>, or cut away altogether as a lie +against eternal verity, and the poem stands as one of the +finest of monodies. The nature of human grief never surely +was more tenderly intimated or touched—it brought tears +to my eyes. Do read it. He is not a Christian poet, up to +this time, but let us listen and hear his next songs. He is +one of God's singers, whether he knows it or does not +know it.</p> + +<p>I am thinking, lifting up my pen, what I can write to +you which is likely to be interesting to you. After all I +come to chaos and silence, and even old night—it is +growing so dark. I live in London, to be sure, and except for +the glory of it I might live in a desert, so profound is my +solitude and so complete my isolation from things and +persons without. I lie all day, and day after day, on the +sofa, and my windows do not even look into the street. +To abuse myself with a vain deceit of rural life I have had +ivy planted in a box, and it has flourished and spread over +one window, and strikes against the glass with a little stroke +from the thicker leaves when the wind blows at all briskly. +<i>Then</i> I think of forests and groves; it is my triumph when +the leaves strike the window pane, and this is not a sound +like a lament. Books and thoughts and dreams (almost +too consciously <i>dreamed</i>, however, for me—the illusion of +them has almost passed) and domestic tenderness can and +ought to leave nobody lamenting. Also God's wisdom, +deeply steeped in His love, <i>is</i> as far as we can stretch out +our hands.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: December 26, 1843.<br /> + +<p>Dear Mr. Westwood,—You think me, perhaps, and not +without apparent reason, ungrateful and insensible to your +letter, but indeed I am neither one nor the other, and I +am writing now to try and prove it to you. I was much +touched by some tones of kindness in the letter, and it was +welcome altogether, and I did not need the 'owl' which +came after to waken me, because I was wide awake enough +from the first moment; and now I see that you have been +telling your beads, while I seemed to be telling nothing, in +that dread silence of mine. May all true saints of poetry +be propitious to the wearer of the 'Rosary.'</p> + +<p>In answer to a question which you put to me long ago +on the subject of books of theology, I will confess to you +that, although I have read rather widely the divinity of the +Greek Fathers, Gregory, Chrysostom, and so forth, and +have of course informed myself in the works generally of +our old English divines, Hooker, Jeremy Taylor, and so +forth, I am not by any means a frequent reader of books of +theology as such, and as the men of our times have made +them. I have looked into the 'Tracts' from curiosity and +to hear what the world was talking of, and I was disappointed +<i>even</i> in the degree of intellectual power displayed +in them. From motives of a desire of theological instruction +I very seldom read any book except God's own. The +minds of persons are differently constituted; and it is no +praise to mine to admit that I am apt to receive less of +what is called edification from human discourses on divine +subjects, than disturbance and hindrance. I read the +Scriptures every day, and in as simple a spirit as I can; +thinking as little as possible of the controversies engendered +in that great sunshine, and as much as possible of the heat +and glory belonging to it. It is a sure fact in my eyes that +we do not require so much <i>more knowledge</i>, as a stronger +apprehension, by the faith and affections, of what we already +know.</p> + +<p>You will be sorry to hear that Mr. Tennyson is not well, +although his friends talk of nervousness, and do not fear +much ultimate mischief....<a name="FNanchor_87_87"></a><a href="#Footnote_87_87"><sup>[87]</sup></a></p> + +<p>It is such a lovely <i>May</i> day, that I am afraid of breaking +the spell by writing down Christmas wishes.</p> + +<p>Very faithfully yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: December 31, 1843.<br /> + +<p>If you do find the paper I was invited to write upon +Wordsworth<a name="FNanchor_88_88"></a><a href="#Footnote_88_88"><sup>[88]</sup></a>, you will see to which class of your admiring +or abhorring friends I belong. Perhaps you will cry out +quickly, 'To the blind admirers, certes.' And I have a +high admiration of Wordsworth. His spirit has worked a +good work, and has freed into the capacity of work other +noble spirits. He took the initiative in a great poetic +movement, and is not only to be praised for what he has +done, but for what he has helped his age to do. For the +rest, Byron has more passion and intensity, Shelley more +fancy and music, Coleridge could see further into the +unseen, and not one of those poets has insulted his own +genius by the production of whole poems, such as I could +name of Wordsworth's, the vulgarity of which is childish, +and the childishness vulgar. Still, the wings of his genius +are wide enough to cast a shadow over its feet, and our +gratitude should be stronger than our critical acumen. Yes, +I <i>will</i> be a blind admirer of Wordsworth's. I <i>will</i> shut my +eyes and be blind. Better so, than see too well for the +thankfulness which is his due from me....</p> + +<p>Yes, I mean to print as much as I can find and make +room for, 'Brown Rosary' and all. I am glad you liked +'Napoleon,'<a name="FNanchor_89_89"></a><a href="#Footnote_89_89"><sup>[89]</sup></a> but I shall be more glad if you decide when +you see this new book that I have made some general +progress in strength and expression. Sometimes I rise into +hoping that I may have done so, or may do so still more.</p> + +<p>The poet's work is no light work. His wheat will not +grow without labour any more than other kinds of wheat, +and the sweat of the spirit's brow is wrung by a yet harder +necessity. And, thinking so, I am inclined to a little regret +that you should have hastened your book even for the sake +of a sentiment. Now you will be angry with me....</p> + +<p>There are certain difficulties in the way of the critic +unprofessional, as I know by experience. Our most sweet +voices are scarcely admissible among the most sour ones +of the regular brotherhood....</p> + +<p>Harriet Martineau is quite well,'trudging miles together +in the snow,' when the snow was, and in great spirits. +Wordsworth is to be in London in the spring. Tennyson +is dancing the polka and smoking cloud upon cloud at +Cheltenham. Robert Browning is meditating a new poem, +and an excursion on the Continent. Miss Mitford came to +spend a day with me some ten days ago; sprinkled, as to +the soul, with meadow dews. Am I at the end of my +account? I think so.</p> + +<p>Did you read 'Blackwood'? and in that case have you +had deep delight in an exquisite paper by the Opium-eater, +which my heart trembled through from end to end? What +a poet that man is! how he vivifies words, or deepens them, +and gives them profound significance....</p> + +<p>I understand that poor Hood is supposed to be dying, +really dying, at last. Sydney Smith's last laugh mixes +with his, or nearly so. But Hood had a deeper heart, in +one sense, than Sydney Smith, and is the material of a +greater man.</p> + +<p>And what are you doing? Writing—reading—or +musing of either? Are you a reviewer-man—in opposition +to the writer? Once, reviewing was my besetting sin, but +now it is only my frailty. Now that I lie here at the mercy +of every reviewer, I save myself by an instinct of +self-preservation from that 'gnawing tooth' (as Homer and +Aeschylus did rightly call it), and spring forward into definite +work and thought. Else, I should perish. Do you understand +that? If you are a reviewer-man you will, and if not, +you must set it down among those mysteries of mine which +people talk of as profane.</p> + +<p>May God bless you, &c. &c.<br /> +ELIZABETH BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +[Undated.]<br /> + +<p>You know as well as I do how the plague of rhymers, +and of bad rhymes, is upon the land, and it was only three +weeks ago that, at a 'Literary Institute' at Brighton, I heard +of the Reverend somebody Stoddart gravely proposing +'Poetry for the Million' to his audience; he assuring them +that 'poets made a mystery of their art,' but that in fact +nothing except an English grammar, and a rhyming +dictionary, and some instruction about counting on the +fingers, was necessary in order to make a poet of any man!</p> + +<p><i>This</i> is a fact. And to this extent has the art, once +called divine, been desecrated among the educated classes +of our country.</p> + +<p>Very sincerely yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH BARRETT.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>Besides the poems, to which reference has been made in +the above letters, Miss Barrett was engaged, during the year +1843, in co-operating with her friend Mr. Home in the production +of his great critical enterprise, 'The New Spirit of +the Age.' In this the much daring author undertook no +less a task than that of passing a sober and serious judgment +on his principal living comrades in the world of letters. +Not unnaturally he ended by bringing a hornets' nest about +his ears—alike of those who thought they should have been +mentioned and were not, and of those who were mentioned +but in terms which did not satisfy the good opinion of themselves +with which Providence had been pleased to gift +them. The volumes appeared under Home's name alone, +and he took the whole responsibility; but he invited +assistance from others, and in particular used the collaboration +of Miss Barrett to no small extent. She did not indeed +contribute any complete essay to his work; but she +expressed her opinion, when invited, on several writers, in a +series of elaborate letters, which were subsequently worked +up by Home into his own criticisms.<a name="FNanchor_90_90"></a><a href="#Footnote_90_90"><sup>[90]</sup></a> The secret of her cooperation +was carefully kept, and she does not appear to +have suffered any of the evil consequences of his indiscretions, +real or imagined. Another contribution from her +consisted of the suggestion of mottoes appropriate to each +writer noticed at length; and in this work she had an unknown +collaborator in the person of Robert Browning. So +ends the somewhat uneventful year of 1843.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<a name="CHAPTER_IV"></a><h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> +<h3>1844-46</h3> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<p>The year 1844 marks an important epoch in the life of +Mrs. Browning. It was in this year that, as a result of the +publication of her two volumes of 'Poems,' she won her +general and popular recognition as a poetess whose rank +was with the foremost of living writers. It was six years +since she had published a volume of verse; and in the +meanwhile she had been gaining strength and literary +experience. She had tried her wings in the pages of +popular periodicals. She had profited by the criticisms on +her earlier work, and by intercourse with men of letters; +and though her defects in literary art were by no means +purged away, yet the flights of her inspiration were stronger +and more assured. The result is that, although the volumes +of 1844 do not contain absolutely her best work—no one +with the 'Sonnets from the Portuguese' in his mind can +affirm so much as that—they contain that which has been +most generally popular, and which won her the position which +for the rest of her life she held in popular estimation among +the leaders of English poetry.</p> + +<p>The principal poem in these two volumes is the 'Drama +of Exile.' Of the genesis of this work, Miss Barrett gives the +following account in a letter to Home, dated December 28 +1843:</p> + +<blockquote><p>'A volume full of manuscripts had been ready for more +than a year, when suddenly, a short time ago, when I fancied I +had no heavier work than to make copy and corrections, I fell +upon a fragment of a sort of masque on "The First Day's +Exile from Eden"—or rather it fell upon me, and beset me +till I would finish it.'<a name="FNanchor_91_91"></a><a href="#Footnote_91_91"><sup>[91]</sup></a></p> +</blockquote> + +<p>At one time it was intended to use its name as the title +to the two volumes; but this design was abandoned, and +they appeared under the simple description of 'Poems, by +Elizabeth Barrett Barrett.' The 'Vision of Poets' comes +next in length to the 'Drama'; and among the shorter pieces +were several which rank among her best work, 'The Cry +of the Children,' 'Wine of Cyprus,' 'The Dead Pan,' +'Bertha in the Lane,' 'Crowned and Buried,' 'The Mourning +Mother,' and 'The Sleep,' together with such popular +favourites as 'Lady Geraldine's Courtship,' 'The Romaunt +of the Page,' and 'The Rhyme of the Duchess May.' Since +the publication of 'The Seraphim' volume, the new era of +poetry had developed itself to a notable extent. Tennyson +had published the best of his earlier verse, 'Locksley Hall,' +'Ulysses,' the 'Morte d'Arthur,' 'The Lotus Eaters,' 'A +Dream of Fair Women,' and many more; Browning had +issued his wonderful series of 'Bells and Pomegranates,' +including 'Pippa Passes,' 'King Victor and King Charles,' +'Dramatic Lyrics,' 'The Return of the Druses,' and 'The +Blot on the 'Scutcheon'; and it was among company such +as this that Miss Barrett, by general consent, now took her +place.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +January 8, 1844.<br /> + +<p>Thank you again and again, my dearest Mrs. Martin, for +your flowers, and the verses which gave them another +perfume. The 'incense of the heart' lost not a grain of its +perfume in coming so far, and not a leaf of the flowers was +ruffled, and to see such gorgeous colours all on a sudden at +Christmas time was like seeing a vision, and almost made +Flush and me rub our eyes. Thank you, dearest Mrs. +Martin; how kind of you! The grace of the verses and the +brightness of the flowers were too much for me altogether. +And when George exclaimed, 'Why, she has certainly laid +bare her greenhouse,' I had not a word to say in justification +of myself for being the cause of it.</p> + +<p>Papa admired the branch of Australian origin so much +that he walked all over the house with it. Beautiful it +is indeed; but my eyes turn back to the camellias. I do +believe that I like to look at a camellia better than at a rose; +and then <i>these</i> have a double association....</p> + +<p>I meant to write a long letter to you to-day, but Mr. +Kenyon has been to see me and cut my time short before +post time. You remember, perhaps, how his brother married +a German, and, after an exile of many years in Germany, +returned last summer to England to settle. Well, he can't +bear us any longer! His wife is growing paler and paler +with the pressure of English social habits, or rather unsocial +habits; and he himself is a German at heart; and besides, +being a man of a singularly generous nature, and accustomed +to give away in handfuls of silver and gold one-third +of every year's income, he dislikes the social obligation of +<i>spending</i> it here. So they are going back. Poor Mr. +Kenyon! I am full of sympathy with him. This returning +to England was a dream of all last year to him. He gave +up his house to the new comers, and bought a new one; +and talked of the brightness secured to his latter years by +the presence of his only remaining near relative; and I see +that, for all his effort towards a bright view of the matter, +he is disappointed—very. Should you suppose that four +hundred pounds in Vienna go as far as a thousand in +England? I should never have fancied it.</p> + +<p>You shall hear from me, my dearest Mrs. Martin, in +another few days; and I send this as it is, just because I +am benighted by the post hour, and do not like to pass +your kindness with even one day's apparent neglect.</p> + +<p>May God bless you and dear Mr. Martin. The kindest +wishes for the long slope of coming year, and for the many, +I trust, beyond it, belong to you from the deepest of our +hearts.</p> + +<p>But shall you not be coming—setting out—very soon, +before I can write again?</p> + +<p>Your affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +[?January 1844.]<br /> + +<p>I am so sorry, dear Mr. Kenyon, to hear—which I did, +last night, for the first time—of your being unwell. I had +hoped that to-day would bring a better account, but your +note, with its next week prospect, is disappointing. The +'ignominy' would have been very preferable—to us, at least, +particularly as it need not have lasted beyond to-day, dear +Georgie being quite recovered, and at his law again, and no +more symptoms of small-pox in anybody. We should all +be well, if it were not for me and my cough, which is +better, but I am not quite well, nor have yet been out.</p> + +<p>A letter came to me from dear Miss Mitford a few days +since, which I had hoped to talk to you about. Some of +the subject of it is Mr. Kenyon's '<i>only fault</i>,' which +ought, of course, to be a large one to weigh against the +multitudinous ones of other people, but which seems to be: +'He has the habit of walking in without giving notice. He +thinks it saves trouble, whereas in a small family, and at a +distance from a town, the effect is that one takes care to be +provided for the whole time that one expects him, and then, +by some exquisite ill luck, on the only day when one's +larder is empty, in he comes!' And so, if you have not +written to interrupt her in this process of indefinite expectation, +the 'only fault' will, in her eyes, grow, as it ought, as +large as fifty others.</p> + +<p>I do hope, dear Mr. Kenyon, soon to hear that you are +better—and well—and that your course of prophecy may +not run smooth all through next week.</p> + +<p>Very truly yours,<br /> +E. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +Saturday.<br /> +<i>To John Kenyon</i><br /> +Saturday night [about March 1844].<br /> + +<p>I return Mr. Burges's criticism, which I omitted to +talk to you of this morning, but which interested me much +in the reading. Do let him understand how obliged to him +I am for permitting me to look, for a moment, according to +his view of the question. Perhaps my poetical sense is not +convinced all through, and certainly my critical sense is not +worth convincing, but I am delighted to be able to call by +the name of Aeschylus, under the authority of Mr. Burges, +those noble electrical lines (electrical for double reasons) +which had struck me twenty times as Aeschylean, when I +read them among the recognised fragments of Sophocles. +You hear Aeschylus's footsteps and voice in the lines. No +other of the gods could tread so heavily, or speak so like +thundering.</p> + +<p>I wrote all this to begin with, hesitating how else to +begin. My very dear and kind friend, you understand—do +you not?—through an expression which, whether written or +spoken, must remain imperfect, to what deep, full feeling +of gratitude your kindness has moved me.<a name="FNanchor_92_92"></a><a href="#Footnote_92_92"><sup>[92]</sup></a> The good you +have done me, and just at the moment when I should have +failed altogether without it, and in more than one way, and +in a deeper than the obvious degree—all this I know better +than you do, and I thank you for it from the bottom of my +heart. I shall never forget it, as long as I live to remember +anything. The book may fail signally after all—<i>that</i> is +another question; but I shall not fail, to begin with, and +<i>that</i> I owe to <i>you</i>, for I was falling to pieces in +nerves and spirits when you came to help me. I had only enough +instinct left to be ashamed, a little, afterwards, of having +sent you, in company, too, with Miss Martineau's heroic +cheerfulness, that note of weak because unavailing complaint. +It was a long compressed feeling breaking suddenly +into words. Forgive and forget that I ever so troubled +you—no, 'troubled' is not the word for your kindness!—and +remember, as I shall do, the great good you have done me.</p> + +<p>May God bless you, my dear cousin.</p> + +<p>Affectionately yours always,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>This note is not to be answered.</p> + +<p>I am thinking of writing to Moxon, as there does not +seem much to arrange. The type and size of Tennyson's +books seem, upon examination, to suit my purpose +excellently.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +March 21, 1844.<br /> + +<p>No, you never sent me back Miss Martineau's letter, my +dear cousin; but you will be sure, or rather Mr. Crabb +Robinson will, to find it in some too safe a place; +and then I shall have it. In the meantime here are +the other letters back again. You will think that I was +keeping them for a deposit, a security, till I 'had my +ain again,' but I have only been idle and busy together. +They are the most interesting that can be, and have +quite delighted me. By the way, <i>I</i>, who saw nothing to +object to in the 'Life in the Sick Room,' object very much +to her argument in behalf of it—an argument certainly +founded on a miserable misapprehension of the special +doctrine referred to in her letter. There is nothing so +elevating and ennobling to the nature and mind of man as +the view which represents it raised into communion with +God Himself, by the justification and purification of God +Himself. Plato's dream brushed by the gate of this doctrine +when it walked highest, and won for him the title of 'Divine.' +That it is vulgarised sometimes by narrow-minded teachers +in theory, and by hypocrites in action, might be an +argument (if admitted at all) against all truth, poetry, and +music!</p> + +<p>On the other hand, I was glad to see the leaning on the +Education question; in which all my friends the Dissenters +did appear to me so painfully wrong and so unworthily wrong +at once.</p> + +<p>And Southey's letters! I did quite delight in <i>them</i>! +They are more <i>personal</i> than any I ever saw of his; and +have more warm every-day life in them.</p> + +<p>The particular Paul Pry in question (to come down to +<i>my</i> life) never 'intrudes.' It is his peculiarity. And I put +the stop exactly where I was bid; and was going to put +Gabriel's speech,<a name="FNanchor_93_93"></a><a href="#Footnote_93_93"><sup>[93]</sup></a> only—with the pen in my hand to +do it—I found that the angel was a little too exclamatory +altogether, and that he had cried out, 'O ruined earth!' and +'O miserable angel!' just before, approaching to the habit of +a mere caller of names. So I altered the passage otherwise; +taking care of your full stop after 'despair.' Thank you, my +dear Mr. Kenyon.</p> + +<p>Also I sent enough manuscript for the first sheet, and a +note to Moxon yesterday, last night, thanking him for +his courtesy about Leigh Hunt's poems; and following +your counsel in every point. 'Only last night,' you will +say! But I have had <i>such</i> a headache—and some very +painful vexation in the prospect of my maid's leaving me, +who has been with me throughout my illness; so that +I am much attached to her, with the best reasons for being +so, while the idea of a stranger is scarcely tolerable to me +under my actual circumstances.</p> + +<p>The 'Palm Leaves'<a name="FNanchor_94_94"></a><a href="#Footnote_94_94"><sup>[94]</sup></a> are full of strong thought and good +thought—thought expressed excellently well; but of poetry, in +the true sense, and of imagination in any, I think them bare +and cold—somewhat wintry leaves to come from the East, +surely, surely!</p> + +<p>May the change of air be rapid in doing you good—the +weather seems to be softening on purpose for you. May +God bless you, dear Mr. Kenyon; I never can thank you +enough. When you return I shall be rustling my 'proofs' +about you, to prove my faith in your kindness.</p> + +<p>Ever affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +March 22, 1844.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mr. Boyd,—I heard that once I wrote three +times too long a letter to you; I am aware that nine +times too long a silence is scarcely the way to make up +for it. Forgive me, however, as far as you can, for every +sort of fault. When I once begin to write to you, I do +not know how to stop; and I have had so much to do +lately as scarcely to know how to begin to write to you. +<i>Hence these</i> faults—not quite tears—in spite of my penitence +and the quotation.</p> + +<p>At last my book is in the press. My great poem (in +the modest comparative sense), my 'Masque of Exile' (as +I call it at last<a name="FNanchor_95_95"></a><a href="#Footnote_95_95"><sup>[95]</sup></a>), consists of some nineteen hundred or +two thousand lines, and I call it 'Masque of <i>Exile</i>' because +it refers to Lucifer's exile, and to that other mystical exile +of the Divine Being which was the means of the return +homewards of my Adam and Eve. After the exultation +of boldness of composition, I fell into one of my deepest +fits of despondency, and at last, at the end of most painful +vacillations, determined not to print it. Never was a +manuscript so near the fire as my 'Masque' was. I had +not even the instinct of applying for help to anybody. +In the midst of this Mr. Kenyon came in by accident, +and asked about my poem. I told him that I had given +it up, despairing of my republic. In the kindest way he +took it into his hands, and proposed to carry it home and +read it, and tell me his impression. 'You know,' he said, +'I have a prejudice against these sacred subjects for poetry, +but then I have another prejudice <i>for you</i>, and one may +neutralise the other.' The next day I had a letter from him +with the returned manuscript—a letter which I was absolutely +certain, before I opened it, would counsel <i>against</i> the +publication. On the contrary! His impression is clearly in +favour of the poem, and, while he makes sundry criticisms +on minor points, he considers it very superior as a whole to +anything I ever did before—more sustained, and fuller in +power. So my nerves are braced, and I grow a man again; +and the manuscript, as I told you, is in the press. Moreover, +you will be surprised to hear that I think of bringing +out <i>two volumes of poems</i> instead of one, by advice of Mr. +Moxon, the publisher. Also, the Americans have commanded +an American edition, to come out in numbers, either a little +before or simultaneously with the English one, and provided with +a separate preface for themselves.</p> + +<p>There now! I have told you all this, knowing your +kindness, and that you will care to hear of it.</p> + +<p>It has given me the greatest concern to hear of dear +Annie's illness, and I do hope, both for your sake and for +all our sakes, that we may have better news of her before +long.</p> + +<p>But I don't mean to fall into another scrape to-day by +writing too much. May God bless you, my very dear +friend!</p> + +<p>I am ever your affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +April I, 1844.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—Your kind letter I was delighted +to receive. You mistake a good deal the capacities in +judgment of 'the man.'<a name="FNanchor_96_96"></a><a href="#Footnote_96_96"><sup>[96]</sup></a> The 'man' is highly refined in his +tastes, and leaning to the classical (I was going to say to +<i>your</i> classical, only suddenly I thought of Ossian) a good +deal more than I do. He has written satires in the manner +of Pope, which admirers of Pope have praised warmly and +deservedly. If I had hesitated about the conclusiveness of +his judgments, it would have been because of his confessed +indisposition towards subjects religious and ways mystical, +and his occasional insufficient indulgence for rhymes and +rhythms which he calls '<i>Barrettian</i>.' But these things +render his favourable inclination towards my 'Drama of +Exile' still more encouraging (as you will see) to my hopes +for it.</p> + +<p>Still, I do tremble a good deal inwardly when I come to +think of what your own thoughts of my poem, and poems +in their two-volume development, may finally be. I am +afraid of you. You will tell me the truth as it appears to +you—upon <i>that</i> I may rely; and I should not wish you to +suppress a single disastrous thought for the sake of the +unpleasantness it may occasion to me. My own faith is +that I have made progress since 'The Seraphim,' only it is +too possible (as I confess to myself and you) that your +opinion may be exactly contrary to it.</p> + +<p>You are very kind in what you say about wishing to +have some conversation, as the medium of your information +upon architecture, with Octavius—Occy, as we call him. +He is very much obliged to you, and proposes, if it should +not be inconvenient to you, to call upon you on Friday, +with Arabel, at about one o'clock. Friday is mentioned +because it is a holiday, no work being done at Mr. Barry's. +Otherwise he is engaged every day (except, indeed, Sunday) +from nine in the morning to five in the afternoon. May +God bless you, dearest Mr. Boyd. I am ever</p> + +<p>Your affectionate<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +April 16, 1844.<br /> + +<p>... Surely, surely, it was not likely I should lean to +utilitarianism in the notice on Carlyle, as I remember the +writer of that article leans somewhere—<i>I</i>, who am reproached +with trans-trans-transcendentalisms, and not without reason, +or with insufficient reason.</p> + +<p>Oh, and I should say also that Mr. Home, in his +kindness, has enlarged considerably in his annotations and +reflections on me personally.<a name="FNanchor_97_97"></a><a href="#Footnote_97_97"><sup>[97]</sup></a> My being in correspondence +with all the Kings of the East, for instance, is an exaggeration, +although literary work in one way will bring with it, +happily, literary association in others.... Still, I am not a +great letter writer, and I don't write 'elegant Latin verses,' +as all the gods of Rome know, and I have not been shut +up in the dark for seven years by any manner of means. +By the way, a barrister said to my barrister brother the +other day, 'I suppose your sister is dead?' 'Dead?' said +he, a little struck; 'dead?' 'Why, yes. After Mr. Home's +account of her being sealed up hermetically in the dark +for so many years, one can only calculate upon her being +dead by this time.'</p> + +<p>ELIZABETH BARRETT.</p> + +<p>Several of the letters to Mr. Boyd which follow refer to +that celebrated gift of Cyprus wine which led to the +composition of one of Miss Barrett's best known and most +quoted poems.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +June 18, 1844.<br /> + +<p>Thank you, my very dear friend! I write to you drunk +with Cyprus. Nothing can be worthier of either gods or +demi-gods; and if, as you say, Achilles did not drink of it, +I am sorry for him. I suppose Jupiter had it instead, just +then—Hebe pouring it, and Juno's ox-eyes bellowing their +splendour at it, if you will forgive me that broken metaphor, +for the sake of Aeschylus's genius, and my own particular +intoxication.</p> + +<p>Indeed, there <i>never was</i>, in modern days, such wine. +Flush, to whom I offered the last drop in my glass, felt it +was supernatural, and ran away. I have an idea that if he +had drunk that drop, he would have talked afterwards—either +Greek or English.</p> + +<p>Never was such wine! The very taste of ideal nectar, +only stiller, from keeping. If the bubbles of eternity were +on it, <i>we</i> should run away, perhaps, like Flush.</p> + +<p>Still, the thought comes to me, ought I to take it from +you? Is it right of me? are you not too kind in sending +it? and should you be allowed to be too kind? In any +case, you must, not think of sending me more than you +have already sent. It is more than enough, and I am not +less than very much obliged to you.</p> + +<p>I have passed the middle of my second volume, and I +only hope that critics may say of the rest that it smells of +Greek wine. Dearest Mr. Boyd's</p> + +<p>Ever affectionate<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +June 28, 1844.<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Westwood,—I have certainly and considerably +increased the evidence of my own death by the +sepulchral silence of the last few days. But after all I am +not dead, not even <i>at heart</i>, so as to be insensible to your +kind anxiety, and I can assure you of this, upon very fair +authority, neither is the book dead yet. It has turned the +corner of the <i>felo de se</i>, and if it is to die, it will be by the +critics. The mystery of the long delay, it would not be +very easy for me to explain, notwithstanding I hear Mr. +Moxon says: 'I suppose Miss Barrett is not in a hurry +about her publication;' and <i>I</i> say: 'I suppose Moxon is +not in a hurry about the publication.' There may be a +little fault on my side, when I have kept a proof a day +beyond the hour, or when 'copy' has put out new buds +in my hands as I passed it to the printer's. Still, in my +opinion, it is a good deal more the fault of Mr. Moxon's +not being in a hurry, than in the excessive virtue of my +patience, or vice of my indolence. Miss Mitford says, as +you do, that she never heard of so slow-footed a book.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street:<br /> +Wednesday, August I, 1844 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—Have you expected to hear from +me? and are you vexed with me? I am a little ambitious +of the first item—yet hopeful of an escape from the last. +If you did but know how I am pressed for time, and how +I have too much to do every day, you would forgive me +for my negligence; even if you had sent me nectar instead +of mountain,<a name="FNanchor_98_98"></a><a href="#Footnote_98_98"><sup>[98]</sup></a> and I had neglected laying my gratitude at +your feet. Last Saturday, upon its being discovered that +my first volume consisted of only 208 pages, and my second +of 280 pages, Mr. Moxon uttered a cry of reprehension, +and wished to tear me to pieces by his printers, as the +Bacchantes did Orpheus. Perhaps you might have heard +my head moaning all the way to St. John's Wood! He +wanted to tear away several poems from the end of the +second volume, and tie them on to the end of the first! +I could not and would not hear of this, because I had set +my mind on having 'Dead Pan' to conclude with. So +there was nothing for it but to finish a ballad poem called +'Lady Geraldine's Courtship,' which was lying by me, and +I did so by writing, i.e. composing, <i>one hundred and forty +lines last Saturday!</i><a name="FNanchor_99_99"></a><a href="#Footnote_99_99"><sup>[99]</sup></a> I seemed to be in a dream all day! +Long lines too—with fifteen syllables in each! I see you +shake your head all this way off. Moreover it is a 'romance +of the age,' treating of railroads, routes, and all manner of +'temporalities,' and in so radical a temper that I expect +to be reproved for it by the Conservative reviews round. +By the way, did I tell you of the good news I had from +America the third of this month? The 'Drama of Exile' is +in the hands of a New York publisher; and having been +submitted to various chief critics of the country on its way, +was praised loudly and extravagantly. This was, however, +by a <i>private reading</i> only. A bookseller at Philadelphia +had announced it for publication—he intended to take +it up when the English edition reached America; but +upon its being represented to him that the New York +publisher had proof sheets direct from the author and would +give copy money, he abandoned his intention to the other. +I confess I feel very much pleased at the kind spirit—the +spirit of eager kindness indeed—with which the Americans +receive my poetry. It is not wrong to be pleased, I hope. +In this country there may be mortifications waiting for me; +quite enough to keep my modesty in a state of cultivation. +I do not know. I hope the work will be out this week, +and <i>then</i>! Did I explain to you that what 'Lady Geraldine's +Courtship' was wanted for was to increase the size of the +first volume, so as to restore the equilibrium of volumes, +without dislocating 'Pan'? Oh, how anxious I shall be to +hear your opinion! If you tell me that I have lost +my intellects, what in the world shall I do <i>then</i>—what +<i>shall</i> I do? My Americans—that is, my Americans +who were in at the private reading, and perhaps I myself—are +of opinion that I have made great progress since 'The Seraphim.' +It seems to me that I have more <i>reach</i>, whether in thought +or language. But then, to <i>you</i> it may appear quite otherwise, +and I shall be very melancholy if it does. Only you must tell me +the <i>precise truth</i>; and I trust to you that you will let me +have it in its integrity.</p> + +<p>All the life and strength which are in me, seem to have +passed into my poetry. It is my <i>pou sto</i>—not to move the +world; but to live on in.</p> + +<p>I must not forget to tell you that there is a poem towards +the end of the second volume, called 'Cyprus Wine,' which +I have done myself the honor and pleasure of associating +with your name. I thought that you would not be displeased +by it, as a proof of grateful regard from me.</p> + +<p>Talking of wines, the Mountain has its attraction, but +certainly is not to be compared to the Cyprus. You will +see how I have praised the latter. Well, now I must say +'good-bye,' which you will praise <i>me</i> for!</p> + +<p>Dearest Mr. Boyd's affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>P.S.—<i>Nota bene</i>—I wish to forewarn you that I have cut +away in the text none of my vowels by apostrophes. When +I say 'To efface,' wanting two-syllable measure, I do not +write 'T' efface' as in the old fashion, but 'To efface' full +length. This is the style of the day. Also you will find +me a little lax perhaps in metre—a freedom which is +the result not of carelessness, but of <i>conviction</i>, and +indeed of much patient study of the great Fathers of +English poetry—not meaning Mr. Pope. Be as patient +with me as you can. You shall have the volumes as soon +as they are ready.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +August 6, 1844.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I cannot be certain, from my +recollections, whether I did or did not write to you before, +as you suggest; but as you never received the letter and I +was in a continual press of different thoughts, the probability +is that I did not write. The Cyprus wine in the second +vial I certainly <i>did</i> receive; and was grateful to you with +the whole force of the aroma of it. And now I will tell +you an anecdote.</p> + +<p>In the excess of my filial tenderness, I poured out a +glass for papa, and offered it to him with my right hand.</p> + +<p>'<i>What is this</i>?' said he.</p> + +<p>'<i>Taste it</i>,' said I as laconically, but with more emphasis.</p> + +<p>He raised it to his lips; and, after a moment, recoiled, +with such a face as sinned against Adam's image, and with +a shudder of deep disgust.</p> + +<p>'Why,' he said, 'what most beastly and nauseous thing +is this? Oh,' he said, 'what detestable drug is this? Oh, +oh,' he said, 'I shall never, never, get this horrible taste +out of my mouth.'</p> + +<p>I explained with the proper degree of dignity that 'it +was Greek wine, Cyprus wine, and of very great value.'</p> + +<p>He retorted with acrimony, that 'it might be Greek, +twice over; but that it was exceedingly beastly.'</p> + +<p>I resumed, with persuasive argument, that 'it could +scarcely be beastly, inasmuch as the taste reminded one +of oranges and orange flower together, to say nothing of +the honey of Mount Hymettus.'</p> + +<p>He took me up with stringent logic, 'that any wine +must positively be beastly, which, pretending to be wine, +tasted sweet as honey, and that it was beastly on my own +showing!' I send you this report as an evidence of a +curious opinion. But drinkers of port wine cannot be +expected to judge of nectar—and I hold your 'Cyprus' to +be pure nectar.</p> + +<p>I shall have pleasure in doing what you ask me to do—that +is, I <i>will</i>—if you promise never to call me Miss Barrett +again. You have often quite vexed me by it. There is +Ba—Elizabeth—Elzbeth—Ellie—any modification of my +name you may call me by—but I won't be called Miss +Barrett by <i>you</i>. Do you understand? Arabel means to +carry your copy of my book to you. And I beg you not +to fancy that I shall be impatient for you to read the two +volumes through. If you <i>ever</i> read them through, it will +be a sufficient compliment, and indeed I do not expect that +you <i>ever will</i>.</p> + +<p>May God bless you, dearest Mr. Boyd.</p> + +<p>I remain,</p> + +<p>Your affectionate and grateful<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>The date of this last letter marks, as nearly as need be, +the date of publication of Miss Barrett's volumes. The +letters which follow deal mainly with their reception, first +at the hand of friends, and then by the regular critics. The +general verdict of the latter was extremely complimentary. +Mr. Chorley, in the 'Athenaeum,'<a name="FNanchor_100_100"></a><a href="#Footnote_100_100"><sup>[100]</sup></a> described the volumes +as 'extraordinary,' adding that 'between her [Miss Barrett's] +poems and the slighter lyrics of most of the sisterhood, there +is all the difference which exists between the putting-on of +"singing robes" for altar service, and the taking up lute or +harp to enchant an indulgent circle of friends and kindred.' +In the 'Examiner,'<a name="FNanchor_101_101"></a><a href="#Footnote_101_101"><sup>[101]</sup></a> John Forster declared that 'Miss +Barrett is an undoubted poetess of a high and fine order as +regards the first requisites of her art—imagination and +expression.... She is a most remarkable writer, and her +volumes contain not a little which the lovers of poetry will +never willingly let die,' a phrase then not quite so hackneyed +as it has since become. The 'Atlas'<a name="FNanchor_102_102"></a><a href="#Footnote_102_102"><sup>[102]</sup></a> asserted that 'the +present volumes show extraordinary powers, and, abating the +failings of which all the followers of Tennyson are guilty, +extraordinary genius.' More influential even than these, +'Blackwood'<a name="FNanchor_103_103"></a><a href="#Footnote_103_103"><sup>[103]</sup></a> paid her the compliment of a whole article, +criticising her faults frankly, but declaring that 'her poetical +merits infinitively outweigh her defects. Her genius is +profound, unsullied, and without a flaw.' All agreed in +assigning her a high, or the highest, place among the +poetesses of England; but, as Miss Barrett herself pointed +out, this, in itself, was no great praise.<a name="FNanchor_104_104"></a><a href="#Footnote_104_104"><sup>[104]</sup></a></p> + +<p>With regard to individual poems, the critics did not take +kindly to the 'Drama of Exile,' and 'Blackwood' in particular +criticised it at considerable length, calling it 'the least +successful of her works.' The subject, while half challenging +comparison with Milton, lends itself only too readily to +fancifulness and unreality, which were among the most +besetting sins of Miss Barrett's genius. The minor poems +were incomparably more popular, and the favourite of all +was that masterpiece of rhetorical sentimentality, 'Lady +Geraldine's Courtship.' It must have been a little mortifying +to the authoress to find this piece, a large part of +which had been dashed off at a single heat in order to +supply the printers' needs, preferred to others on which she +had employed all the labour of her deliberate art; but +with the general tone of all the critics she had every reason +to be as content as her letters show her to have been. Only +two criticisms rankled: the one that she was a follower of +Tennyson, the other that her rhymes were slovenly and careless. +And these appeared, in varying shapes, in nearly all +the reviews.</p> + +<p>The former of these allegations is of little weight. +Whatever qualities Miss Barrett may have shared with +Tennyson, her substantial independence is unquestionable. +It is a case rather of coincidence than imitation; or if +imitation, it is of a slight and unconscious kind. The second +criticism deserves fuller notice, because it is constantly +repeated to this day. The following letters show how +strongly Miss Barrett protested against it. As she told +Horne,<a name="FNanchor_105_105"></a><a href="#Footnote_105_105"><sup>[105]</sup></a> with reference to this very subject:</p> + +<blockquote>'If I fail ultimately before the public—that is, before the people—for +an ephemeral popularity does not appear to me to be +worth trying for—it will not be because I have shrunk from +the amount of labour, where labour could do anything. I +have <i>worked</i> at poetry; it has not been with me reverie, but +art.' +</blockquote> + +<p>That her rhymes were inexact, especially in such +poems as 'The Dead Pan,' she did not deny; but her +defence was that the inexactness was due to a deliberate +attempt to widen the artistic capabilities of the English +language. Partly, perhaps, as a result of her acquaintance +with Italian literature, she had a marked fondness for +disyllabic rhymes; and since pure rhymes of this kind are +not plentiful in English, she tried the experiment of using +assonances instead. Hence such rhymes as <i>silence</i> and +<i>islands</i>, <i>vision</i> and <i>procession</i>, +<i>panther</i> and <i>saunter</i>, examples +which could be indefinitely multiplied if need were. Now +it may be that a writer with a very sensitive ear would not +have attempted such an experiment, and it is a fact that public +taste has not approved it; but the experiment itself is as +legitimate as, say, the metrical experiments in hexameters +and hendecasyllabics of Longfellow or Tennyson, and +whether approved or not it should be criticised as an +experiment, not as mere carelessness. That Mrs. Browning's +ear was quite-capable of discerning true rhymes is shown by +the fact that she tacitly abandoned her experiment in +assonances. Not only in the pure and high art of the +'Sonnets from the Portuguese,' but even in 'Casa Guidi +Windows,' the rhetorical and sometimes colloquial tone of +which might have been thought to lend itself to such +devices, imperfect rhymes occur but rarely not exceeding +the limits allowed to himself by every poet who has rhymed +<i>given</i> and <i>heaven</i>; and the roll of those who have +<i>not</i> done so must be small indeed.</p> + +<p>The point has seemed worth dwelling on, because it +touches a commonplace of criticism as regards Mrs. Browning; +but we may now make way for her own comments on +her critics and friends.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Tuesday, August 13, 1844 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I must thank you for the great +kindness with which you have responded to a natural +expression of feeling on my part, and for all the pleasure of +finding you pleased with the inscription of 'Cyprus Wine.' +Your note has given me much true pleasure. Yes; if my +verses survive me, I should wish them to relate the fact of +my being your debtor for many happy hours.</p> + +<p>And now I must explain to you that most of the 'incorrectnesses' +you speak of may be 'incorrectnesses,' but are not +<i>negligences</i>. I have a theory about double rhymes for +which—I shall be attacked by the critics, but which I could +justify perhaps on high authority, or at least analogy. In +fact, these volumes of mine have more double rhymes than +any two books of English poems that ever to my knowledge +were printed; I mean of English poems <i>not comic</i>. Now, +of double rhymes in use, which are perfect rhymes, you are +aware how few there are, and yet you are also aware of +what an admirable effect in making a rhythm various and +vigorous, double rhyming is in English poetry. Therefore +I have used a certain licence; and after much thoughtful +study of the Elizabethan writers, have ventured it with the +public. And do <i>you</i> tell me, <i>you</i> who object to the use of +a different <i>vowel</i> in a double rhyme, <i>why</i> you rhyme (as +everybody does, without blame from anybody) 'given' to +'heaven,' when you object to my rhyming 'remember' and +'chamber'? The analogy surely is all on my side, and I +<i>believe</i> that the spirit of the English language is also.</p> + +<p>I write all this because you will find many other sins +of the sort, besides those in the 'Cyprus Wine;' and +because I wish you to consider the subject as <i>a point for +consideration</i> seriously, and not to blame me as a writer of +careless verses. If I deal too much in licences, it is not +because I am idle, but because I am speculative for freedom's +sake. It is possible, you know, to be wrong conscientiously; +and I stand up for my conscience only.</p> + +<p>I thank you earnestly for your candour hitherto, and I +beseech you to be candid to the end.</p> + +It is tawny as Rhea's lion.<br /> + +<p>I know (although you don't say so) you object to that +line. Yet consider its structure. Does not the final 'y' of +'tawny' suppose an apostrophe and apocope? Do you not +run 'tawny as' into two syllables naturally? I want you to +see my principle.</p> + +<p>With regard to blank verse, the great Fletcher admits +sometimes seventeen syllables into his lines.</p> + +<p>I hope Miss Heard received her copy, and that you will +not think me arrogant in writing freely to you.</p> + +<p>Believe me, I write only freely and not arrogantly; and +I am impressed with the conviction that my work abounds +with far more faults than you in your kindness will discover, +notwithstanding your acumen.</p> + +<p>Always your affectionate and grateful<br /> +ELIBET.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Wednesday, August 14, 1844 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mr. Boyd,—I must thank you for the great +great pleasure with which I have this moment read your +note, the more welcome, as (without hypocrisy) I had +worked myself up into a nervous apprehension, from your +former one, that I should seem so 'rudis atque incomposita' +to you, in consequence of certain licences, as to end by +being intolerable. I know what an ear you have, and how +you can hear the dust on the wheel as it goes on. Well, I +wrote to you yesterday, to beg you to be patient and considerate.</p> + +<p>But you are always given to surprise me with abundant +kindness—with supererogatory kindness. I believe in <i>that</i>, +certainly.</p> + +<p>I am very very glad that you think me stronger and +more perspicuous. For the perspicuity, I have struggled +hard....</p> + +<p>Your affectionate and grateful<br /> +ELZBETH.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: August 22, 1844.<br /> + +<p>... Thank you for your welcome letter, so kind in its +candour, <i>I</i> angry that you should prefer 'The Seraphim'! +Angry? No <i>indeed, indeed</i>, I am grateful for 'The Seraphim,' +and not exacting for the 'Drama,' and all the more because +of a secret obstinate persuasion that the 'Drama' will have +a majority of friends in the end, and perhaps deserve to have +them. Nay, why should I throw perhapses over my own +impressions, and be insincere to you who have honoured +me by being sincere? Why should I dissemble my own +belief that the 'Drama' is worth two or three 'Seraphims'—<i>my +own</i> belief, you know, which is worth nothing, writers +knowing themselves so superficially, and having such a +natural leaning to their last work. Still, I may say honestly +to you, that I have a far more modest value for 'The Seraphim' +than your kindness suggests, and that I have seemed to +myself to have a clear insight into the fact that that poem +was only borne up by the minor poems published with it, +from immediate destruction. There is a want of unity in it +which vexes me to think of, and the other faults magnify +themselves day by day, more and more, in my eyes. Therefore +it is not that I care <i>more</i> for the 'Drama,' but I care +less for 'The Seraphim.' Both poems fall short of my +aspiration and desire, but the 'Drama' seems to me fuller, +freer and stronger, and worth the other three times over. +If it has anything new, I think it must be something new +into which I have lived, for certainly I wrote it sincerely and +from an inner impulse. In fact, I never wrote any poem +with so much sense of pleasure in the composition, and so +rapidly, with continuous flow—from fifty to a hundred lines +a day, and quite in a glow of pleasure and impulse all +through. Still, you have not been used to see me in blank +verse, and there may be something in that. That the poem +is full of faults and imperfections I do not in the least doubt. +I have vibrated between exultations and despondencies in +the correcting and printing of it, though the composition +went smoothly to an end, and I am prepared to receive the +bastinado to the critical degree, I do assure you. The few +opinions I have yet had are all to the effect that my advance +on the former publication is very great and obvious, but +then I am aware that people who thought exactly the +contrary would be naturally backward in giving me their +opinion.... Indeed, I thank you most earnestly. Truth +and kindness, how rarely do they come together! I am +very grateful to you. It is curious that 'Duchess May' is +not a favorite of mine, and that I have sighed one or two +secret wishes towards its extirpation, but other writers +besides yourself have singled it out for praise in private +letters to me. There has been no printed review yet, I +believe; and when I think of them, I try to think of something +else, for with no private friends among the critical +body (not that I should desire to owe security in such a +matter to private friendship) it is awful enough, this looking +forward to be reviewed. Never mind, the ultimate prosperity +of the book lies far above the critics, and can neither +be mended nor made nor unmade by <i>them</i>.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +Wednesday morning [August 1844].<br /> + +<p>I return Mr. Chorley's<a name="FNanchor_106_106"></a><a href="#Footnote_106_106"><sup>[106]</sup></a> note, my dear cousin, with +thankful thoughts of him—as of you. I wish I could persuade +you of the rightness of my view about 'Essays on +Mind' and such things, and how the difference between them +and my present poems is not merely the difference between +two schools, as you seemed to intimate yesterday, nor even +the difference between immaturity and maturity; but that +it is the difference between the dead and the living, between +a copy and an individuality, between what is myself and +what is not myself. To you who have a personal interest +and—may I say? affection for me, the girl's exercise assumes +a factitious value, but to the public the matter is otherwise +and ought to be otherwise. And for the 'psychological' +side of the question, <i>do</i> observe that I have not reputation +enough to suggest a curiosity about <i>my legends</i>. Instead of +your 'legendary lore,' it would be just a legendary bore. +Now you understand what I mean. I do not underrate +Pope nor his school, but I <i>do</i> disesteem everything which, +bearing the shape of a book, is not the true expression of a +mind, and I know and feel (and so do <i>you</i>) that a girl's +exercise written when all the experience lay in books, and +the mind was suited rather for intelligence than production, +lying like an infant's face with an undeveloped expression, +must be valueless in itself, and if offered to the public +directly or indirectly as a work of mine, highly injurious to +me. Why, of the 'Prometheus' volume, even, you know what +I think and desire. 'The Seraphim,' with all its feebleness +and shortcomings and obscurities, yet is the first utterance +of my own individuality, and therefore the only volume +except the last which is not a disadvantage to me to have +thought of, and happily for me, the early books, never +having been advertised, nor reviewed, except by accident, +once or twice, are as safe from the public as manuscript.</p> + +<p>Oh, I shudder to think of the lines which might have +been 'nicked in,' and all through Mr. Chorley's good nature. +As if I had not sins enough to ruin me in the new poems, +without reviving juvenile ones, sinned when I knew no +better. Perhaps you would like to have the series of epic +poems which I wrote from nine years old to eleven. They +might illustrate some doctrine of innate ideas, and enrich +(to that end) the myths of metaphysicians.</p> + +<p>And also agree with me in reverencing that wonderful +genius <i>Keats</i>, who, rising as a grand exception from among +the vulgar herd of juvenile versifiers, was an individual <i>man</i> +from the beginning, and spoke with his own voice, though +surrounded by the yet unfamiliar murmur of antique +echoes.<a name="FNanchor_107_107"></a><a href="#Footnote_107_107"><sup>[107]</sup></a> Leigh Hunt calls him 'the young poet' very +rightly. Most affectionately and gratefully yours,</p> + +<p>E.B.B.</p> + +<p>Do thank Mr. Chorley for me, will you?</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Thursday, August 1844.<br /> + +<p>Thank you, my dearest Mrs. Martin, for your most kind +letter, a reply to which should certainly, as you desired, have +met you at Colwall; only, right or wrong, I have been +flurried, agitated, put out of the way altogether, by Stormie's +and Henry's plan of going to Egypt. Ah, now you are +surprised. Now you think me excusable for being silent +two days beyond my time—yes, and <i>they have gone</i>, it is no +vague speculation. You know, or perhaps you don't know, +that, a little time back, papa bought a ship, put a captain +and crew of his own in it, and began to employ it in his +favourite 'Via Lactea' of speculations. It has been once to +Odessa with wool, I think; and now it has gone to +Alexandria with coals. Stormie was wild to go to both +places; and with regard to the last, papa has yielded. And +Henry goes too. This was all arranged weeks ago, but +nothing was said of it until last Monday to me; and when +I heard it, I was a good deal moved of course, and although +resigned now to their having their way in it, and their +<i>pleasure</i>, which is better than their way, still I feel I have +entered a new anxiety, and shall not be quite at ease again +till they return....</p> + +<p>And now to thank you, my ever-dearest Mrs. Martin, +for your kind and welcome letter from the Lakes. I knew +quite at the first page, and long before you said a word +specifically, that dear Mr. Martin was better, and think that +such a scene, even from under an umbrella, must have done +good to the soul and body of both of you. I wish I could +have looked through your eyes for once. But I suppose +that neither through yours, nor through my own, am I ever +likely to behold that sight. In the meantime it is with considerable +satisfaction that I hear of your <i>failure of Wordsworth</i>, +which was my salvation in a very awful sense. Why, +if you had done such a thing, you would have put me to the +shame of too much honor. The speculation consoles me +entirely for your loss in respect to Rydal Hall and its poet. +By the way, I heard the other day that Rogers, who was +intending to visit him, said, 'It is a bad time of year for it. +The god is on his pedestal; and can only give gestures to +his worshippers, and no conversation to his friends.' ...</p> + +<p>Although you did not find a letter from me on your +return to Colwall, I do hope that you found <i>me</i>—viz. my +book, which Mr. Burden took charge of, and promised to +deliver or see delivered. When you have read it, <i>do</i> let me +hear your own and Mr. Martin's true impression; and +whether you think it worse or better than 'The Seraphim.' +The only review which has yet appeared or had time to +appear has been a very kind and cordial one in the +'Athenaeum.' ...</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +August 31, 1844.<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Westwood,—I send you the manuscript you +ask for, and also my certificate that, although I certainly +was once a little girl, yet I never in my life had fair hair, or +received lessons when you mention. I think a cousin of +mine, now dead, may have done it. The 'Barrett Barrett' +seems to specify my family. I have a little cousin with +bright fair hair at this moment who is an Elizabeth Barrett +(the subject of my 'Portrait'<a name="FNanchor_108_108"></a><a href="#Footnote_108_108"><sup>[108]</sup></a>), but then she is a 'Georgiana' +besides, and your friend must refer to times past. My +hair is very dark indeed, and always was, as long as I +remember, and also I have a friend who makes serious +affidavit that I have never changed (except by being rather +taller) since I was a year old. Altogether, you cannot +make a case of identity out, and I am forced to give up the +glory of being so long remembered for my cleverness.</p> + +<p>You do wrong in supposing me inclined to underrate +Mr. Melville's power. He is inclined to High-Churchism, +and to such doctrines as apostolical succession, and I, who, +am a Dissenter, and a believer in a universal Christianity, +recoil from the exclusive doctrine.</p> + +<p>But then, that is not depreciatory of his power and +eloquence—surely not.</p> + +<p>E.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Chorley</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: Monday.<br /> +[About the end of August 1844.]<br /> + +<p>Dear Mr. Chorley,—Kindnesses are more frequent things +with me than gladnesses, but I thank you earnestly for both +in the letter I have this moment received.<a name="FNanchor_109_109"></a><a href="#Footnote_109_109"><sup>[109]</sup></a> You have given +me a quick sudden pleasure which goes deeper (I am very +sure) than self-love, for it must be something better than +vanity that brings the tears so near the eyes. I thank you, +dear Mr. Chorley.</p> + +<p>After all, we are not quite strangers. I have had some +early encouragement and direction from you, and much +earlier (and later) literary pleasures from such of your +writings as did not refer to me. I have studied 'Music and +Manners'<a name="FNanchor_110_110"></a><a href="#Footnote_110_110"><sup>[110]</sup></a> under you, and found an excuse for my love of +romance-reading from your grateful fancy. Then, as dear +Miss Mitford's friend, you could not help being (however +against your will!) a little my acquaintance; and this she +daringly promised to make you in reality some day, till I +took the fervour for prophecy.</p> + +<p>Altogether I am justified, while I thank you as a stranger, +to say one more word as a friend, and <i>that</i> shall be the +best word—'<i>May God bless you</i>!' The trials with which +He tries us all are different, but our faces may be turned +towards the end in cheerfulness, for '<i>to</i> the end He has loved +us.' I remain,</p> + +<p>Very faithfully, your obliged<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>You may trust me with the secret of your kindness to +me. It shall not go farther.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Monday, September 1, 1844.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mr. Boyd,—I thank you for the Cyprus, and +also for a still sweeter amreeta—your praise. Certainly to +be praised as you praise me might well be supposed likely +to turn a sager head than mine, but I feel that (with all +my sensitive and grateful appreciation of such words) I am +removed rather below than above the ordinary temptations +of vanity. Poetry is to me rather a passion than an +ambition, and the gadfly which drives me along that road +pricks deeper than an expectation of fame could do.</p> + +<p>Moreover, there will be plenty of counter-irritation to +prevent me from growing feverish under your praises. +And as a beginning, I hear that the 'John Bull' newspaper +has cut me up with sanguinary gashes, for the edification of +its Sabbath readers. I have not seen it yet, but I hear so. +The 'Drama' is the particular victim. Do not send for the +paper. I will let you have it, if you should wish for it.</p> + +<p>One thing is left to me to say. Arabel told you of a +letter I had received from a professional critic, and I am +sorry that she should have told you so without binding you +to secrecy on the point at the same time. In fact, the +writer of the letter begged me <i>not</i> to speak of it, and I +took an engagement to him <i>not</i> to speak of it. Now it +would be very unpleasant to me, and dishonorable to me, +if, after entering into this engagement, the circumstance of +the letter should come to be talked about. Of course you +will understand that I do not object to your having been +informed of the thing, only Arabel should have remembered +to ask you not to mention again the name of the critic who +wrote to me.</p> + +<p>May God bless you, my very dear friend. I drink +thoughts of you in Cyprus every day.</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +ELIBET.</p> + +<p>There is no review in the 'Examiner' yet, nor any continuation +in the 'Athenaeum.'<a name="FNanchor_111_111"></a><a href="#Footnote_111_111"><sup>[111]</sup></a></p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +September 10, 1844.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—I will not lose a post in assuring +you that I was not silent because of any disappointment +from your previous letter. I could only feel the <i>kindness</i> of +that letter, and this was certainly the chief and uppermost +feeling at the time of reading it, and since. Your +preference of 'The Seraphim' one other person besides +yourself has acknowledged to me in the same manner, and +although I myself—perhaps from the natural leaning to +last works, and perhaps from a wise recognition of the +complete failure of the poem called 'The Seraphim '—do +disagree with you, yet I can easily forgive you for such a +thought, and believe that you see sufficient grounds for +entertaining it. More and more I congratulate myself (at +any rate) for the decision I came to at the last moment, and +in the face of some persuasions, to call the book 'Poems,' +instead of trusting its responsibility to the 'Drama,' by such +a title as 'A Drama of Exile, and Poems.' It is plain, as I +anticipated, that for one person who is ever so little pleased +with the 'Drama,' fifty at least will like the smaller poems. +And perhaps they are right. The longer sustaining of a +subject requires, of course, more power, and I may have failed +in it altogether.</p> + +<p>Yes, I think I may say that I am satisfied so far with +the aspect of things in relation to the book. You see there +has scarcely been time yet to give any except a sanguine or +despondent judgment—I mean, there is scarcely room yet +for forming a very rational inference of what will ultimately +be, without the presentiments of hope or fear. The book +came out too late in August for any chance of a mention +in the September magazines, and at the dead time of +year, when the very critics were thinking more of holiday +innocence than of their carnivorous instincts. This will not +hurt it ultimately, although it might have hurt a <i>novel</i>. The +regular critics will come back to it; and in the meantime +the newspaper critics are noticing it all round, with more +or less admissions to its advantage. The 'Atlas' is the +best of the newspapers for literary notices; and it spoke +graciously on the whole; though I do protest against being +violently attached to a 'school.' I have faults enough, I +know; but it is just to say that they are at least my own. +Well, then! It is true that the 'Westminster Review' says +briefly what is great praise, and promises to take the earliest +opportunity of reviewing me 'at large.' So that with regard +to the critics, there seems to be a good prospect. Then I +have had some very pleasant private letters—one from +Carlyle; an oath from Miss Martineau to give her whole +mind to the work and tell me her free and full opinion, +which I have not received yet; an assurance from an +acquaintance of Mrs. Jameson that she was much pleased. +But the letter which pleased me most was addressed to me by +a professional critic, personally unknown to me, who wrote +to say that he had traced me up, step by step, ever since I +began to print, and that my last volumes were so much +better than any preceding them, and were such <i>living books</i>, +that they restored to him the impulses of his youth and +constrained him to thank me for the pleasant emotions they +had excited. I cannot say the name of the writer of this +letter, because he asked me not to do so, but of course it was +very pleasant to read. Now you will not call me vain for +speaking of this. I would not speak of it; only I want (you +see) to prove to you how faithfully and gratefully I have a +trust in your kindness and sympathy. It is certainly the +best kindness to speak the truth to me. I have written +those poems as well as I could, and I hope to write others +better. I have not reached my own ideal; and I cannot +expect to have satisfied other people's expectation. But it +is (as I sometimes say) the least ignoble part of me, that +I love poetry better than I love my own successes in it.</p> + +<p>I am glad that you like 'The Lost Bower.' The scene of +that poem is the wood above the garden at Hope End.</p> + +<p>It is very true, my dearest Mrs. Martin, all that you say +about the voyage to Alexandria. And I do not feel the +anxiety I <i>thought I should</i>. In fact, <i>I am surprised to feel +so little anxiety</i>. Still, when they are at home again, I shall +be happier than I am now, <i>that</i> I feel strongly besides.</p> + +<p>What I missed most in your first letter was what I do +not miss in the second, the good news of dear Mr. Martin. +Both he and you are very vainglorious, I suppose, about +O'Connell; but although I was delighted on every account at +his late victory,<a name="FNanchor_112_112"></a><a href="#Footnote_112_112"><sup>[112]</sup></a> or rather at the late victory of justice and +constitutional law, he never was a hero of mine and is not +likely to become one. If he had been (by the way) a hero +of mine, I should have been quite ashamed of him for being +so unequal to his grand position as was demonstrated by the +speech from the balcony. Such poetry in the position, and +such prose in the speech! He has not the stuff in him +of which heroes are made. There is a thread of cotton +everywhere crossing the silk....</p> + +<p>With our united love to both of you,<br /> +Ever, dearest Mrs. Martin, most affectionately yours,<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Wednesday [about September 1844].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin, ... Did I tell you that Miss +Martineau had promised and vowed to me to tell me the +whole truth with respect to the poems? Her letter did not +come until a few days ago, and for a full month after the +publication; and I was so fearful of the probable sentence +that my hands shook as they broke the seal. But such a +pleasant letter! I have been overjoyed with it. She says +that her 'predominant impression is of the <i>originality</i>'—very +pleasant to hear. I must not forget, however, to say that +she complains of 'want of variety' in the general effect of +the drama, and that she 'likes Lucifer less than anything +in the two volumes.' You see how you have high backers. +Still she talks of 'immense advances,' which consoles me +again. In fact, there is scarcely a word to <i>require</i> consolation +in her letter, and what did not please me least—nay, to +do myself justice, what put all the rest out of my head +for some minutes with joy—is the account she gives of +herself. For she is better and likely still to be better; +she has recovered appetite and sleep, and lost the most +threatening symptoms of disease; she has been out for the +first time for four years and a half, lying on the grass +flat, she says, with my books open beside her day after day. +(That <i>does</i> sound vain of me, but I cannot resist the temptation +of writing it!) And the means—the means! Such +means you would never divine! It is <i>mesmerism</i>. She is +thrown into the magnetic trance twice a day; and the +progress is manifest; and the hope for the future clear. +Now, what do you both think? Consider what a case it +is! No case of a weak-minded woman and a nervous +affection; but of the most manlike woman in the three +kingdoms—in the best sense of man—a woman gifted +with admirable fortitude, as well as exercised in high logic, +a woman of sensibility and of imagination certainly, but +apt to carry her reason unbent wherever she sets her foot; +given to utilitarian philosophy and the habit of logical +analysis; and suffering under a disease which has induced +change of structure and yielded to no tried remedy! Is it +not wonderful, and past expectation? She suggests that +I should try the means—but I understand that in cases +like mine the remedy has done harm instead of good, by +over-exciting the system. But her experience will settle +the question of the reality of magnetism with a whole +generation of infidels. For my own part, I have long +been a believer, <i>in spite of papa</i>. Then I have had very +kind letters from Mrs. Jameson, the 'Ennuyée'<a name="FNanchor_113_113"></a><a href="#Footnote_113_113"><sup>[113]</sup></a> and +from Mr. Serjeant Talfourd and some less famous persons. +And a poet with a Welsh name wrote to me yesterday to +say that he was writing a poem 'similar to my "Drama of +Exile,"' and begged me to subscribe to it. Now I tell you +all this to make you smile, and because some of it will +interest you more gravely. It will prove to dear unjust +Mr. Martin that I do not distrust your sympathy. How +could he think so of me? I am half vexed that he should +think so. Indeed—indeed I am not so morbidly vain. +Why, if you had told me that the books were without any +sort of value in your eyes, do you imagine that I should +not have valued you, reverenced you ever after for your +truth, so sacred a thing in friendship? I really believe it +would have been my predominant feeling. But you +proved your truth without trying me so hardly; I had <i>both</i> +truth and praise from you, and surely quite enough, and +<i>more</i> than enough, as many would think, of the latter.</p> + +<p>My dearest papa left us this morning to go for a few +days into Cornwall for the purpose of examining a quarry +in which he has bought or is about to buy shares, and he +means to strike on for the Land's End and to see Falmouth +before he returns. It depresses me to think of his being +away; his presence or the sense of his nearness having so +much cheering and soothing influence with me; but it will +be an excellent change for him, even if he does not, as he +expects, dig an immense fortune out of the quarries....</p> + +<p>Your affectionate and ever obliged<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Cornelius Mathews</i><br /> +London, 50 Wimpole Street: October 1, 1844.<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Mathews,—I have just received your note, +which, on the principle of single sighs or breaths being +wafted from Indies to the poles, arrived quite safely, and I +was very glad to have it. I shall fall into monotony if I +go on to talk of my continued warm sense of your wonderful +kindness to me, a stranger according to the manner of men; +and, indeed, I have just this moment been writing a note to +a friend two streets away, and calling it 'wonderful kindness.' +I cannot, however, of course, allow you to run the +tether of your impulse and furnish me with the reviews of my +books and other things you speak of at your own expense, +and I should prefer, if you would have the goodness to give +the necessary direction to Messrs. Putnam & Co., that they +should send what would interest me to see, together with a +note of the pecuniary debt to themselves. I shall like to +see the reviews, of course; and that you should have taken +the first word of American judgment into your own mouth +is a pleasant thought to me, and leaves me grateful. In +England I have no reason so far to be otherwise than well +pleased. There has not, indeed, been much yet besides newspaper +criticisms—except 'Ainsworth's Magazine,' which is +benignant!—there has not been time. The monthly reviews +give themselves 'pause' in such matters to set the plumes +of their dignity, and I am rather glad than otherwise not to +have the first fruits of their haste. The 'Atlas,' the best +newspaper for literary reviews, excepting always the +'Examiner,' who does not speak yet, is generous to me, and I +have reason to be satisfied with others. And our most influential +quarterly (after the 'Edinburgh' and right 'Quarterly'), +the 'Westminster Review,' promises an early paper with +passing words of high praise. What vexed me a little in +one or two of the journals was an attempt made to fix me in +a school, and the calling me a follower of Tennyson for my +habit of using compound words, noun-substantives, which +I used to do before I knew a page of Tennyson, and +adopted from a study of our old English writers, and +Greeks and even Germans. The custom is so far from +being peculiar to Tennyson, that Shelley and Keats and +Leigh Hunt are all redolent of it, and no one can read our +old poets without perceiving the leaning of our Saxon to +that species of coalition. Then I have had letters of great +kindness from 'Spirits of the Age,' whose praises are so +many crowns, and altogether am far from being out of +spirits about the prospect of my work. I am glad, however, +that I gave the name of 'Poems' to the work instead of admitting +the 'Drama of Exile' into the title-page and increasing +its responsibility; for one person who likes the 'Drama,' +ten like the other poems. Both Carlyle and Miss Martineau +select as favorite 'Lady Geraldine's Courtship,' which amuses +and surprises me somewhat. In that poem I had endeavoured +to throw conventionalities (turned asbestos for the nonce) +into the fire of poetry, to make them glow and glitter as if +they were not dull things. Well, I shall soon hear what <i>you</i> +like best—and worst. I wonder if you have been very +carnivorous with me! I tremble a little to think of your +hereditary claim to an instrument called the tomahawk. +Still, I am sure I shall have to think <i>most</i>, ever as now, of +your kindness; and <i>truth</i> must be sacred to all of us, +whether we have to suffer or be glad by it. As for Mr. +Horne, I cannot answer for what he has received or not +received. I had one note from him on silver paper (fear of +postage having reduced him to a transparency) from +Germany, and that is all, and I did not think him in good +spirits in what he said of himself. I will tell him what you +have the goodness to say, and something, too, on my own +part. He has had a hard time of it with his 'Spirit of the +Age;' the attacks on the book here being bitter in the +extreme. Your 'Democratic' does not comfort him for the +rest, by the way, and, indeed, he is almost past comfort on +the subject. I had a letter the other day from Dr. Shelton +Mackenzie, whom I do not know personally, but who is +about to publish a 'Living Author Dictionary,' and who, by +some association, talked of the effeminacy of 'the American +poets,' so I begged him to read your poems on 'Man' and +prepare an exception to his position. I wish to write more +and must not.</p> + +<p>Most faithfully yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>Am I the first with the great and good news for America +and England that Harriet Martineau is better and likely to +be better? She told me so herself, and attributes the change +to the agency of <i>mesmerism</i>.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +October 4, 1844.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mr. Boyd,—... As to 'The Lost Bower,' +I am penitent about having caused you so much disturbance. +I sometimes fancy that a little varying of the accents, though +at the obvious expense of injuring the smoothness of every +line considered separately, gives variety of cadence and fuller +harmony to the general effect. But I do not question that I +deserve a great deal of blame on this point as on others. Many +lines in 'Isobel's Child' are very slovenly and weak from a +multitude of causes. I hope you will like 'The Lost Bower' +better when you try it again than you did at first, though I +do not, of course, expect that you will not see much to cry +out against. The subject of the poem was an actual fact of +my childhood.</p> + +<p>Oh, and I think I told you, when giving you the history +of 'Lady Geraldine's Courtship,' that I wrote the <i>thirteen</i> +last pages of it in one day. I ought to have said <i>nineteen</i> +pages instead. But don't tell anybody; only keep the +circumstance in your mind when you need it and see the +faults. Nobody knows of it except you and Mr. Kenyon +and my own family for the reason I told you. I sent off +that poem to the press piece-meal, as I never in my life did +before with any poem. And since I wrote to you I have +heard of Mr. Eagles, one of the first writers in 'Blackwood' +and a man of very refined taste, adding another name to the +many of those who have preferred it to anything in the two +volumes. He says that he has read it at least six times +aloud to various persons, and calls it a 'beautiful <i>sui +generis</i> drama.' On which Mr. Kenyon observes that I am 'ruined +for life, and shall be sure never to take pains with any poem +again.'</p> + +<p>The American edition (did Arabel tell you?) was to be +out in New York a week ago, and was to consist of fifteen +hundred copies in two volumes, as in England.</p> + +<p>She sends you the verses and asks you to make allowances +for the delay in doing so. I cannot help believing that if +you were better read in Wordsworth you would appreciate +him better. Ever since I knew what poetry is, I have +believed in him as a great poet, and I do not understand +how reasonably there can be a doubt of it. Will you remember +that nearly all the first minds of the age have admitted +his power (without going to intrinsic evidence), and then say +that he <i>can</i> be a mere Grub Street writer? It is not that he +is only or chiefly admired by the <i>profanum vulgus</i>, that he +is a mere popular and fashionable poet, but that men of +genius in this and other countries unite in confessing his +genius. And is not this a significant circumstance—significant, +at least?...</p> + +<p>Believe me, yourself, your affectionate and grateful<br /> +ELIBET B.B.</p> + +<p>How kind you are, far too kind, about the Cyprus wine; +I thank you very much.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +October 5, 1844.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—... Well, papa came back +from Cornwall just as I came back to my own room, and he +was as pleased with his quarry as I was to have the sight +again of his face. During his absence, Henrietta had a +little polka (which did not bring the house down on its +knees), and I had a transparent blind put up in my open +window. There is a castle in the blind, and a castle gate-way, +and two walks, and several peasants, and groves of +trees which rise in excellent harmony with the fall of my +green damask curtains—new, since you saw me last. Papa +insults me with the analogy of a back window in a confectioner's +shop, but is obviously moved when the sunshine +lights up the castle, notwithstanding. And Mr. Kenyon +and everybody in the house grow ecstatic rather than otherwise, +as they stand in contemplation before it, and tell me +(what is obvious without their evidence) that the effect +is beautiful, and that the whole room catches a light +from it. Well, and then Mr. Kenyon has given me a new +table, with a rail round it to consecrate it from Flush's +paws, and large enough to hold all my varieties of vanities.</p> + +<p>I had another letter from Miss Martineau the other day, +and she says she has a 'hat of her own, a parasol of her +own,' and that she can 'walk a mile with ease.' <i>What do +miracles mean</i>? Miracle or not, however, one thing is +certain—it is very joyful; and her own sensations on being +removed suddenly from the verge of the prospect of a most +painful death—a most painful and lingering death—must be +strange and overwhelming.</p> + +<p>I hope I may hear soon from you that you had much +pleasure at Clifton, and some benefit in the air and change, +and that dear Mr. Martin and yourself are both as well as +possible. Do you take in 'Punch'? If not, you <i>ought</i>. +Mr. Kenyon and I agreed the other day that we should be +more willing 'to take our politics' from 'Punch' than from +any other of the newspaper oracles. 'Punch' is very +generous, and I like him for everything, except for his rough +treatment of Louis Philippe, whom I believe to be a great +man—for a king. And then, it is well worth fourpence to +laugh once a week. I do recommend 'Punch' to you.<a name="FNanchor_114_114"></a><a href="#Footnote_114_114"><sup>[114]</sup></a> +Douglas Jerrold is the editor, I fancy, and he has a troop of +'wits,' such as Planché, Titmarsh, and the author of 'Little +Peddlington,' to support him....</p> + +<p>Now I have written enough to tire you, I am sure. +May God bless you both! Did you read 'Coningsby,' that +very able book, without character, story, or specific teaching? +It is well worth reading, and worth wondering over. +D'Israeli, who is a man of genius, has written, nevertheless, +books which will live longer, and move deeper. But everybody +should read 'Coningsby.' It is a sign of the times. +Believe me, my dearest Mrs. Martin,</p> + +<p>Your very affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To John Kenyon</i><br /> +Tuesday, October 8, 1844.<br /> + +<p>Thank you, my dearest cousin, for your kind little note, +which I run the chance of answering by that Wednesday's +post you think you may wait for. So (<i>via</i> your table) I set +about writing to you, and the first word, of course, must be +an expression of my contentment with the 'Examiner' +review. Indeed, I am more than contented—delighted +with it. I had some dread, vaguely fashioned, about the +'Examiner'; the very delay looked ominous. And then, I +thought to myself, though I did not say, that if Mr. Forster +praised the verses on Flush to you, it was just because he +had no sympathy for anything else. But it is all the +contrary, you see, and I am the more pleased for the want +of previous expectation; and I must add that if <i>you</i> were +so kind as to be glad of being associated with me by Mr. +Forster's reference, <i>I</i> was so <i>human</i> as to be very very glad +of being associated with <i>you</i> by the same. Also you shall +criticise 'Geraldine' exactly as you like—mind, I don't think +it all so rough as the extracts appear to be, and some variety +is attained by that playing at ball with the <i>pause</i>, which +causes the apparent roughness—still you shall criticise +'Geraldine' exactly as you like. I have a great fancy for +writing some day a longer poem of a like class—a poem +comprehending the aspect and manners of modern life, and +flinching at nothing of the conventional. I think it might be +done with good effect. You said once that Tennyson had +done it in 'Locksley Hall,' and I half agreed with you. But +looking at 'Locksley Hall' again, I find that not much has +been done in that <i>way</i>, noble and passionate and <i>full</i> as the +poem is in other ways. But there is no story, no <i>manners</i>, +no modern allusion, except in the grand general adjuration +to the 'Mother-age,' and no approach to the treatment of a +conventionality. But Crabbe, as you say, has done it, and +Campbell in his 'Theodore' in a few touches was near to +do it; but <i>Hayley</i> clearly apprehends the species of poem +in his 'Triumphs of Temper' and 'Triumphs of Music,' +and so did Miss Seward, who called it the '<i>poetical novel</i>.' +Now I do think that a true poetical novel—modern, and on +the level of the manners of the day—might be as good a +poem as any other, and much more popular besides. Do +you not think so?</p> + +<p>I had a letter from dear Miss Mitford this morning, +with yours, but I can find nothing in it that you will care +to hear again. She complains of the vagueness of +'Coningsby,' and praises the French writers—a sympathy +between us, that last, which we wear hidden in our sleeves +for the sake of propriety. Not a word of coming to +London, though I asked. Neither have I heard again from +Miss Martineau....</p> + +<p>Ever most affectionately and gratefully yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +October 15, 1844.<br /> + +<p>... Not a word more have I heard from Miss Martineau; +and shall not soon, perhaps, as she is commanded not to +write, not to read—to do nothing, in fact, except the getting +better. I am not, I confess, quite satisfied myself. But +she herself appears to be so altogether, and she speaks of +'<i>symptoms</i> having given way,' implying a structural change. +Yes, I use the common phrase in respect to mesmerism, +and think 'there is something in it.' Only I think, besides, +that, if something, there must be a great deal in it. Clairvoyance +has precisely the same evidence as the phenomenon +of the trance has, and scientific and philosophical minds +are recognising all the phenomena <i>as facts</i> on all sides of +us. Mr. Kenyon's is the best distinction, and the immense +quantity of <i>humbug</i> which embroiders the truth over and +over, and round and round, makes it needful: 'I believe in +mesmerism, but not in <i>mesmerists</i>.'</p> + +<p>We have had no other letter from our Egyptians, but +can wait a little longer without losing our patience.</p> + +<p>The blind rises in favour, and the ivy would not fall, +if it would but live. Alas! I am going to try <i>guano</i> as a +last resource. You see, in painting the windows, papa was +forced to have it taken down, and the ivy that grows on +ruins and oaks is not usually taken down 'for the nonce.' +I think I shall have a myrtle grove in two or three large +pots inside the window. I have a mind to try it.</p> + +<p>I heard twice from dear Mr. Kenyon at Dover, where +he was detained by the weather, but not since his entrance +into France. Which is grand enough word for the French +Majesty itself—'entrance into France.' By the way, I do +hope you have some sympathy with me in my respect for the +King of the French—that right kingly king, Louis Philippe. +If France had <i>borne</i> more liberty, he would not have withheld +it, and, for the rest, and in all truly royal qualities, he +is the noblest king, according to my idea, in Europe—the +most royal king in the encouragement of art and literature, +and in the honoring of artists and men of letters. Let +a young unknown writer accomplish a successful tragedy, +and the next day he sits at the king's table—not in a metaphor, +but face to face. See how different the matter is in +our court, where the artists are shown up the back stairs, +and where no poet (even by the back stairs) can penetrate, +unless so fortunate as to be a banker also. What is the use +of kings and queens in these days, except to encourage arts +and letters? Really I cannot see. Anybody can hunt an +otter out of a box—who has nerve enough.</p> + +<p>I had a letter from America to-day, and heard that my +book was not published there until the fifth of this October. +Still, a few copies had preceded the publication, and made +way among the critics, and several reviews were in the +course of germinating very greenly. Yes, I was delighted +with the 'Examiner,' and all the more so from having +interpreted the long delay of the notice, the gloomiest +manner possible. My friends try to persuade me that the +book is making some impression, and I am willing enough +to be convinced. Thank you for all your kind sympathy, +my dear friend.</p> + +<p>Now, do write to me soon again! Have you read +Dr. Arnold's Life? I have not, but am very anxious to do +so, from the admirable extracts in the 'Examiner' of last +Saturday, and also from what I hear of it in other quarters. +That Dr. Arnold must have been <i>a man</i>, in the largest and +noblest sense. May God bless you, both of you! I think +of you, dearest Mrs. Martin, much, and remain</p> + +<p>Your very affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To John Kenyon</i><br /> +Saturday, October 29, 1844.<br /> + +<p>The moral of your letter, my dearest cousin, certainly is +that no green herb of a secret will spring up and flourish +between you and me.</p> + +<p>The loss of Flush was a secret. My aunt's intention of +coming to England (for I know not how to explain what +she said to you, but by the supposition of an unfulfilled +intention!) was a secret. And Mr. Chorley's letter to me +was a third secret. All turned into light!</p> + +<p>For the last, you may well praise me for discretion. +The letter he wrote was pleasanter to me than many of +the kindnesses (apart from your own) occasioned by my +book—and when you asked me once 'what letters I had +received,' if ever a woman deserved to be canonised for +her silence, <i>I</i> did! But the effort was necessary—for he +particularly desired that I would not mention to 'our common +friends' the circumstance of his having written to me; +and 'common friends' could only stand for 'Mr. Kenyon +and Miss Mitford.' Of course what you tell me, of his +liking the poems better still, is delightful to hear; but he +reviewed them in the 'Athenaeum' surely! The review we +read in the 'Athenaeum' was by his hand—could not be +mistaken ...</p> + +<p>Well; but Flushie! It is too true that he has been +lost—lost and won; and true besides that I was a good +deal upset by it <i>meo more</i>; and that I found it hard to eat +and sleep as usual while he was in the hands of his enemies. +It is a secret too. We would not tell papa of it. Papa +would have been angry with the unfortunate person who +took Flush out without a chain; and would have kicked +against the pricks of the necessary bribing of the thief in +order to the getting him back. Therefore we didn't tell +papa; and as I had a very bad convenient headache the +day my eyes were reddest, I did not see him (except once) +till Flush was on the sofa again. As to the thieves, you +are very kind to talk daggers at them; and I feel no +inclination to say 'Don't.' It is quite too bad and cruel. +And think of their exceeding insolence in taking Flush away +from this very door, while Arabel was waiting to have the +door opened on her return from her walk; and in observing +(as they gave him back for six guineas and a half) that they +intended to have him again at the earliest opportunity and +that <i>then</i> they must have <i>ten</i> guineas! I tell poor Flushie +(while he looks very earnestly in my face) that he and I +shall be ruined at last, and that I shall have no money to +buy him cakes; but the worst is the anxiety! Whether I +am particularly silly, or not, I don't know; they say here, +that I am; but it seems to me impossible for anybody who +really cares for a dog, to think quietly of his being in the +hands of those infamous men. And then I know how poor +Flushie must feel it. When he was brought home, he +began to cry in his manner, whine, as if his heart was full! +It was just what I was inclined to do myself—' and thus +was Flushie lost and won.'</p> + +<p>But we are both recovered now, thank you; and intend +to be very prudent for the future. I am delighted to +think of your being in England; it is the next best thing +to your being in London. In regard to Miss Martineau, +I agree with you word for word; but I cannot overcome +an additional <i>horror</i>, which you do not express, or feel +probably.</p> + +<p>There is an excellent refutation of Puseyism in the +'Edinburgh Review'—by whom? and I have been reading +besides the admirable paper by Macaulay in the same +number. And now I must be done; having resolved to +let you hear without a post's delay. Otherwise I might +have American news for you, as I hear that a packet has +come in.</p> + +<p>My brothers arrived in great spirits at Malta, after a +<i>three weeks' voyage</i> from Gibraltar; and must now be in +Egypt, I think and trust.</p> + +<p>May God bless you, my dear cousin.</p> + +<p>Most affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: November 5, 1844.<br /> + +<p>Well, but am I really so bad? ' <i>Et tu</i>!' Can <i>you</i> call +me careless? Remember all the altering of manuscript +and proof—and remember how the obscurities used to fly +away before your cloud-compelling, when you were the +Jove of the criticisms! That the books (I won't call them +<i>our</i> books when I am speaking of the faults) are remarkable +for defects and superfluities of evil, I can see quite +as well as another; but then I won't admit that ' it comes' +of my carelessness, and refusing to take pains. On the +contrary, my belief is, that very few writers called ' correct ' +who have selected classical models to work from, pay more +laborious attention than I do habitually to the forms of +thought and expression. ' Lady Geraldine ' was an exception +in her whole history. If I write fast sometimes +(and the historical fact is that what has been written fastest, +has pleased most), l am not apt to print without consideration. +I appeal to Philip sober, if I am! My dearest cousin, do +remember! As to the faults, I do not think of defending +them, be very sure. My consolation is, that I may try to +do better in time, if I may talk of time. The worst fault +of all, as far as expression goes (the adjective-substantives, +whether in prose or verse, I cannot make up my mind +to consider faulty), is that kind of obscurity which is the +same thing with inadequate expression. Be very sure—try +to be very sure—that I am not obstinate and self-opiniated +beyond measure. To <i>you</i> in case, who have done so +much for me, and who think of me so more than kindly, I +feel it to be both duty and pleasure to defer and yield. +Still, you know, we could not, if we were ten years about it, +alter down the poems to the terms of all these reviewers. +You would not desire it, if it were possible. I do not +remember that you suggested any change in the verse on +Aeschylus. The critic<a name="FNanchor_115_115"></a><a href="#Footnote_115_115"><sup>[115]</sup></a> mistakes my allusion, which was +to the fact that in the acting of the Eumenides, when the +great tragic poet did actually 'frown as the gods did,' +women fell down fainting from the benches. I did not +refer to the effect of his human countenance 'during +composition.' But I am very grateful to the reviewer +whoever he may be—very—and with need. See how the +'Sun' shines in response to 'Blackwood' (thank you for +sending me that notice), when previously we had had but +a wintry rag from the same quarter! No; if I am not +spoilt by <i>your kindness</i>, I am not likely to be so by any of +these exoteric praises, however beyond what I expected or +deserved. And then I am like a bird with one wing broken. +Throw it out of the window; and after the first feeling of +pleasure in liberty, it falls heavily. I have had moments of +great pleasure in hearing whatever good has been thought +of the poems; but the feeling of <i>elation</i> is too strong or +rather too <i>long</i> for me....</p> + +<p>Can it be true that Mr. Newman has at last joined the +Church of Rome?<a name="FNanchor_116_116"></a><a href="#Footnote_116_116"><sup>[116]</sup></a> If it is true, it will do much to prove +to the most illogical minds the real character of the late +movement. It will prove what the <i>point of sight</i> is, as by +the drawing of a straight line. Miss Mitford told me that +he had lately sent a message to a R. Catholic convert +from the English Church, to the effect—'you have done +a good deed, but not at a right time.' It can but be a +question of time, indeed, to the whole party; at least to +such as are logical—and honest.... [<i>Unsigned</i>]</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: November 8, 1844.<br /> + +<p>Thank you, my dear dear cousin, for the kind thought of +sending me Mr. Eagles's letter, and most for your own +note. You know we <i>both</i> saw that he couldn't have written +the paper in question; we <i>both</i> were poets and prophets by +that sign, but I hope he understands that I shall gratefully +remember what his intention was. As to his 'friend' who +told him that I had 'imitated Tennyson,' why I can only +say and feel that it is very particularly provoking to hear +such things said, and that I wish people would find fault +with my 'metre' in the place of them. In the matter of +'Geraldine' I shall not be puffed up. I shall take to mind +what you suggest. Of course, if you find it hard to read, it +must be my fault. And then the fact of there being a <i>story</i> +to a poem will give a factitious merit in the eyes of many +critics, which could not be an occasion of vainglory to the +consciousness of the most vainglorious of writers. You +made me smile by your suggestion about the aptitude of critics +aforesaid for courting Lady Geraldines. Certes—however +it may be—the poem has had more attention than its due. +Oh, and I must tell you that I had a letter the other day +from Mr. Westwood (one of my correspondents unknown) +referring to 'Blackwood,' and observing on the mistake about +Goethe. 'Did you not mean "fell" the verb,' he said, 'or +do <i>I</i> mistake?' So, you see, some people in the world did +actually understand what I meant. I am eager to prove +that possibility sometimes.</p> + +<p>How full of life of mind Mr. Eagles's letter is. Such +letters always bring me to think of Harriet Martineau's +pestilent plan of doing to destruction half of the intellectual +life of the world, by suppressing every mental breath +breathed through the post office. She was not in a state of +clairvoyance when she said such a thing. I have not heard +from her, but you observed what the 'Critic' said of William +Howitt's being empowered by her to declare the circumstances +of her recovery?</p> + +<p>Again and again have I sent for Dr. Arnold's 'Life,' and +I do hope to have it to-day. I am certain, by the extracts, +besides your opinion, that I shall be delighted with it.</p> + +<p>Why shouldn't Miss Martineau's apocalyptic housemaid<a name="FNanchor_117_117"></a><a href="#Footnote_117_117"><sup>[117]</sup></a> +tell us whether Flush has a soul, and what is its 'future +destination'? As to the fact of his soul, I have long had +a strong opinion on it. The 'grand peut-être,' to which +'without revelation' the human argument is reduced, covers +dog-nature with the sweep of its fringes.</p> + +<p>Did you ever read Bulwer's 'Eva, or the Unhappy +Marriage'? <i>That</i> is a sort of poetical novel, with modern +manners inclusive. But Bulwer, although a poet in prose, +writes all his rhythmetical compositions somewhat prosaically, +providing an instance of that curious difference which exists +between the poetical writer and the poet. It is easier to +give the instance than the reason, but I suppose the cause +of the rhythmetical impotence must lie somewhere in the +want of the power of concentration. For is it not true that +the most prolix poet is capable of briefer expression than +the least prolix prose writer, or am I wrong?...</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Cornelius Mathews</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: November 14, 1844.<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Mathews,—I write to tell you—only that +there is nothing to tell—only in guard of my gratitude, lest +you should come to think all manner of evil of me and of +my supposed propensity to let everything pass like Mr. +Horne's copies of the American edition of his work, <i>sub +silentio</i>. Therefore I must write, and you are to please to +understand that I have not up to this moment received +either letter or book by the packet of October 10 which +was charged, according to your intimation, with so much. +I, being quite out of patience and out of breath with +expectation, have repeatedly sent to Mr. Putnam, and he +replies with undisturbed politeness that the ship has come +in, and that his part and lot in her, together with mine, +remain at the disposal of the Custom-house officers, and +may remain some time longer. So you see how it is. I am +waiting—simply <i>waiting</i>, and it is better to let you know +that I am not forgetting instead.</p> + +<p>In the meantime, your kindness will be glad to learn of +the prosperity of my poems in my own country. I am more +than satisfied in my most sanguine hope for them, and a +little surprised besides. The critics have been good to me. +'Blackwood' and 'Tait' have this month both been generous, +and the 'New Monthly' and 'Ainsworth's Magazine' did +what they could. Then I have the 'Examiner' in my +favor, and such heads and hearts as are better and purer +than the purely critical, and I am very glad altogether, and +very grateful, and hope to live long enough to acknowledge, +if not to justify, much unexpected kindness. Of course, +some hard criticism is mixed with the liberal sympathy, as +you will see in 'Blackwood,' but some of it I deserve, even +in my own eyes; and all of it I am willing to be patient +under. The strange thing is, that without a single personal +friend among these critics, they should have expended on +me so much 'gentillesse,' and this strangeness I feel very +sensitively. Mr. Horne has not returned to England yet, +and in a letter which I received from him some fortnight +ago he desired to have my book sent to him to Germany, +just as if he never meant to return to England again. I +answered his sayings, and reiterated, in a way that would +make you smile, my information about your having sent the +American copies to him. I made my <i>oyez</i> very plain and +articulate. He won't say again that he never heard of it—be +sure of <i>that</i>. Well, and then Mr. Browning is not in +England either, so that whatever you send for <i>him</i> must +await his return from the east or the west or the south, +wherever he is. The new spirit of the age is a wandering +spirit. Mr. Dickens is in Italy. Even Miss Mitford <i>talks</i> +of going to France, which is an extreme case for <i>her</i>. Do +you never feel inclined to flash across the Atlantic to us, or +can you really remain still in one place?</p> + +<p>I must not forget to assure you, dear Mr. Mathews, as I +may conscientiously do, even before I have looked into or +received the 'Democratic Review,' that whatever fault you +may find with me, my strongest feeling on reading your +article will or must be <i>the sense of your kindness</i>. Of course +I do not expect, nor should I wish, that your personal +interest in me (proved in so many ways) would destroy your +critical faculty in regard to me. Such an expectation, if I +had entertained it, would have been scarcely honorable to +either of us, and I may assure you that I never did entertain +it. No; be at rest about the article. It is not likely that +I shall think it 'inadequate.' And I may as well mention +in connection with it that before you spoke of reviewing me +<i>I</i> (in my despair of Mr. Horne's absence, and my impotency +to assist your book) had thrown into my desk, to watch +for some opportunity of publication, a review of your 'Poems +on Man,' from my own hand, and that I am still waiting +and considering and taking courage before I send it to +some current periodical. There is a difficulty—there is a +feeling of shyness on my part, because, as I told you, I have +no personal friend or introduction among the pressmen +or the critics, and because the 'Athenaeum,' which I should +otherwise turn to first, has already treated of your work, and +would not, of course, consent to reconsider an expressed +opinion. Well, I shall do it somewhere. Forgive me the +<i>appearance</i> of my impotency under a general aspect.</p> + +<p>Ah, you cannot guess at the estate of poetry in the eyes +of even such poetical English publishers as Mr. Moxon, +who can write sonnets himself. Poetry is in their eyes just +a desperate speculation. A poet must have tried his public +before he tries the publisher—that is, before he expects the +publisher to run a risk for him. But I will make any effort +you like to suggest for any work of yours; I only tell you +how <i>things are</i>. By the way, if I ever told you that +Tennyson was ill, I may as rightly tell you now that he is +well, again, or was when I last heard of him. I do not +know him personally. Also Harriet Martineau can walk +five miles a day with ease, and believes in mesmerism with +all her strength. Mr. Putnam had the goodness to write +and open his reading room to me, who am in prison instead +in mine.</p> + +<p>May God bless you. Do let me hear from you soon, +and believe me ever your friend,</p> + +<p>E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +November 16, 1844.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin, ... To-day I perceive in the +'contents' of the new 'Westminster Review' that my poems +are reviewed in it, and I hope that you will both be interested +enough in my fortunes to read at the library what may be +said of them. Did George tell you that he imagined (as I +also did) the 'Blackwood' paper to be by Mr. Phillimore the +barrister? Well, Mr. Phillimore denies it altogether, has in +fact quarrelled with Christopher North, and writes no more +for him, so that I am quite at a loss now where to carry my +gratitude.</p> + +<p>Do write to me soon. I hear that everybody should +read Dr. Arnold's 'Life.' Do you know also 'Eō then,' a work +of genius? You have read, perhaps, Hewitt's 'Visits to +Remarkable Places' in the first series and second; and +Mrs. Jameson's 'Visits and Sketches' and 'Life in Mexico.' +Do you know the 'Santa Fé Expedition,' and Custine's +'Russia,' and 'Forest Life' by Mrs. Clavers? You will think +that my associative process is in a most disorderly state, by +all this running up and down the stairs of all sorts of subjects, +in the naming of books. I would write a list, more as a list +should be written, if I could see my way better, and this +will do for a beginning in any case. You do not like +romances, I believe, as I do, and then nearly every romance +now-a-days sets about pulling the joints of one's heart and +soul out, as a process of course. 'Ellen Middleton' (which I +have not read yet) is said to be very painful. Do you know +Leigh Hunt's exquisite essays called 'The Indicator and +Companion' &c., published by Moxon? I hold them at +once in delight and reverence. +May God bless you both.</p> + +<p>I am ever your affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street:<br /> +Tuesday, November 26, 1844 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—I thank you much for your +little notes; and you know too well how my sympathy +answers you, 'as face to face in a glass,' for me to assure +you of it here. Your account of yourselves altogether I +take to be satisfactory, because I never expected anybody +to gain strength very <i>rapidly</i> while in the actual endurance +of hard medical discipline. I am glad you have found out +a trustworthy adviser at Dover, but I feel nevertheless that +you may <i>both trust</i> and <i>hope</i> in Dr. Bright, of whom I heard +the very highest praises the other day....</p> + +<p>Now really I don't know why I should fancy you to +be so deeply interested in Dr. Bright, that all this detail +should be necessary. What I <i>do</i> want you to be interested in, +is in Miss Martineau's mesmeric experience,<a name="FNanchor_118_118"></a><a href="#Footnote_118_118"><sup>[118]</sup></a> for a copy of +which, in the last 'Athenaeum,' I have sent ever since +yesterday, in the intention of sending it to you. You will +admit it to be curious as philosophy, and beautiful as +composition; for the rest, I will not answer. Believing in +mesmerism as an agency, I hesitate to assent to the necessary +connection between Miss Martineau's cure and the +power; and also I am of opinion that unbelievers will not +very generally become converts through her representations. +There is a tone of exaltation which will be observed upon, +and one or two sentences are suggestive to scepticism. I +will send it to you when I get the number. I understand +that an intimate friend of hers (a lady) travelled +down from the south of England to Tynemouth, simply to +try to prevent the public exposition, but could not prevail. +Mr. Milnes has, besides, been her visitor. He is fully a +believer, she says, and affirms to having seen the same +phenomena in the East, but regards the whole subject with +<i>horror</i>. This still appears to be Mrs. Jameson's feeling, as +you know it is mine. Mrs. Jameson came again to this +door with a note, and overcoming by kindness, was let in +on Saturday last; and sate with me for nearly an hour, +and so ran into what my sisters call 'one of my sudden +intimacies' that there was an embrace for a farewell. Of +course she won my affections through my vanity (Mr. Martin +will be sure to say, so I hasten to anticipate him) and by +exaggerations about my poetry; but really, and although my +heart beat itself almost to pieces for fear of seeing her as +she walked upstairs, I do think I should have liked her +<i>without the flattery</i>. She is very light—has the lightest +of eyes, the lightest of complexions; no eyebrows, and +what looked to me like very pale red hair, and thin +lips of no colour at all. But with all this indecision of +exterior the expression is rather acute than soft; and the +conversation in its principal characteristics, analytical and +examinative; throwing out no thought which is not as clear +as glass—critical, in fact, in somewhat of an austere sense. I +use 'austere,' of course, in its intellectual relation, for nothing +in the world could be kinder, or more graciously kind, +than her whole manner and words were to me. She is +coming again in two or three days, she says. Yes, and she +said of Miss Martineau's paper in the 'Athenaeum,' that she +very much doubted the wisdom of publishing it now; and +that for the public's sake, if not for her own, Miss M. should +have waited till the excitement of recovered health had a +little subsided. She said of mesmerism altogether that she +was inclined to believe it, but had not finally made up her +convictions. She used words so exactly like some I have +used myself that I must repeat them, 'that if there was <i>anything</i> +in it, there was <i>so much</i>, it became scarcely possible to +limit consequences, and the subject grew awful to contemplate.' ...</p> + +<p>On Saturday I had some copies of my American edition, +which dazzle the English one; and one or two reviews, +transatlantically transcendental in 'oilie flatterie.' And I +heard yesterday from the English publisher Moxon, and he +was 'happy to tell me that the work was selling very well,' +and this without an inquiry on my part. To say the truth, +I was <i>afraid</i> to inquire. It is good news altogether. The +'Westminster Review' won't be out till next month.</p> + +<p>Wordsworth is so excited about the railroad that his wife +persuaded him to go away to recover his serenity, but he has +returned raging worse than ever. He says that fifty +members of Parliament have promised him their opposition. +He is wrong, I think, but I also consider that if the people +remembered his genius and his age, and suspended the +obnoxious Act for a few years, they would be right....</p> + +<p>May God bless you both.</p> + +<p>Most affectionately yours,<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To James Martin</i><br /> +December 10, 1844.<br /> + +<p>I have been thinking of you, my dear Mr. Martin, more +and more the colder it has been, and had made up my +mind to write to-day, let me feel as dull as I might. So, +the vane only turns to <i>you</i> instead of to dearest Mrs. Martin +in consequence of your letter—your letter makes <i>that</i> difference. +I should have written to Dover in any case....</p> + +<p>You are to know that Miss Martineau's mesmeric +experience is only peculiar as being Harriet Martineau's, +otherwise it exhibits the mere commonplaces of the agency. +You laugh, I see. I wish I could laugh too. I mean, I +seriously wish that I could disbelieve in the reality of the +power, which is in every way most repulsive to me....</p> + +<p>Mrs. Martin is surprised at me and others on account +of our 'horror.' Surely it is a natural feeling, and she +would herself be liable to it if she were <i>more credulous</i>. +The agency seems to me like the shaking of the flood-gates +placed by the Divine Creator between the unprepared soul +and the unseen world. Then—the subjection of the will +and vital powers of one individual to those of another, to +the extent of the apparent solution of the very identity, is +abhorrent from me. And then (as to the expediency of +the matter, and to prove how far believers may be carried) +there is even now a religious sect at Cheltenham, of persons +who call themselves advocates of the 'third revelation,' +and profess to receive their system of theology entirely from +patients in the sleep.</p> + +<p>In the meantime, poor Miss Martineau, as the consequence +of her desire to speak the truth as she apprehends +it, is overwhelmed with atrocious insults from all quarters. +For my own part I would rather fall into the hands of God +than of man, and suffer as she did in the body, instead of +being the mark of these cruel observations. But she has +singular strength of mind, and calmly continues her testimony.</p> + +<p>Miss Mitford writes to me: 'Be sure it is <i>all true</i>. I +see it every day in my Jane'—her maid, who is mesmerised +for deafness, but not, I believe, with much success curatively. +As a remedy, the success has been far greater in the +Martineau case than in others. With Miss Mitford's maid, +the sleep is, however, produced; and the girl professed, at +the third <i>séance</i>, to be able to <i>see behind her</i>.</p> + +<p>I am glad I have so much interesting matter to look +forward to in the 'Eldon Memoirs' as Pincher's biography. +I am only in the first volume. Are English chancellors +really made of such stuff? I couldn't have thought it. +Pincher will help to reconcile me to the Law Lords perhaps.</p> + +<p>And, to turn from Tory legislators, I am vainglorious +in announcing to you that the Anti-Corn-Law League has +taken up my poems on the top of its pikes as antithetic to +'War and Monopoly.' Have I not had a sonnet from +Gutter Lane? And has not the journal called the 'League' +reviewed me into the third heaven, high up—above the pure +ether of the five points? Yes, indeed. Of course I should +be a (magna) chartist for evermore, even without the +previous predilection.</p> + +<p>And what do you and Mrs. Martin say about O'Connell? +Did you read last Saturday's 'Examiner'? Tell her that I +welcomed her kind letter heartily, and that this is an answer +to both of you. My best love to her always. May God +bless you, dear Mr. Martin! Probably I have written your +patience to an end. If papa or anybody were in the room, +I should have a remembrance for you.</p> + +<p>I remain, myself,</p> + +<p>Affectionately yours,<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Wednesday [December 1844].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—Hardly had my letter gone to +you yesterday, when your kind present and not <i>et</i> arrived. I +thank you for my boots with more than the warmth of the +worsted, and feel all their merits to my soul (each sole) +while I thank you. A pair of boots or shoes which 'can't +be kicked off' is something highly desirable for me, in +Wilson's opinion; and this is the first thing which struck +<i>her</i>. But the 'great idea' 'à propos des bottes,' which +occurred to myself, ought to be unspeakable, like Miss +Martineau's great ideas—for I do believe it was—that I +needn't have the trouble every morning, <i>now</i>, of putting on +my stockings....</p> + +<p>My voice is thawing too, with all the rest. If the cold +had lasted I should have been dumb in a day or two more, +and as it was, I was forced to refuse to see Mrs. Jameson +(who had the goodness to come again) because I couldn't +speak much above my breath. But I was tolerably well +and brave upon the whole. Oh, these murderous English +winters. The wonder is, how anybody can live through +them....</p> + +<p>Did I tell you, or Mr. Martin, that Rogers the poet, at +eighty-three or four years of age, bore the bank robbery<a name="FNanchor_119_119"></a><a href="#Footnote_119_119"><sup>[119]</sup></a> +with the light-hearted bearing of a man 'young and bold,' +went out to dinner two or three times the same week, and +said witty things on his own griefs. One of the other +partners went to bed instead, and was not likely, I heard, +to 'get over it.' I felt quite glad and proud for Rogers. +He was in Germany last year, and this summer in Paris; +but he <i>first</i> went to see Wordsworth at the Lakes.</p> + +<p>It is a fine thing when a light burns so clear down into +the socket, isn't it? I, who am not a devout admirer of +the 'Pleasures of Memory,' do admire this perpetual youth +and untired energy; it is a fine thing to my mind. Then, +there are other noble characteristics about this Rogers. A +common friend said the other day to Mr. Kenyon, 'Rogers +hates me, I know. He is always saying bitter speeches in +relation to me, and yesterday he said so and so. <i>But</i>,' +he continued, 'if I were in distress, there is one man in the +world to whom I would go without doubt and without hesitation, +at once, and as to a brother, and <i>that</i> man is <i>Rogers</i>.' Not +that I would choose to be obliged to a man who hated me; +but it is an illustration of the fact that if Rogers is bitter in +his words, which we all know he is, he is always benevolent +and generous in his deeds. He makes an epigram on a +man, and gives him a thousand pounds; and the deed is +the truer expression of his own nature. An uncommon +development of character, in any case.</p> + +<p>May God bless you both!</p> + +<p>Your most affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<p>I am going to tell you, in an antithesis, of the popularising +of my poems. I had a sonnet the other day from +Gutter Lane, Cheapside, and I heard that Count d'Orsay +had written one of the stanzas of 'Crowned and Buried' +at the bottom of an engraving of Napoleon which hangs in +his room. Now I allow you to laugh at my vaingloriousness, +and then you may pin it to Mrs. Best's satisfaction in the +dedication to Dowager Majesty. By the way—no, out of +the way—it is whispered that when Queen Victoria goes to +Strathfieldsea<a name="FNanchor_120_120"></a><a href="#Footnote_120_120"><sup>[120]</sup></a> (how do you spell it?) she means to visit +Miss Mitford, to which rumour Miss Mitford (being that +rare creature, a sensible woman) says: 'May God forbid.'</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +Wednesday morning [about December 1844].<br /> + +<p>I thank you, my dear cousin, and did so silently the +day before yesterday, when you were kind enough to bring +me the review and write the good news in pencil. I should +be delighted to see you (this is to certify) notwithstanding +the frost; only my voice having suffered, and being the +ghost of itself, you might find it difficult to <i>hear</i> me without +inconvenience. Which is for <i>you</i> to consider, and not for +<i>me</i>. And indeed the fog, in addition to the cold, makes +it inexpedient for anyone to leave the house except upon +business and compulsion.</p> + +<p>Oh no—we need not mind any scorn which assails +Tennyson and <i>us</i> together. There is a dishonor that +does honor—and 'this is of it.' I never heard of Barnes.<a name="FNanchor_121_121"></a><a href="#Footnote_121_121"><sup>[121]</sup></a></p> + +<p>Were you aware that the review you brought was in +a newspaper called the 'League,' and laudatory to the +utmost extravagance—praising us too for courage in opposing +'war and monopoly'?—the 'corn ships in the offing' +being duly named. I have heard that it is probably written +by Mr. Cobden himself, who writes for the journal in +question, and is an enthusiast in poetry. If I thought so +to the point of conviction, <i>do you know, I should be very +much pleased</i>? You remember that I am a sort of (magna) +chartist—only going a little farther!</p> + +<p>Flush was properly ashamed of himself when he came +upstairs again for his most ungrateful, inexplicable conduct +towards you; and I lectured him well; and upon asking +him to 'promise never to behave ill to you again,' he kissed +my hands and wagged his tail most emphatically. It +altogether amounted to an oath, I think. The truth is that +Flush's nervous system rather than his temper was in fault, +and that, in that great cloak, he saw you as in a cloudy +mystery. And then, when you stumbled over the bell +rope, he thought the world was come to an end. He is +not accustomed, you see, to the vicissitudes of life. Try +to forgive him and me—for his ingratitude seems to 'strike +through' to me; and I am not without remorse.</p> + +<p>Ever most affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>I inclose Mr. Chorley's note which you left behind you, +but which I did not see until just now. <i>You</i> know that I +am not ashamed of '<i>progress</i>.' On the contrary, my only +hope is in it. But the question is not <i>there</i>, nor, I think, +for the public, except in cases of ripe, established reputations, +as I said before.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +(On returning some illustrations of Spenser by Mr. Woods)<br /> +December 11, 1844.<br /> + +<p>... With many thanks, cordial and true, I thank you +for the pleasure I have enjoyed in connection with these +proofs of genius. To be honest, it is my own personal +opinion (I give it to you for as much as it is worth—not +much!) that many of the subjects of these drawings are +unfit for graphic representation. What we can bear to see +in the poet's vision, and sustained on the wings of his +divine music, we shrink from a little when brought face +to face with, as drawn out in black and white. You will +understand what I mean. The horror and terror preponderate +in the drawings, and what is sublime in the poet +is apt to be extravagant in the artist—and this, not from +a deficiency of power in the latter, but from a treading on +ground forbidden except to the poet's foot. I may be +wrong, perhaps—I do not pretend to be right. I only tell +you (as you ask for them) what my impressions are.</p> + +<p>I need not say that I wish all manner of success to your +friend the artist, and laurels of the weight of gold while of +the freshness of grass—alas! an impossible vegetable!—fabulous +as the Halcyon!</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Monday, December 24, 1844 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mr. Boyd,—I wish I had a note from you +to-day—which optative aorist I am not sure of being either +grammatical or reasonable! Perhaps you have expected +to hear from <i>me</i> with more reason....</p> + +<p>I fancied that you would be struck by Miss Martineau's +lucid and able style. She is a very admirable woman—and +the most logical intellect of the age, for a woman. +On this account it is that the men throw stones at her, +and that many of her own sex throw dirt; but if I begin +on this subject I shall end by gnashing my teeth. A +righteous indignation fastens on me. I had a note from +her the other day, written in a noble spirit, and saying, +in reference to the insults lavished on her, that she was +prepared from the first for <i>publicity</i>, and ventured it all +for the sake of what she considered the truth—she was +sustained, she said, by the recollection of Godiva.</p> + +<p>Do you remember who Godiva was—or shall I tell +you? Think of it—Godiva of Coventry, and peeping +Tom. The worst and basest is, that in this nineteenth +century there are thousands of Toms to one.</p> + +<p>I think, however, myself, and with all my admiration +for Miss Martineau, that her statement and her reasonings +on it are not free from vagueness and apparent contradictions. +She writes in a state of enthusiasm, and some of +her expressions are naturally coloured by her mood of mind +and nerve.</p> + +<p>May this Christmas give you ease and pleasantness, +in various ways, my dearest friend! My Christmas wish +for myself is to hear that you are well. I cannot bear to +think of you suffering. Are the nights better? May God +bless you. Shall you not think it a great thing if the poems +go into a second edition within the twelvemonth? I am +surprised at your not being satisfied. Consider what poetry +is, and that four months have not passed since the publication +of mine; and that, where poems have to make their +way by force of <i>themselves</i>, and not of name nor of fashion, +the first three months cannot present the period of the +quickest sale. That must be for afterwards. Think of me +on Christmas Day, as of one who gratefully loves you.</p> + +<p>ELIBET.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>A passing reference in a previous letter (above, p. 217) +has told of the beginning of another friendship, which was to +hold a large place in Miss Barrett's later life; and the next +letter is the first now extant which was written to this new +friend, Anna Jameson. Mrs. Jameson had not at this +time written the works on sacred art with which her name +is now chiefly associated; but she was already engaged +in her long struggle to earn her livelihood by her pen. +Her first work, 'The Diary of an Ennuyée' (1826), written +before her marriage, had attracted considerable attention. +Since then she had written her 'Characteristics of Women,' +'Essays on Shakespeare's Female Characters,' 'Visits and +Sketches,' and a number of compilations of less importance. +Quite recently she had been engaged to write handbooks +to the public and private art galleries of London, and had +so embarked on the career of art authorship in which her +best work was done.</p> + +<p>The beginning and end of the following letter are lost. +The subject of it is the long and hostile comment which +appeared in the 'Athenaeum' for December 28 on Miss +Martineau's letters on mesmerism.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Jameson</i><br /> +[End of December 1844.]<br /> + +<p>... For the 'Athenaeum,' I have always held it as a +journal, first—in the very first rank—both in ability and +integrity; and knowing Mr. Dilke <i>is</i> the 'Athenaeum,' I +could make no mistake in my estimation of himself. I have +personal reasons for gratitude to both him and his journal, +and I have always felt that it was honorable to me to have +them. Also, I do not at all think that because a woman is +a woman, she is on that account to be spared the ordinary +risks of the arena in literature and philosophy. I think no +such thing. Logical chivalry would be still more radically +debasing to us than any other. It is not therefore at all as +a Harriet Martineau, but as a thinking and feeling Martineau +(now <i>don't</i> laugh), that I hold her to have been hardly used +in the late controversy. And, if you don't laugh at <i>that</i>, +don't be too grave either, with the thought of your own +share and position in the matter; because, as must be +obvious to everyone (yourself included), you did everything +possible to you to prevent the catastrophe, and no man and +no friend could have done better. My brother George told +me of his conversation with you at Mr. Lough's, but <i>are</i> +you not mistaken in fancying that she blames you, that she +is cold with you? I really think you must be. Why, if she +is displeased with you she must be unjust, <i>and is she ever +unjust</i>? I ask you. <i>I</i> should imagine not, but then, +with all my insolence of talking of her as my friend, I only +admire and love her at a distance, in her books and in her +letters, and do not know her face to face, and in living +womanhood at all. She wrote to me once, and since we have +corresponded; and as in her kindness she has called me her +friend, I leap hastily at an unripe fruit, perhaps, and echo +back the word. She is your friend in a completer, or, at +least, a more ordinary sense; and indeed it is impossible +for me to believe without strong evidence that she could +cease to be your friend on such grounds as are apparent. +Perhaps she does not write because she cannot contain her +wrath against Mr. Dilke (which, between ourselves, she cannot, +very well), and respects your connection and regard for +him. Is not <i>that</i> a 'peradventure' worth considering? I +am sure that you have no <i>right</i> to be uneasy in any case.</p> + +<p>And now I do not like to send you this letter without +telling you my impression about mesmerism, lest I seem +reserved and 'afraid of committing myself,' as prudent +people are. I will confess, then, that my <i>impression</i> is in +favour of the reality of mesmerism to some unknown extent. +I particularly dislike believing it, I would rather believe +most other things in the world; but the evidence of the +'cloud of witnesses' does thunder and lightning so in my +ears and eyes, that I believe, while my blood runs cold. I +would not be practised upon—no, not for one of Flushie's +ears, and I hate the whole theory. It is hideous to my +imagination, especially what is called phrenological mesmerism. +After all, however, truth is to be accepted; and +testimony, when so various and decisive, is an ascertainer +of truth. Now do not tell Mr. Dilke, lest he excommunicate +me.</p> + +<p>But I will not pity you for the increase of occupation +produced by an increase of such comfort as your mother's +and sister's presence must give. What it will be for you to +have a branch to sun yourself on, after a long flight against +the wind!</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Chorley</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: January 3, 1845.<br /> + +<p>Dear Mr. Chorley,—I hope it will not be transgressing +very much against the etiquette of journalism, or against the +individual delicacy which is of more consequence to both of +us, if I venture to thank you by one word for the pages +which relate to me in your excellent article in the 'New +Quarterly.' It is not my habit to thank or to remonstrate +with my reviewers, and indeed I believe I may tell you that +I never wrote to thank anyone before on these grounds. I +could not thank anyone for praising me—I would not thank +him for praising me against his conscience; and if he +praised me to the measure of his conscience only, I should +have little (as far as the praise went) to thank him for. +Therefore I do not thank you for the praise in your article, +but for the kind cordial spirit which pervades both praise +and blame, for the willingness in praising, and for the gentleness +in finding fault; for the encouragement without +unseemly exaggeration, and for the criticisms without +critical scorn. Allow me to thank you for these things and +for the pleasure I have received by their means. I am bold +to do it, because I hear that you confess the reviewership; +and am the bolder, because I recognised your hand in an +act of somewhat similar kindness in the 'Athenaeum' at the +first appearance of the poems.</p> + +<p>While I am writing of the 'New Quarterly,' I take the +liberty of making a remark, not of course in relation to +myself—I know too well my duty to my judges—but to your +view of the Vantage ground of the poetesses of England. +It is a strong impression with me that previous to Joanna +Baillie there was no such thing in England as a poetess; +and that so far from triumphing over the rest of the world +in that particular product, we lay until then under the feet +of the world. We hear of a Marie in Brittany who sang +songs worthy to be mixed with Chaucer's for true poetic +sweetness, and in Italy a Vittoria Colonna sang her noble +sonnets. But in England, where is our poetess before +Joanna Baillie—poetess in the true sense? Lady Winchilsea +had an <i>eye</i>, as Wordsworth found out; but the Duchess of +Newcastle had more poetry in her—the comparative praise +proving the negative position—than Lady Winchilsea. And +when you say of the French, that they have only epistolary +women and wits, while we have our Lady Mary, why what +would Lady Mary be to us <i>but</i> for her letters and her wit? +Not a poetess, surely! unless we accept for poetry her +graceful <i>vers de société</i>.</p> + +<p>Do forgive me if an impulse has carried me too far. It +has been long 'a fact,' to my view of the matter, that +Joanna Baillie is the first female poet in all senses in +England; and I fell with the whole weight of fact and theory +against the edge of your article.</p> + +<p>I recall myself now to my first intention of being simply, +but not silently, grateful to you; and entreating you to +pardon this letter too quickly to think it necessary-to +answer it....</p> + +<p>I remain, very truly yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mr. Chorley</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: January 7, 1845.<br /> + +<p>Dear Mr. Chorley,—You are very good to deign to +answer my impertinences, and not to be disgusted by my +defamations of 'the grandmothers,' and (to diminish my +perversity in your eyes) I am ready to admit at once that we +are generally too apt to run into premature classification—the +error of all imperfect knowledge; and into unreasonable +exclusiveness—the vice of it. We spoil the shining surface +of life by our black lines drawn through and through, as if +ominously for a game of the fox and goose. For my part, +however imperfect my practice may be, I am intimately +convinced—and more and more since my long seclusion—that +to live in a house with windows on every side, so as to +catch both the morning and evening sunshine, is the best and +brightest thing we have to do—to say nothing about the +justest and wisest. Sympathies are our opportunities of good.</p> + +<p>Moreover, I know nothing of your 'sweet mistress +Anne.'<a name="FNanchor_122_122"></a><a href="#Footnote_122_122"><sup>[122]</sup></a> I never read a verse of hers. Ignorance goes for +much, you see, in all our mal-criticisms, and my ignorance +goes to this extent. I cannot write to you of your Anglo-American +poetess.</p> + +<p>Also, in my sweeping speech about the grandmothers, I +should have stopped before such instances as the exquisite +ballad of 'Auld Robin Gray,' which is attributed to a +woman, and the pathetic 'Ballow my Babe,' which tradition +calls 'Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament.' I have certain +doubts of my own, indeed, in relation to both origins, and +with regard to 'Robin Gray' in particular; but doubts are +not worthy stuff enough to be taken into an argument, and +certainly, therefore, I should have admitted those two +ballads as worthy poems before the <i>Joannan aera</i>.</p> + +<p>For what I ventured to say otherwise, would you not +consent to join our sympathies, and receive the 'choir' +(ah! but you are very cunningly subtle in your distinctions; +I am afraid I was too simple for you) as agreeable writers +of verses sometimes, leaving the word <i>poet</i> alone? Because, +you see, what you call the 'bad dispensation' by no means +accounts for the want of the faculty of poetry, strictly so +called. England has had many learned women, not merely +readers but writers of the learned languages, in Elizabeth's +time and afterwards—women of deeper acquirements than +are common now in the greater diffusion of letters; and +yet where were the poetesses? The divine breath which +seemed to come and go, and, ere it went, filled the land with +that crowd of true poets whom we call the old dramatists—why +did it never pass, even in the lyrical form, over the +lips of a woman? How strange! And can we deny that +it was so? I look everywhere for grandmothers and see +none. It is not in the filial spirit I am deficient, I do assure +you—witness my reverent love of the grandfathers!</p> + +<p>Seriously, I do not presume to enter into argument with +you, and this in relation to a critical paper which I admire +in so many ways and am grateful for in some; but is not +the poet a different man from the cleverest versifier, and is +it not well for the world to be taught the difference? The +divineness of poetry is far more to me than either pride of +sex or personal pride, and, though willing to acknowledge +the lowest breath of the inspiration, I cannot the 'powder +and patch.' As powder and patch I may, but not as poetry. +And though I in turn may suffer for this myself—though I +too (<i>anch' io</i>) may be turned out of 'Arcadia,' and told that +I am not a poet, still, I should be content, I hope, that the +divineness of poetry be proved in my humanness, rather +than lowered to my uses.</p> + +<p>But you shall not think me exclusive. Of poor L.E.L., +for instance, I could write with <i>more</i> praiseful appreciation +than you can. It appears to me that she had the gift—though +in certain respects she dishonored the art—and +her latter lyrics are, many of them, of great beauty and +melody, such as, having once touched the ear of a reader, +live on in it. I observe in your 'Life of Mrs. Hemans' +(shall I tell you how often I have read those volumes?) she +(Mrs. H.) never appears, in any given letter or recorded +opinion, to esteem her contemporary. The antagonism lay, +probably, in the higher parts of Mrs. Hemans's character +and mind, and we are not to wonder at it.</p> + +<p>It is very pleasant to me to have your approbation of +the sonnets on George Sand, on the points of feeling and +lightness, on which all my readers have not absolved me +equally, I have reason to know. I am more a latitudinarian +in literature than it is generally thought expedient for +women to be; and I have that admiration for <i>genius</i>, which +dear Mr. Kenyon calls my 'immoral sympathy with power;' +and if Madame Dudevant<a name="FNanchor_123_123"></a><a href="#Footnote_123_123"><sup>[123]</sup></a> is not the first female genius of +any country or age, I really do not know who is. And +then she has certain noblenesses—granting all the evil and +'perilous stuff'—noblenesses and royalnesses which make +me loyal. Do pardon me for intruding all this on you, +though you cannot justify me—<i>you</i>, who are occupied +beyond measure, and <i>I</i>, who know it! I have been under +the delusion, too, during this writing, of having something +like a friend's claim to write and be troublesome. I have +lived so near your friends that I keep the odour of them! +A mere delusion, alas! my only personal right in respect to +you being one that I am not likely to forget or waive—the +right of being grateful to you.</p> + +<p>But so, and looking again at the last words of your letter, +I see that you 'wish,' in the kindest of words, 'to do something +more for me.' I hope some day to take this 'something +more' of your kindness out in the pleasure of personal +intercourse; and if, in the meantime, you should consent +to flatter my delusion by letting me hear from you now +and then, if ever you have a moment to waste and inclination +to waste it, why I, on my side, shall always be ready to +thank you for the 'something more' of kindness, as bound +in the duty of gratitude. In any case I remain</p> + +<p>Truly and faithfully yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mr. Chorley</i><br /> +[<i>The beginning of this letter is lost</i>]<br /> +[1845]<br /> + +<p>... to the awful consideration of the possibility of my +reading a novel or caring for the story of it (<i>proh pudor!</i>), +that I am probably, not to say certainly, the most complete +and unscrupulous romance reader within your knowledge. +Never was a child who cared more for 'a story' than I do; +never even did I myself, <i>as</i> a child, care more for it than I +do. My love of fiction began with my breath, and will end +with it; and goes on increasing; and the heights and +depths of the consumption which it has induced you may +guess at perhaps, but it is a sublime idea from its vastness, +and will gain on you but slowly. On my tombstone may +be written '<i>Ci-gît</i> the greatest novel reader in the world,' +and nobody will forbid the inscription; and I approve of +Gray's notion of paradise more than of his lyrics, when he +suggests the new, εις τους αιωνας [eis tous +aiônas]. Are you shocked at me? Perhaps so. And you see I +make no excuses, as an invalid might. Invalid or not, I +should have a romance in a drawer, if not behind a pillow, +and I might as well be true and say so. There is the love +of literature, which is one thing, and the love of fiction, +which is another. And then, I am not fastidious, as Mrs. +Hemans was, in her high purity, and therefore the two +loves have a race-course clear.</p> + +<p>This is a long preface to coming to speak of the +'Improvisatore.'<a name="FNanchor_124_124"></a><a href="#Footnote_124_124"><sup>[124]</sup></a> I had sent for it already to the library, +and shall dun them for it twice as much for the sake of +what you say. Only I hope I may care for the story. I +shall try.</p> + +<p>And for the <i>rococo</i>, I have more feeling for it, in a sense, +than I once had, for, some two years ago, I passed through +a long dynasty of French memoirs, which made me feel +quite differently about the littlenesses of greatnesses. I +measured them all from the heights of the 'tabouret,'<a name="FNanchor_125_125"></a><a href="#Footnote_125_125"><sup>[125]</sup></a> and +was a good Duchess, in the 'non-natural' meaning, for +the moment. Those memoirs are charming of their kind, +and if life were cut in filagree paper would be profitable +reading to the soul. Do you not think so? And you +mean besides, probably, that you care for <i>beauty in detail</i>, +which we all should do if our senses were better educated.</p> + +<p>So the confession is not a dreadful one, after all, and +mine may involve more evil, and would to ninety-nine +out of a hundred 'sensible and cultivated people.' Think +what Mrs. Ellis would say to the 'Women of England' +about me in her fifteenth edition, if she knew!</p> + +<p>And do <i>you</i> know that dear Miss Mitford spent this +day week with me, notwithstanding the rain?</p> + +<p>Very truly yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>I have forgotten what I particularly wished to say—viz. +that I never thought of <i>expecting</i> to hear from you. I +understand that when you write it is pure grace, and never +to be expected. You have too much to do, I understand +perfectly.</p> + +<p>The east wind seems to be blowing all my letters about +to-day; the <i>t's</i> and <i>e's</i> wave like willows. Now if crooked +<i>e's</i> mean a 'greenshade' (not taken rurally), what awful +significance can have the whole crooked alphabet?</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Saturday, January 1844 [should be 1845].<a name="FNanchor_126_126"></a><a href="#Footnote_126_126"><sup>[126]</sup></a><br /> + +<p>I must tell you, my dearest Mrs. Martin, Mr. Kenyon +has read to me an extract from a private letter addressed +by H. Martineau to Moxon the publisher, to the effect that +Lord Morpeth was down on his knees in the middle of the +room a few nights ago, in the presence of the somnambule +J., and conversing with her in Greek and Latin, that the +four Miss Liddels were also present, and that they five +talked to her during one <i>séance</i> in five foreign languages, +viz. Latin, Greek, French, Italian, and German. When +the mesmeriser touches the organ of <i>imitation</i> on J.'s head, +while the strange tongue is in the course of being addressed +to her, she translates into English word for word what is +said; but when the organ of <i>language</i> is touched, she simply +answers in English what is said.</p> + +<p>My 'few words of comment' upon this are, that I feel +to be more and more standing on my head—which does +not mean, you will be pleased to observe, that I understand.</p> + +<p>Well, and how are you both going on? My voice is +quite returned; and papa continues, I am sorry to say, to +have a bad cold and cough. He means to stay in the +house to-day and try what prudence will do.</p> + +<p>We have heard from Henry, at Alexandria still, but a +few days before sailing, and he and Stormie are bringing +home, as a companion to Flushie, a beautiful little gazelle. +What do you think of it? I would rather have it than the +'babby,' though the flourish of trumpets on the part of the +possessors seems quite in favor of the latter.</p> + +<p>And I had a letter from Browning the poet last night, +which threw me into ecstasies—Browning, the author of +'Paracelsus,' and king of the mystics.</p> + +<p>[<i>The rest of this letter is missing</i>.]</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Saturday, January 1845.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—I believe our last letters +crossed, and we might draw lots for the turn of receiving +one, so that you are to take it for supererogatory virtue in +me altogether if I begin to write to you as 'at these presents.' +But I want to know how you both are, and if your last +account may continue to be considered the true one. You +have been poising yourself on the equal balance of letters, +as weak consciences are apt to do, but I write that you may +write, and also, a little, that I may thank you for the +kindness of your last letter, which was so very kind.</p> + +<p>No, indeed, dearest Mrs. Martin. If I do not say oftener +that I have a strong and grateful trust in your affection for +me, and therefore in your interest in all that concerns me, +it is not that it is less strong and grateful. What I said or +sang of Miss Martineau's letter was no consequence of a +distrust of <i>you</i>, but of a feeling within myself that for me +to show about such a letter was scarcely becoming, and, in +the matter of modesty, nowise discreet. I suppose I was +writing excuses to myself for showing it to you. I cannot +otherwise account for the saying and singing. And, for the +rest, nobody can say or sing that I am not frank enough to +you—to the extent of telling all manner of nonsense about +myself which can only be supposed to be interesting on the +ground of your being presupposed to care a little for the +person concerned. Now am I not frank enough? And +by the way, I send you 'The Seraphim'<a name="FNanchor_127_127"></a><a href="#Footnote_127_127"><sup>[127]</sup></a> at last, by this +day's railroad.</p> + +<p>Thursday.</p> + +<p>To prove to you that I had not forgotten you before +your letter came, here is the fragment of an unfinished one +which I send you, to begin with—an imperfect fossil letter, +which no comparative anatomy will bring much sense out +of—except the plain fact <i>that you were not forgotten</i>....</p> + +<p>From Alexandria we heard yesterday that they sailed +from thence on the first of January, and the home passage +may be long.</p> + +<p>The <i>changes</i> in Mary Minto on account of mesmerism +were merely imaginary as far as I can understand. Nobody +here observed any change in her. Oh no. These things +will be fancied sometimes. That she is an enthusiastic +girl, and that the subject took strong hold upon her, is true +enough, and not the least in the world—according to my +mind—to be wondered at. By the way, I had a letter +and the present of a work on mesmerism—Mr. Newnham's—from +his daughter, who sent it to me the other day, in +the kindest way, 'out of gratitude for my poetry,' as she +says, and from a desire that it might do me physical good +in the matter of health. I do not at all know her. I wrote +to thank her, of course, for the kindness and sympathy +which, as she expressed them, quite touched me; and to +explain how I did not stand in reach just now of the +temptations of mesmerism. I might have said that I +shrank nearly as much from these 'temptations' as from +Lord Bacon's stew of infant children for the purposes of +witchcraft.</p> + +<p>Well, then, I am getting deeper and deeper into correspondence +with Robert Browning, poet and mystic, and we +are growing to be the truest of friends. If I live a little +longer shut up in this room, I shall certainly know everybody +in the world. Mrs. Jameson came again yesterday, +and was very agreeable, but tried vainly to convince me +that the 'Vestiges of Creation,' which I take to be one of +the most melancholy books in the world, is the most +comforting, and that Lady Byron was an angel of a wife. +I persisted (in relation to the former clause) in a 'determinate +counsel' not to be a fully developed monkey if I could +help it, but when Mrs. J. assured me that she knew all the +circumstances of the separation, though she could not +betray a confidence, and entreated me 'to keep my mind +open' on a subject which would one day be set in the light, +I stroked down my feathers as well as I could, and listened +to reason. You know—or perhaps you do <i>not</i> know—that +there are two women whom I have hated all my life long—<i>Lady +Byron and Marie Louise</i>. To prove how false the +public effigy of the former is, however, Mrs. Jameson told +me that she knew <i>nothing of mathematics, nothing of science</i>, +and that the element preponderating in her mind is the +<i>poetical</i> element—that she cares much for <i>my</i> poetry! How +deep in the knowledge of the depths of vanity must +Mrs. J. be, to tell me <i>that</i>—now mustn't she? But there +was—yes, and is—a strong adverse feeling to work upon, +and it is not worked away.</p> + +<p>Then, I have seen a copy of a note of Lord Morpeth +to H. Martineau, to the effect that he considered the +mesmeric phenomena witnessed by him (inclusive, remember, +of the <i>languages</i>) to be 'equally beautiful, wonderful, +and <i>undeniable</i>' but he is prudent enough to desire that no +use should be made of this letter ... And now no more +for to-day.</p> + +<p>With love to Mr. Martin, ever believe me<br /> +Your affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +Saturday, February 8, 1845.<br /> + +<p>I return to you, dearest Mr. Kenyon, the two numbers +of Jerold Douglas's<a name="FNanchor_128_128"></a><a href="#Footnote_128_128"><sup>[128]</sup></a> magazine, and I wish 'by that same +sign' I could invoke your presence and advice on a letter I +received this morning. You never would guess what it is, +and you will wonder when I tell you that it offers a request +from the <i>Leeds Ladies' Committee</i>, authorised and backed +by the London <i>General Council of the League</i>, to your +cousin Ba, that she would write them a poem for the Corn +Law Bazaar to be holden at Covent Garden next May. +Now my heart is with the cause, and my vanity besides, +perhaps, for I do not deny that I am pleased with the +request so made, and if left to myself I should be likely at +once to say 'yes,' and write an agricultural-evil poem to +complete the factory-evil poem into a national-evil circle. +And I do not myself see how it would be implicating my name +with a political party to the extent of wearing a badge. +The League is not a party, but 'the meeting of the waters' +of several parties, and I am trying to persuade papa's +Whiggery that I may make a poem which will be a fair +exponent of the actual grievance, leaving the remedy free +for the hands of fixed-duty men like him, or free-trade +women like myself. As to wearing the badge of a party, +either in politics or religion, I may say that never in my life +was I so far from coveting such a thing. And then poetry +breathes in another outer air. And then there is not an +existent set of any-kind-of-politics I could agree with if I +tried—<i>I</i>, who am a sort of fossil republican! You shall see +the letters when you come. Remember what the 'League' +newspaper said of the 'Cry of the Children.'</p> + +<p>Ever affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Miss Commeline</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: [February-March 1845].<br /> + +<p>My dear Miss Commeline,—I do hope that you will +allow me to appear to remember you as I never have ceased +to do in reality, and at a time when sympathy of friends is +generally acceptable, to offer you mine as if I had some +right of friendship to do so. And I am encouraged the more +to attempt this because I never shall forget that in the hour +of the bitterest agony of my life your brother wrote me a +letter which, although I did not read it, I was too ill and +distracted, I was yet shown the outside of some months +afterwards and enabled to appreciate the sympathy fully. +Such a kindness could not fail to keep alive in me (if the +need of keeping alive <i>were</i>!) the memory of the various kindnesses +received by me and mine from all your family, nor fail +to excite me to desire to impress upon you my remembrance +of <i>you</i> and my regard, and the interest with which I hear of +your joys and sorrows whenever they are large enough to be +seen from such a distance. Try to believe this of me, +dear Miss Commeline, yourself, and let your sisters and +your brother believe it also. If sorrow in its reaction makes +us think of our friends, let my name come among the list of +yours to you, and with it let the thought come that I am +not the coldest and least sincere. May God bless and +comfort you, I say, with a full heart, knowing what afflictions +like yours are and must be, but confident besides that +'we know not what we do' in weeping for the dearest. In +our sorrow we see the rough side of the stuff; in our joys +the smooth; and who shall say that when the taffeta is +turned the most <i>silk</i> may not be in the sorrows? It is true, +however, that sorrows are heavy, and that sometimes the +conditions of life (which sorrows are) seem hard to us and +overcoming, and I believe that much suffering is necessary +before we come to learn that the world is a good place to +live in and a good place to die in for even the most affectionate +and sensitive.</p> + +<p>How glad I should be to hear from you some day, when +it is not burdensome for you to write at length and fully +concerning all of you—of your sister Maria, and of Laura, +and of your brother, and of all your occupations and plans, +and whether it enters into your dreams, not to say plans, +ever to come to London, or to follow the track of your many +neighbours across the seas, perhaps....</p> + +<p>For ourselves we have the happiness of seeing our dear +papa so well, that I am almost justified in fancying happily +that you would not think him altered. He has perpetual +youth like the gods, and I may make affidavit to your brother +nevertheless that we never boiled him up to it. Also his +spirits are good and his 'step on the stair' so light as to +comfort me for not being able to run up and down them +myself. I am essentially better in health, but remain weak +and shattered and at the mercy of a breath of air through a +crevice; and thus the unusually severe winter has left me +somewhat lower than usual without surprising anybody. +Henrietta and Arabel are quite well and at home; George +on circuit, always obliged by your proffered hospitality; +and Charles John and Henry returning from a voyage to +Alexandria in papa's own vessel, the 'Statira.' I set you +an imperfect example of egotism, and hope that you will +double my <i>I's</i> and <i>we's</i>, and kindly trust to +me for being interested in yours....</p> + +<p>Yours affectionately,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Saturday, March 3, 1845.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Friend,—I am aware that I should have +written to you before, but the cold weather is apt to disable +me and to make me feel idle when it does not do so quite. +Now I am going to write about your remarks on the 'Dublin +Review.'</p> + +<p>Certainly I agree with you that there can be no necessity +for explaining anything about the tutorship if you do not +kick against the pricks of the insinuation yourself, and +especially as I consider that you <i>were</i> in a sense my 'tutor,' +inasmuch as I may say, both that nobody ever taught me +so much Greek as you, and also that without you I should +have probably lived and died without any knowledge of the +Greek Fathers. The Greek classics I should have studied +by love and instinct; but the Fathers would probably have +remained in their sepulchres, as far as my reading them was +concerned. Therefore, very gratefully do I turn to you as +my 'tutor' in the best sense, and the more persons call you +so, the better it is for the pleasures of my gratitude. The +review amused me by hitting on the right meaning there, +and besides by its percipiency about your remembering me +during your travels in the East, and sending me home the +Cyprus wine. Some of these reviewers have a wonderful +gift at inferences. The 'Metropolitan Magazine' for March +(which is to be sent to you when papa has read it) contains +a flaming article in my favour, calling me 'the friend of +Wordsworth,' and, moreover, a very little lower than the +angels. You shall see it soon, and it is only just out, of +course, being the March number. The praise is beyond +thanking for, and then I do not know whom to thank—I +cannot at all guess at the writer.</p> + +<p>I have had a kind note from Lord Teynham, whose +oblivion I had ceased to doubt, it seemed so <i>proved</i> to me +that he had forgotten me. But he writes kindly, and it gave +me pleasure to have some sign of recollection, if not of +regard, from one whom I consider with unalterable and +grateful respect, and shall always, although I am aware that +he denies all sympathy to my works and ways in literature +and the world. In fact, and to set my poetry aside, he has +joined that 'strait sect' of the Plymouth Brethren, and, of +course, has straitened his views since we met, and I, by the +reaction of solitude and suffering, have broken many bands +which held me at that time. He was always straiter +than I, and now the difference is immense. For I think +the world wider than I once thought it, and I see God's +love broader than I once saw it. To the 'Touch not, taste +not, handle not' of the strict religionists, I feel inclined to +cry, 'Touch, taste, handle, <i>all things are pure</i>.' But I am +writing this for you and not for him, and you probably +will agree with me, if you think as you used to think, at +least.</p> + +<p>But I do not agree with <i>you</i> on the League question, nor +on the woman question connected with it, only we will not +quarrel to-day, and I have written enough already without +an argument at the end.</p> + +<p>Can you guess what I have been doing lately? Washing +out my conscience, effacing the blot on my escutcheon, +performing an expiation, translating over again from the +Greek the 'Prometheus' of Aeschylus.</p> + +<p>Yes, my very dear friend, I could not bear to let that +frigid, rigid exercise, called a version and called mine, cold +as Caucasus, and flat as the neighbouring plain, stand as +my work. A palinodia, a recantation was necessary to me, +and I have achieved it. Do you blame me or not? Perhaps +I may print it in a magazine, but this is not decided. How +delighted I am to think of your being well. It makes me +very happy.</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate and grateful<br /> +ELIBET.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +March 4, 1845.<br /> + +<p>I reproach myself, dear Mr. W., for my silence, and +began to do so before your kind note reminded me of its +unkindness. I had indeed my pen in my hand three days +ago to write to you, but a cross fate plucked at my sleeve +for the ninety-ninth time, and left me guilty. And you +do not write to reproach me! You only avenge yourself +softly by keeping back all news of your health, and by not +saying a word of the effect on you of the winter which has +done its spiriting so ungently. Which brings me down to +myself. For somebody has been dreaming of me, and +dreams, you know, must go by contraries. And how could +it be otherwise? Although I am on the whole essentially +better—on the whole!—yet the peculiar severity of the +winter has acted on me, and the truth is that for the last +month, precisely the last month, I have been feeling (off +and on, as people say) very uncomfortable. Not that I +am essentially worse, but essentially better, on the contrary, +only that the feeling of discomfort and trouble at the heart +(physically) <i>will</i> come with the fall of the thermometer, +and the voice will go!...</p> + +<p>And then I have another question to enunciate—will +the oracle answer?</p> + +<p>Do you know <i>who wrote the article in the 'Metropolitan'</i>? +Beseech you, answer me. I have a suspicion, true, that +the critics have been supernaturally kind to me, but the +kindness of this 'Metropolitan' critic so passes the ordinary +limit of kindness, metropolitan or critical, that I cannot but +look among my personal friends for the writer of the article. +Coming to personal friends, I reject one on one ground +and one on another—for one the graciousness is too +graceful, and for another the grace almost too gracious. +I am puzzled and dizzy with doubt; and—is it you? +Answer me, will you? If so, I should owe so much +gratitude to you. Suffer me to pay it!—permit the pleasure +to me of paying it!—for I know too much of the pleasures +of gratitude to be willing to lose one of them.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +March 6, [1845].<br /> + +<p>Thank you, dearest Mr. Kenyon—they are very fine. +The poetry is in <i>them</i>, rather than in Blair. And now I +send them back, and Cunningham and Jerrold, with thanks +on thanks; and if you will be kind enough not to insist on +my reading the letters to Travis<a name="FNanchor_129_129"></a><a href="#Footnote_129_129"><sup>[129]</sup></a> within the 'hour,' they +shall wait for the 'Responsibility,' and the two go to you +together.</p> + +<p>And as to the tiring, it has not been much, and the +happy day was well worth being tired <i>for</i>. It is better to +be tired with pleasure than with frost; and if I have the +last fatigue too, why it is March, and it is the hour of my +martyrdom always. But I am not ill—only uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>Ah, the 'relenting'! it is rather a bad sign, I am afraid; +notwithstanding the subtilty of your consolations; but I +stroke down my philosophy, to make it shine, like a cat's +back in the dark. The argument from more deserving +poets who prosper less is not very comforting, is it? I +trow not.</p> + +<p>But as to the review, be sure—be very sure that it +is not Mr. Browning's. How you could <i>think</i> even of +Mr. Browning, surprises me. Now, as for me, I know as +well <i>as he does himself</i> that he has had nothing to do +with it.</p> + +<p>I should rather suspect Mr. Westwood, the author of +some fugitive poems, who writes to me sometimes; and +the suspicion having occurred to me, I have written to +put the question directly. You shall hear, if I hear in +reply.</p> + +<p>May God bless you always. I have heard from dear +Miss Mitford.</p> + +<p>Ever affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +March 29, 1845 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mr. Boyd,—As Arabel has written out for +you the glorification of 'Peter of York,'<a name="FNanchor_130_130"></a><a href="#Footnote_130_130"><sup>[130]</sup></a> I shall use an +edge of the same paper to 'fall on your sense' with my +gratitude about the Cyprus wine. Indeed, I could almost +upbraid you for sending me another bottle. It is most +supererogatory kindness in you to think of such a thing. +And I accept it, nevertheless, with thanks instead of +remonstrances, and promise you to drink your health in +and the spring in together, and the east wind out, if you +do not object to it. I have been better for several days, +but my heart is not yet very orderly—not being able to +recover the veins, I suppose, all in a moment.</p> + +<p>For the rest, you always mean what is right and +affectionate, and I am not apt to mistake your meanings +in this respect. Be indulgent to me as far as you can, +when it appears to you that I sink far below your religious +standard, as I am sure I must do oftener than you remind +me. Also, it certainly does appear, to my mind, that we +are not, as Christians, called to the exclusive expression of +Christian doctrine, either in poetry or prose. All truth and +all beauty and all music belong to God—He is in all +things; and in speaking of all, we speak of Him. In +poetry, which includes all things, 'the diapason closeth +full in God.' I would not lose a note of the lyre, and +whatever He has included in His creation I take to be +holy subject enough for <i>me</i>. That I am blamed for this +view by many, I know, but I cannot see it otherwise, and +when you pay your visit to 'Peter of York' and me, and +are able to talk everything over, we shall agree tolerably +well, I do not doubt.</p> + +<p>Ah, what a dream! What a thought! Too good even +to come true!</p> + +<p>I did not think that you would much like the 'Duchess +May;' but among the <i>profanum vulgus</i> you cannot think +how successful it has been. There was an account in one +of the fugitive reviews of a lady falling into hysterics on the +perusal of it, although <i>that</i> was nothing to the gush of +tears of which there is a tradition, down the Plutonian +cheeks of a lawyer unknown, over 'Bertha in the Lane.' +But these things should not make anybody vain. It is the +<i>story</i> that has power with people, just what <i>you</i> do not care +for!</p> + +<p>About the reviews you ask a difficult question; but I +suppose the best, as reviews, are the 'Dublin Review,' +'Blackwood,' the 'New Quarterly,' and the last 'American,' +I forget the title at this moment, the <i>Whig</i> 'American,' <i>not</i> +the Democratic. The most favorable to me are certainly +the American unremembered, and the late 'Metropolitan,' +which last was written, I hear, by Mr. Charles Grant, a +voluminous writer, but no poet. I consider myself singularly +happy in my reviews, and to have full reason for gratitude +to the profession.</p> + +<p>I forgot to say that what the Dublin reviewer did me +the honor of considering an Irishism was the expression +'Do you mind' in 'Cyprus Wine.' But he was wrong, +because it occurs frequently among our elder English +writers, and is as British as London porter.</p> + +<p>Now see how you throw me into figurative liquids, by +your last Cyprus. It is the true celestial, this last. But +Arabel pleased me most by bringing back so good an +account of <i>you</i>.</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate and grateful<br /> +ELIBET.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +Friday [about January-March 1845].<br /> + +<p>Dearest Mr. Kenyon,—If your good nature is still not +at ease, through doubting about how to make Lizzy happy +in a book, you will like to hear perhaps that I have thought +of a certain 'Family Robinson Crusoe,' translated from the +<i>German</i>, I think, <i>not</i> a Robinson <i>purified</i>, mind, but a +Robinson multiplied and compounded.<a name="FNanchor_131_131"></a><a href="#Footnote_131_131"><sup>[131]</sup></a> Children like +reading it, I believe. And then there is a 'Masterman +Ready,' or some name like it, by Captain Marryat, also +popular with young readers. Or 'Seaward's Narrative,' by +Miss Porter, would delight her, as it did <i>me</i>, not so many +years ago.</p> + +<p>I mention these books, but know nothing of their price; +and only because you asked me, I do mention them. The +fact is that she is not hard to please as to literature, and will +be delighted with anything.</p> + +<p>To-day Mr. Poe sent me a volume containing his poems +and tales collected, so now I <i>must</i> write and thank him for +his dedication. What is to be said, I wonder, when a man +calls you the 'noblest of your sex'? 'Sir, you are the most +discerning of yours.' Were you thanked for the garden ticket +yesterday? No, everybody was ungrateful, down to Flush, who +drinks day by day out of his new purple cup, and had it properly +explained how <i>you</i> gave it to him (<i>I</i> explained +<i>that</i>), and yet never came upstairs to express to you his +sense of obligation.</p> + +<p>Affectionately yours always,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +Saturday [beginning of April 1845].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Cousin,—After all <i>I</i>/ said to <i>you</i>, said the +other day, about Apuleius, and about what couldn't, shouldn't, +and mustn't be done in the matter, I ended by trying the +unlawful art of translating this prose into verse, and, one +after another, have done all the subjects of the Poniatowsky +gems Miss Thompson sent the list of, except <i>two</i>, which I +am doing and shall finish anon.<a name="FNanchor_132_132"></a><a href="#Footnote_132_132"><sup>[132]</sup></a> In the meantime it comes +into my head that it is just as well for you to look over my +doings, and judge whether anything in them is to the purpose, +or at all likely to be acceptable. Especially I am +anxious to impress on you that, if I could think for a +moment <i>you would hesitate about rejecting the whole in a +body</i>, from any consideration for <i>me</i>, I should not merely be +vexed but pained. Am I not your own cousin, to be +ordered about as you please? And so take notice that I +will not <i>bear</i> the remotest approach to ceremony in the +matter. What is wrong? what is right? what is too much? +those are the only considerations.</p> + +<p>Apuleius is <i>florid</i>, which favored the poetical design on +his sentences. Indeed he is more florid than I have always +liked to make my verses. It is not, of course, an absolute +translation, but as a running commentary on the text it is +sufficiently faithful.</p> + +<p>But probably (I say to myself) you do not want so many +illustrations, and all too from one hand?</p> + +<p>The two I do not send are 'Psyche contemplating Cupid +asleep,' and 'Psyche and the Eagle.'</p> + +<p>And I wait to hear how Polyphemus is to <i>look</i>—and also +Adonis.</p> + +<p>The Magazine goes to you with many thanks. The +sonnet is full of force and expression, and I like it as well +as ever I did—better even!</p> + +<p>Oh—such happy news to-day! The 'Statira' is at Plymouth, +and my brothers quite well, notwithstanding their +hundred days on the sea! <i>It makes me happy</i>.</p> + +<p>Yours most affectionately,<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>You shall have your 'Radical' almost immediately. I +am ashamed. <i>In such haste</i>.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +April 3, 1845.<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—I have been intending every day +to write to tell you that the Cyprus wine is as nectareous as +possible, so fit for the gods, in fact, that I have been forced +to leave it off as unfit for <i>me</i>; it made me so feverish. But +I keep it until the sun shall have made me a little less +mortal; and in the meantime recognise thankfully both +its high qualities and <i>your</i> kind ones. How delightful it is +to have this sense of a summer at hand. <i>Shall</i> I see you +this summer, I wonder. That is a question among my +dreams.</p> + +<p>By the last American packet I had two letters, one from +a poet of Massachusetts, and another from a poetess: the +<i>he</i>, Mr. Lowell, and the <i>she</i>, Mrs. Sigourney. She says that +the sound of my poetry is stirring the 'deep green forests of +the New World;' which sounds pleasantly, does it not? And +I understand from Mr. Moxon that a new edition will be +called for before very long, only not immediately....</p> + +<p>Your affectionate and grateful friend,<br /> +ELIBET.</p> + +<p>Arabel and Mr. Hunter talk of paying you a visit some +day.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +April 3, 1845.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—I wrote to you not many days +ago, but I must tell you that our voyagers are safe in +Sandgate break in 'an ugly hulk' (as poor Stormie says despondingly), +suffering three or four days of quarantine agony, +and that we expect to see them on Monday or Tuesday in +the full bloom of their ill humour. I am happy to think, +according to the present symptoms, that the mania for sea +voyages is considerably abated. 'Nothing could be more +miserable,' exclaims Storm; 'the only comfort of the whole +four months is the safety of the beans, tell papa'—and the +safety of the beans is rather a Pythagoraean<a name="FNanchor_133_133"></a><a href="#Footnote_133_133"><sup>[133]</sup></a> equivalent for +four months' vexation, though not a bean of them all +should have lost in freshness and value! He could +scarcely write, he said, for the chilblains on his hands, and +was in utter destitution of shirts and sheets. Oh! I have +very good hopes that for the future Wimpole Street may be +found endurable.</p> + +<p>Well, and you are at once angry and satisfied, I suppose, +about Maynooth; just as I am! satisfied with the justice +as far as it goes, and angry and disgusted at the hideous +shrieks of intolerance and bigotry which run through the +country. The dissenters have very nearly disgusted me, +what with the Education clamour, and the Presbyterian +chapel cry, and now this Maynooth cry; and certainly it is +wonderful how people can see rights as rights in their own +hands, and as wrongs in the hands of their opposite neighbours. +Moreover it seems to me atrocious that we who insist +on seven millions of Catholics supporting a church they call +heretical, should <i>dare</i> to talk of our scruples (conscientious +scruples forsooth!) about assisting with a poor pittance of +very insufficient charity their 'damnable idolatry.' Why, +every cry of complaint we utter is an argument against the +wrong we have been committing for years and years, and +must be so interpreted by every honest and disinterested +thinker in the world. Of course I should prefer the Irish +establishment coming down, to any endowment at all; I +should prefer a trial of the voluntary system throughout +Ireland; but as it is adjudged on all hands impossible to +attempt this in the actual state of parties and countries, why +this Maynooth grant and subsequent endowment of the +Catholic Church in Ireland seem the simple alternative, +obviously and on the first principles of justice. Macaulay +was very great, was he not? He appeared to me <i>conclusive</i> +in logic and sentiment. The sensation everywhere is extraordinary, +I am sorry really to say!</p> + +<p>Wordsworth is in London, having been commanded +up to the Queen's ball. He went in Rogers's court dress, +or did I tell you so the other day? And I hear that the +fair Majesty of England was quite 'fluttered' at seeing him. +'She had not a word to say,' said Mrs. Jameson, who came +to see me the other day and complained of the omission as +'unqueenly;' but I disagreed with her and thought the being +'<i>fluttered</i>' far the highest compliment. But she told me that +a short time ago the Queen confessed she never had read +Wordsworth, on which a maid of honour observed, 'That is +a pity, he would do your Majesty a great deal of good.' Mrs. +Jameson declared that Miss Murray, a maid of honour, very +deeply attached to the Queen, assured her (Mrs. J.) of the +answer being quite as abrupt as <i>that</i>; as direct, and to the +purpose; and no offence intended or received. I like Mrs. +Jameson better the more I see her, and with grateful reason, +she is so kind. Now do write directly, and let me hear of +you [in d]etail. And tell Mr. Martin to make a point of +coming home to us, with no grievances but political ones. +The Bazaar is to be something sublime in its degree, and I +shall have a sackcloth feeling all next week. All the rail +carriages will be wound up to radiate into it, I hear, and +the whole country is to be shot into the heart of London.</p> + +<p>May God bless you.</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>I hear that Guizot suffers intensely, and that there are +fears lest he may sink. Not that the complaint is mortal.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +Wimpole Street: April 9, 1845.<br /> + +<p>Poor Hood! Ah! I had feared that the scene was +closing on him. And I am glad that a little of the poor +gratitude of the world is laid down at his door just now to +muffle to his dying ear the harsher sounds of life. I +forgive much to Sir Robert for the sake of that letter—though, +after all, the minister is not high-hearted, or made +of heroic stuff.<a name="FNanchor_134_134"></a><a href="#Footnote_134_134"><sup>[134]</sup></a></p> + +<p>I am delighted that you should appreciate Mr. Browning's +high power—very high, according to my view—very high, +and various. Yes, 'Paracelsus' you <i>should</i> have. 'Sordello' +has many fine things in it, but, having been thrown down +by many hands as unintelligible, and retained in mine as +certainly of the Sphinxine literature, with all its power, I +hesitate to be imperious to you in my recommendations +of it. Still, the book <i>is</i> worth being <i>studied</i>—study is +necessary to it, as, indeed, though in a less degree, to all +the works of this poet; study is peculiarly necessary to it. +He is a true poet, and a poet, I believe, of a large '<i>future +in-rus, about to be</i>.' He is only growing to the height he will +attain.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +April 1845.<br /> + +<p>The sin of Sphinxine literature I admit. Have I not +struggled hard to renounce it? Do I not, day by day? Do +you know that I have been told that <i>I</i> have written things +harder to interpret than Browning himself?—only I cannot, +cannot believe it—he is so very hard. Tell me honestly +(and although I attributed the excessive good nature of the +'Metropolitan' criticism to you, I <i>know</i> that you can speak +the truth <i>truly</i>!) if anything like the Sphinxineness of +Browning, you discover in me; take me as far back as 'The +Seraphim' volume and answer! As for Browning, the fault +is certainly great, and the disadvantage scarcely calculable, +it is so great. He cuts his language into bits, and one has +to join them together, as young children do their dissected +maps, in order to make any meaning at all, and to study +hard before one can do it. Not that I grudge the study +or the time. The depth and power of the significance +(when it is apprehended) glorifies the puzzle. With you +and me it is so; but with the majority of readers, even of +readers of poetry, it is not and cannot be so.</p> + +<p>The consequence is, that he is not read except in a +peculiar circle very strait and narrow. He will not die, +because the principle of life is in him, but he will not live +the warm summer life which is permitted to many of very +inferior faculty, because he does not come out into the sun.</p> + +<p>Faithfully your friend,<br /> +E.B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<p>The following letter relates to the controversy raging +round Miss Martineau and her mesmerism. Miss Barrett +had evidently referred to it in a letter to Mr. Chorley, which +has not been preserved.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Chorley</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: April 28, 1845.<br /> + +<p>Dear Mr. Chorley,—I felt quite sure that you would +take my postscript for a womanish thing, and a little doubtful +whether you would not take the whole allusion (in or out of +a postscript) for an impertinent thing; but the impulse to +speak was stronger than the fear of speaking; and from the +peculiarities of my position, I have come to write by impulses +just as other people talk by them. Still, if I had +known that the subject was so painful to you, I certainly +would not have touched on it, strong as my feeling has +been about it, and full and undeniable as is my sympathy +with our noble-minded friend, both as a woman and a +thinker. Not that I consider (of course I cannot) that she +has made out anything like a '<i>fact</i>' in the Tynemouth +story—not that I think the evidence offered in any sort sufficient; +take it as it was in the beginning and unimpugned—not +that I have been otherwise than of opinion throughout +that she was precipitate and indiscreet, however generously +so, in her mode and time of advocating the mesmeric question; +but that she is at liberty as a thinking being (in my +mind) to hold an opinion, the grounds of which she cannot +yet justify to the world. Do you not think she may be? +Have you not opinions yourself beyond what you can prove +to others? Have we not all? And because some of the +links of the outer chain of a logical argument fail, or seem +to fail, are we therefore to have our 'honours' questioned, +because we do not yield what is suspended to an inner +uninjured chain of at once subtler and stronger formation? +For what I venture to object to in the argument of the +'Athenaeum' is the making a <i>moral obligation</i> of an <i>intellectual +act</i>, which is the first step and gesture (is it not?) in all +persecution for opinion; and the involving of the 'honour' +of an opponent in the motion of recantation she is invited +to. This I do venture to exclaim against. I do cry aloud +against this; and I do say this, that when we call it +'hard,' we are speaking of it softly. Why, consider how it +is! The 'Athenaeum' has done quite enough to <i>disprove +the proving</i> of the wreck story,<a name="FNanchor_135_135"></a><a href="#Footnote_135_135"><sup>[135]</sup></a> and no more at all. The +disproving of the proof of the wreck story is indeed enough +to disprove the wreck story and to disprove mesmerism +itself (as far as the proof of mesmerism depends on the +proof of the wreck story, and no farther) with all doubters +and undetermined inquirers; but with the very large class +of previous <i>believers</i>, this disproof of a proof is a mere accident, +and cannot be expected to have much logical consequence. +Believing that such things may be as this revelation +of a wreck, they naturally are less exacting of the stabilities +of the proving process. What we think probable we do +not call severely for the proof of. Moreover Miss Martineau +is not only a believer in the mysteries of mesmerism (and +she wrote to me the other day that in Birmingham, where +she is, she has present cognisance of <i>three cases of clairvoyance</i>), +but she is a believer in the personal integrity of +her witnesses. She has what she has well called an 'incommunicable +confidence.' And this, however incommunicable, +is sufficiently comprehensible to all persons who +know what personal faith is, to place her 'honour,' I do +maintain, high above any suspicion, any charge with the +breath of man's lips. I am sure you agree with me, dear +Mr. Chorley—ah! it will be a comfort and joy together. +Dear Miss Mitford and I often quarrel softly about literary +life and its toils and sorrows, she against and I in favour of; +but we never could differ about the worth and comfort of +domestic affection.</p> + +<p>Ever sincerely yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> + +<p>I am delighted to hear of the novel. And the comedy?</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Chorley</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: April 28, 1845.<br /> + +<p>Dear Mr. Chorley,—... For Miss Martineau, is it not +true that she <i>has</i> admitted her wreck story to have no proof? +Surely she has. Surely she said that the evidence was +incapable, at this point of time, of justification to the +<i>exoteric</i>, and that the question had sunk now to one of +character, to which her opponent answered that it had always +<i>been</i> one of character. And you must admit that the +direct and unmitigated manner of depreciating the reputation, +not merely of Jane Arrowsmith, but of Mrs. Wynyard, +a personal friend of Miss Martineau's to whom she professes +great obligations, could not be otherwise than exasperating +to a woman of her generous temper, and this just in the +crisis of her gratitude for her restoration to life and enjoyment +by the means (as she considers it) of this friend. Not +that I feel at all convinced of her having been cured by +mesmerism; I have told her openly that I doubt it a little, +and she is not angry with me for saying so. Also, the +wreck story, and (as you suggest) the three new cases of clairvoyance; +why, one <i>cannot</i>, you know, give one's specific +convictions to general sweeping testimonies, with a mist all +round them. Still, I do lean to believing this <i>class</i> of +mysteries, and I see nothing more incredible in the +apocalypse of the wreck and other marvels of clairvoyance, +than in that singular adaptation of another person's senses, +which is a common phenomenon of the simple forms of +mesmerism. If it is credible that a person in a mesmeric +sleep can taste the sourness of the vinegar on another +person's palate, I am ready to go the whole length of the +transmigration of senses. But after all, except from hearing +so much, I am as ignorant as you are, in my own experience. +One of my sisters was thrown into a sort of swoon, and +could not open her eyelids, though she heard what passed, +once or twice or thrice; and she might have been a +prophetess by this time, perhaps, if, partly from her own +feeling on the subject, and partly from mine, she had not +determined never to try the experiment again. It is hideous +and detestable to my imagination; as I confessed to you, it +makes my blood run backwards; and if I were <i>you</i>, I would +not (with the nervous weakness you speak of) throw myself +into the way of it, I really would not. Think of a female +friend of mine begging me to give her a lock of my hair, or +rather begging my sister to 'get it for her,' that she might +send it to a celebrated prophet of mesmerism in Paris, to +have an oracle concerning me. Did you ever, since the +days of the witches, hear a more ghastly proposition? It +shook me so with horror, I had scarcely voice to say 'no,' +hough I <i>did</i> say it very emphatically at last, I assure you. +A lock of my hair for a Parisian prophet? Why, if I +had yielded, I should have felt the steps of pale spirits +treading as thick as snow all over my sofa and bed, by day +and night, and pulling a corresponding lock of hair on my +head at awful intervals. <i>I</i>, who was born with a double set +of nerves, which are always out of order; the most excitable +person in the world, and nearly the most superstitious. I +should have been scarcely sane at the end of a fortnight, I +believe of myself! Do you remember the little spirit in gold +shoe-buckles, who was a familiar of Heinrich Stilling's? +Well, I should have had a French one to match the German, +with Balzac's superfine boot-polish in place of the buckles, +as surely as I lie here a mortal woman.</p> + +<p>I congratulate you (amid all cares and anxieties) upon +the view of Naples in the distance, but chiefly on your own +happy and just estimate of your selected position in life. +It does appear to me wonderfully and mournfully wrong, +when men of letters, as it is too much the fashion for them +to do, take to dishonoring their profession by fruitless +bewailings and gnashings of teeth; when, all the time, it +must be their own fault if it is not the noblest in the world. +Miss Mitford treats me as a blind witness in this case; +because I have seen nothing of the literary world, or any +other sort of world, and yet cry against her 'pen and ink' +cry. It is the cry I least like to hear from her lips, of all +others; and it is unworthy of them altogether. On the lips +of a woman of letters, it sounds like jealousy (which it cannot +be with <i>her</i>), as on the lips of a woman of the world, like +ingratitude. Madame Girardin's 'Ecole des Journalistes' +deserved Jules Janin's reproof of it; and there is something +noble and touching in that feeling of brotherhood among +men of letters, which he invokes. I am so glad to hear you +say that I am right, glad for your sake and glad for mine. +In fact, there is something which is attractive to <i>me</i>, and +which has been attractive ever since I was as high as this +table, even in the old worn type of Grub Street authors and +garret poets. Men and women of letters are the first in the +whole world to me, and I would rather be the least among +them, than 'dwell in the courts of princes.'</p> + +<p>Forgive me for writing so fast and far. Just as if you +had nothing to do but to read me. Oh, for patience for the +novel.</p> + +<p>I am, faithfully yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Thomson</i><a name="FNanchor_136_136"></a><a href="#Footnote_136_136"><sup>[136]</sup></a><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: Friday, May 16, 1845 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>I write one line to thank you, dear Miss Thomson, for +<i>your</i> translation (so far too liberal, though true to the spirit +of my intention) of my work for your album. How could +it <i>not</i> be a pleasure to me to work for you?</p> + +<p>As to my using those manuscripts otherwise than in +your service, I do not at all think of it, and I wish to say +this. Perhaps I do not (also) partake quite your 'divine +fury' for converting our sex into Greek scholarship, and I +do not, I confess, think it as desirable as you do. Where +there is a love for poetry, and thirst for beauty strong enough +to justify labour, let these impulses, which are noble, be +obeyed; but in the case of the multitude it is different; +and the mere <i>fashion of scholarship</i> among women would +be a disagreeable vain thing, and worse than vain. You, +who are a Greek yourself, know that the Greek language is +not to be learnt in a flash of lightning and by Hamiltonian +systems, but that it swallows up year after year of studious life. +Now I have a 'doxy' (as Warburton called it), that there is +no exercise of the mind so little profitable to the mind as +the study of languages. It is the nearest thing to a passive +recipiency—is it not?—as a mental action, though it leaves +one as weary as ennui itself. Women want to be made to +<i>think actively</i>: their apprehension is quicker than that of +men, but their defect lies for the most part in the logical +faculty and in the higher mental activities. Well, and then, +to remember how our own English poets are neglected and +scorned; our poets of the Elizabethan age! I would +rather that my countrywomen began by loving <i>these</i>.</p> + +<p>Not that I would blaspheme against Greek poetry, or +depreciate the knowledge of the language as an attainment. +I congratulate <i>you</i> on it, though I never should think of +trying to convert other women into a desire for it. Forgive +me.</p> + +<p>To think of Mr. Burges's comparing my Nonnus to the +right Nonnus makes my hair stand on end, and the truth is +I had flattered myself that nobody would take such trouble. +I have not much reverence for Nonnus, and have pulled +him and pushed him and made him stand as I chose, never +fearing that my naughty impertinences would be brought to +light. For the rest, I thank you gratefully (and may I +respectfully and gratefully thank Miss Bayley?) for the kind +words of both of you, both in this letter and as my sister +heard them. It is delightful to me to find such grace in the +eyes of dearest Mr. Kenyon's friends, and I remain, dear +Miss Thomson,</p> + +<p>Truly yours, and gladly,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>If there should be anything more at any time for me to +do, I trust to your trustfulness.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Thomson</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: Monday [1845].<br /> + +<p>My dear Miss Thomson,—Believe of me that it can +only give me pleasure when you are affectionate enough to +treat me as a friend; and for the rest, nobody need apologise +for taking another into the vineyards—least Miss Bayley +and yourself to <i>me</i>. At the first thought I felt sure that +there must be a great deal about vines in these Greeks of +ours, and am surprised, I confess, in turning from one to +another, to find how few passages of length are quotable, +and how the images drop down into a line or two. Do you +know the passage in the seventh 'Odyssey' where there is a +vineyard in different stages of ripeness?—of which Pope has +made the most, so I tore up what I began to write, and +leave you to him. It is in Alcinous' gardens, and between +the first and second hundred lines of the book. The one +from the 'Iliad,' open to Miss Bayley's objection, is yet too +beautiful and appropriate, I fancy, for you to throw over. +Curious it is that my first recollection went from that +shield of Achilles to Hesiod's 'Shield of Hercules,' from +which I send you a version—leaving out of it what dear Miss +Bayley would object to on a like ground with the other:</p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +Some gathered grapes, with reap-hooks in their hands,<br /> +While others bore off from the gathering hands<br /> +Whole baskets-full of bunches, black and white,<br /> +From those great ridges heaped up into fight,<br /> +With vine-leaves and their curling tendrils. So<br /> +They bore the baskets ...<br /> +<br /> +... Yes! and all were saying<br /> +Their jests, while each went staggering in a row<br /> +Beneath his grape-load to the piper's playing.<br /> +The grapes were purple-ripe. And here, in fine,<br /> +Men trod them out, and there they drained the wine.<br /> +</div> + +<p>In the 'Works and Days' Hesiod says again, what is not +worth your listening to, perhaps:</p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +And when that Sinus and Orion come<br /> +To middle heaven, and when Aurora—she<br /> +O' the rosy fingers—looks inquiringly<br /> +Full on Arcturus, straightway gather home<br /> +The general vintage. And, I charge you, see<br /> +All, in the sun and open air, outlaid<br /> +Ten days and nights, and five days in the shade.<br /> +The sixth day, pour in vases the fine juice—<br /> +The gift of Bacchus, who gives joys for use.<br /> +</div> + +<p>Anacreon talks to the point so well that you must +forgive him, I think, for being Anacreontic, and take from +his hands what is not defiled. The translation you send +me does not 'smell of Anacreon,' nor please me. Where +did you get it? Would this be at all fresher?</p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +Grapes that wear a purple skin,<br /> +Men and maidens carry in,<br /> +Brimming baskets on their shoulders,<br /> +Which they topple one by one<br /> +Down the winepress. Men are holders<br /> +Of the place there, and alone<br /> +Tread the grapes out, crush them down,<br /> +Letting loose the soul of wine—<br /> +Praising Bacchus as divine,<br /> +With the loud songs called his own!<br /> +</div> + +<p>You are aware of the dresser of the vine in Homer's +'Hymn to Mercury' translated so exquisitely by Shelley, and +of a very beautiful single figure in Theocritus besides. +Neither probably would suit your purpose. In the 'Pax' +of Aristophanes there is an idle 'Chorus' who talks of +looking at the vines and watching the grapes ripen, and +eating them at last, but there is nothing of vineyard work +in it, so I dismiss the whole.</p> + +<p>For 'Hector and Andromache,' would you like me to +try to do it for you? It would amuse me, and you should +not be bound to do more with what I send you than to +throw it into the fire if it did not meet your wishes precisely. +The same observation applies, remember, to this +little sheet, which I have <i>kept</i>—delayed sending—just +because I wanted to let you have a trial of my strength +on 'Andromache' in the same envelope; but the truth +is that it is not <i>begun</i> yet, partly through other occupation, +and partly through the lassitude which the cold wind +of the last few days always brings down on me. Yesterday +I made an effort, and felt like a broken stick—not even +a bent one! So wait for a warm day (and what a season +we have had! I have been walking up and down stairs +and pretending to be quite well), and I will promise to +do my best, and certainly an inferior hand may get nearer +to touch the great Greek lion's mane than Pope's did.</p> + +<p>Will you give my love to dear Miss Bayley? She shall +hear from me—and <i>you</i> shall, in a day or two. And do +not mind Mr. Kenyon. He 'roars as softly as a sucking dove;' +nevertheless he is an intolerant monster, as I half +told him the other day.</p> + +<p>Believe me, dear Miss Thomson,<br /> +Affectionately yours,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: May 22, 1845.<br /> + +<p>Did you persevere with 'Sordello'? I hope so. Be +sure that we may all learn (as poets) much and deeply +from it, for the writer speaks true oracles. When you +have read it through, then read for relaxation and recompense +the last 'Bell and Pomegranate' by the same poet, +his 'Colombo's Birthday,' which is exquisite. Only 'Pippa +Passes' I lean to, or kneel to, with the deepest reverence. +Wordsworth has been in town, and is gone. Tennyson is +still here. He likes London, I hear, and hates Cheltenham, +where he resides with his family, and he smokes pipe +after pipe, and does not mean to write any more poems. +Are we to sing a requiem?</p> + +<p>Believe me, faithfully yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Saturday, July 21, 1845 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—You are kind to exceeding +kindness, and I am as grateful as any of your long-ago kind +invitations ever found me. It is something pleasant, indeed, +and like a return to life, to be asked by you to spend two +or three days in your house, and I thank you for this +pleasantness, and for the goodness, on your own part, +which induced it. You may be perfectly sure that no +Claypon, though he should live in Arcadia, would be preferred +by me to <i>you</i> as a host, and I wonder how you could +entertain the imagination of such a thing. Mr. Kenyon, +indeed, has asked me repeatedly to spend a few hours on a +sofa in his house, and, the Regent's Park being so much +nearer than you are, I had promised to think of it. But I +have not yet found it possible to accomplish even that +quarter of a mile's preferment, and my ambition is forced +to be patient when I begin to think of St. John's Wood. +I am considerably stronger, and increasing in strength, and +in time, with a further advance of the summer, I may +do 'such things—what they are yet, I know not.' Yes, I +<i>know</i> that they relate to <i>you</i>, and that I have a hope, as +well as an earnest, affectionate desire, to sit face to face +with you once more before this summer closes. Do, in the +meantime, believe that I am very grateful to you for your +kind, considerate proposal, and that it is not made in vain +for my wishes, and that I am not likely willingly 'to spend +two or three days' with anybody in the world before I do +so with yourself.</p> + +<p>Mr. Hunter has not paid us his usual Saturday's visit, +and therefore I have no means of answering the questions +you put in relation to him. We will ask him about 'times +and seasons' when next we see him, and you shall hear.</p> + +<p>Did you ever hear much of Robert Montgomery, +commonly called Satan Montgomery because the author of +'Satan,' of the 'Omnipresence of the Deity,' and of various +poems which pass through edition after edition, nobody +knows how or <i>why</i>? I understand that his pew (he is a +clergyman) is sown over with red rosebuds from ladies of +the congregation, and that the same fair hands have made +and presented to him, in the course of a single season, one +hundred pairs of slippers. Whereupon somebody said to +this Reverend Satan, 'I never knew before, Mr. Montgomery, +that you were a <i>centipede</i>'</p> + +<p>Dearest Mr. Boyd's affectionate and grateful<br /> +ELIBET.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>Through the summer of 1845, Miss Barrett, as usual, +recovered strength, but so slightly that her doctor urged that +she should not face the winter in England. Plans were +accordingly made for her going abroad, to which the +following letters refer, but the scheme ultimately broke +down before the prohibition of Mr. Barrett—a prohibition +for which no valid reason was put forward, and which, to +say the least, bore the colour of unaccountable indifference +to his daughter's health and wishes. The matter is of +some importance on account of its bearing on the action +taken by Miss Barrett in the autumn of the following +year.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Monday, July 29, 1845 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—I am ashamed not to have +written before, and yet have courage enough to ask you to +write to me as soon as you can. Day by day I have had +good intentions enough (the fact is) about writing, to seem +to deserve some good deeds from you, which is contrary to +all wisdom and reason, I know, but is rather natural, after +all. What <i>my</i> deeds have been, you will be apt to ask. +Why, all manner of idleness, which is the most interrupting, +you know, of all things. The Hedleys have been flitting +backwards and forwards, staying, some of them, for a month +at a time in London, and then going, and then coming +again; and I have had other visitors, few but engrossing +'after their kind.' And I have been <i>getting well</i>—which is +a process—going out into the carriage two or three times a +week, abdicating my sofa for my armchair, moving from one +room to another now and then, and walking about mine +quite as well as, and with considerably more complacency +than, a child of two years old. Altogether, I do think that +if you were kind enough to be glad to see me looking better +when you were in London, you would be kind enough to be +still gladder if you saw me now. Everybody praises me, +and I look in the looking-glass with a better conscience. +Also, it is an improving improvement, and will be, until, +you know, the last hem of the garment of summer is lost +sight of, and then—and then—I must either follow to another +climate, or be ill again—<i>that</i> I know, and am prepared for. +It is but dreary work, this undoing of my Penelope web in +the winter, after the doing of it through the summer, and +the more progress one makes in one's web, the more dreary +the prospect of the undoing of all these fine silken stitches. +But we shall see....</p> + +<p>Ever your affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Tuesday [October 1845].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—Do believe that I have not +been, as I have seemed, perhaps, forgetful of you through +this silence. This last proof of your interest and affection +for me—in your letter to Henrietta—quite rouses me to +<i>speak out</i> my remembrance of you, and I have been +remembering you all the time that I did not speak, only I +was so perplexed and tossed up and down by doubts and +sadnesses as to require some shock from without to force +the speech from me. Your verses, in their grace of kindness, +and the ivy from Wordsworth's cottage, just made me think +to myself that I would write to you before I left England, +but when you talk really of coming to see me, why, I must +speak! You overcome me with the sense of your goodness +to me.</p> + +<p>Yet, after all, I will not have you come! The farewells +are bad enough which come to us, without our going to +seek them, and I would rather wait and meet you on the +Continent, or in England again, than see you now, just to +part from you. And you cannot guess how shaken I am, +and how I cling to every plank of a little calm. Perhaps I +am going on the 17th or 20th. Certainly I have made up my +mind to do it, and shall do it as a bare matter of duty; and +it is one of the most painful acts of duty which my whole +life has set before me. The road is as rough as possible, +as far as I can see it. At the same time, being absolutely +convinced from my own experience and perceptions, and +the unhesitating advice of two able medical men (Dr. +Chambers, one of them), that to escape the English winter +will be <i>everything for me</i>, and that it involves the comfort +and usefulness of the rest of my life, I have resolved to do +it, let the circumstances of the doing be as painful as they +may. If you were to see me you would be astonished to +see the work of the past summer; but all these improvements +will ebb away with the sun—while I am assured of +permanent good if I leave England. The struggle with me +has been a very painful one; I cannot enter on the how and +wherefore at this moment. I had expected more help than +I have found, and am left to myself, and thrown so on my +own sense of duty as to feel it right, for the sake of future years, +to make an effort to stand by myself as I best can. At the +same time, I will not tell you that at the last hour something +may not happen to keep me at home. <i>That</i> is neither impossible +nor improbable. If, for instance, I find that I cannot +have one of my brothers with me, why, the going in that case +would be out of the question. Under ordinary circumstances +I shall go, and if the experiment of going fails, why, +then I shall have had the satisfaction of having tried it, and +of knowing that it is God's will which keeps me a prisoner, +and makes me a burden. As it is, I have been told that +if I had gone years ago I <i>should be well now</i>; that one lung +is very slightly affected, but the nervous system <i>absolutely +shattered</i>, as the state of the pulse proves. I am in the habit +of taking forty drops of laudanum a day, and <i>cannot do with +less</i>, that is, the medical man <i>told me</i> that I could not do +with less, saying so with his hand on the pulse. The cold +weather, they say, acts on the lungs, and produces the +weakness indirectly, whereas the necessary shutting up acts +on the <i>nerves</i> and prevents them from having a chance +of recovering their tone. And thus, without any mortal +disease, or any disease of equivalent seriousness, I am +thrown out of life, out of the ordinary sphere of its enjoyment +and activity, and made a burden to myself and to +others. Whereas there is a means of escape from these +evils, and God has opened the door of escape, as wide +as I see it!</p> + +<p>In all ways, for my own <i>happiness's sake</i> I do need <i>a +proof</i> that the evil is irremediable. And this proof (or the +counter-proof) I am about to seek in Italy.</p> + +<p>Dr. Chambers has advised <i>Pisa</i>, and I go in the direct +steamer from the Thames to Leghorn. I have good courage, +and as far as my own strength goes, sufficient means.</p> + +<p>Dearest Mrs. Martin, more than I thought at first of +telling you, I have told you. Much beside there is, painful +to talk of, but I hope I have determined to do what is right, +and that the determination has not been formed ungently, +unscrupulously, nor unaffectionately in respect to the +feelings of others. I would die for some of those, but there, +has been affection opposed to affection.</p> + +<p>This in confidence, of course. May God bless both of +you! Pray for me, dearest Mrs. Martin. Make up your +mind to go somewhere soon—shall you not?—before the +winter shuts the last window from which you see the sun.</p> + +<p>Dr. Chambers said that he would 'answer for it' that +the voyage would rather do me good than harm. Let me +suffer sea sickness or not, he said, he would answer for its +doing me no harm.</p> + +<p>I hope to take Arabel with me, and either Storm or +Henry. This is my hope.</p> + +<p>Gratefully and affectionately I think of all your kindness +and interest. May dear Mr. Martin lose nothing in this +coming winter! I shall think of you, and not cease to love +you. Moreover, you shall hear again from</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +October 27, 1845 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My very dear Friend,—It is so long since I wrote that I +must write, I must ruffle your thoughts with a little breath +from my side. Listen to me, my dear friend. That I have +not written has scarcely been my fault, but my misfortune +rather, for I have been quite unstrung and overcome by +agitation and anxiety, and thought that I should be able to +tell you at last of being calmer and happier, but it was all +in vain. I do not leave England, my dear friend. It is +decided that I remain on in my prison. It was my full +intention to go. I considered it to be a clear duty, and I +made up my mind to perform it, let the circumstances be +ever so painfully like obstacles; but when the moment +came it appeared impossible for me to set out alone, and +also impossible to take my brother and sister with me +without involving them in difficulties and displeasure. Now +what I could risk for myself I could not risk for others, and +the very kindness with which they desired me not to think +of them only made me think of them more, as was natural +and just. So Italy is given up, and I fall back into the hands +of God, who is merciful, trusting Him with the time that +shall be.</p> + +<p>Arabel would have gone to tell you all this a fortnight +since, but one of my brothers has been ill with fever which +was not exactly typhus, but of the typhoid character, and +we knew that you would rather not see her under the circumstances. +He is very much better (it is Octavius), and has +been out of bed to-day and yesterday.</p> + +<p>Do not reproach me either for not writing or for not +going, my very dear friend. I have been too heavy-hearted +for words; and as to the deeds, you would not have wished +me to lead others into difficulties, the extent and result of +which no one could calculate. It would not have been just +of me.</p> + +<p>And <i>you</i>, how are you, and what are you doing?</p> + +<p>May God bless you, my dear dear friend!</p> + +<p>Ever yours I am, affectionately and gratefully,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mr. Chorley</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: November 1845.<br /> + +<p>I must trouble you with another letter of thanks, dear +Mr. Chorley, now that I have to thank you for the value of +the work as well as the kindness of the gift, for I have read +your three volumes of 'Pomfret'<a name="FNanchor_137_137"></a><a href="#Footnote_137_137"><sup>[137]</sup></a> with interest and moral +assent, and with great pleasure in various ways: it is a pure, +true book without effort, which, in these days of gesture +and rolling of the eyes, is an uncommon thing. Also you +make your 'private judgment' work itself out quietly as a +simple part of the love of truth, instead of being the loud +heroic virtue it is so apt in real life to profess itself, seldom +moving without drums and trumpets and the flying of +party colours. All these you have put down rightly, wisely, +and boldly, and it was, in my mind, no less wise than bold +of you to let in that odour of Tyrrwhitism into the folds of +the purple, and so prevent the very possibility of any +'prestige.' If I complained it might be that your 'private +judgment' confines its reference to 'public opinion,' and +shuns, too proudly perhaps, the higher and deeper relations +of human responsibility. But there are difficulties, I see, +and you choose your path advisedly, of course. The +best character in the book I take to be <i>Rose</i>; I cannot +hesitate in selecting him. He is so lifelike with the world's +conventional life that you hear his footsteps when he walks, +and, indeed, I think his boots were apt to creak just the +<i>soupçon</i> of a creak, just as a gentleman's boots might, +and he is excellently consistent, even down to the choice of +a wife whom he could patronise. I hope you like your own +Mr. Rose, and that you will forgive me for jilting Grace for +Helena, which I could not help any more than Walter +could. But now, may I venture to ask a question? Would +it not have been wise of you if, on the point of <i>reserve</i>, you +had thrown a deeper shade of opposition into the characters +or rather manners of these women? Helena sits like a +statue (and could Grace have done more?) when she wins +Walter's heart in Italy. Afterwards, and by fits at the time, +indeed, the artist fire bursts from her, but there was a great +deal of smouldering when there should have been a clear +heat to justify Walter's change of feeling. And then, in +respect to <i>that</i>, do you really think that your Grace was +generous, heroic (with the evidence she had of the change) +in giving up her engagement? For her own sake, could +she have done otherwise? I fancy not; the position +seems surrounded by its own necessities, and no room for +a doubt. I write on my own doubts, you see, and you will +smile at them, or understand all through them that if the +book had not interested me like a piece of real life, I should +not find myself <i>backbiting</i> as if all these were 'my neighbours.' +The pure tender feeling of the closing scenes +touched me to better purpose, believe me, and I applaud +from my heart and conscience your rejection of that low +creed of 'poetical justice' which is neither justice nor poetry +which is as degrading to virtue as false to experience, and +which, thrown from your book, raises it into a pure atmosphere +at once.</p> + +<p>I could go on talking, but remind myself (I do hope in +time) that I might show my gratitude better. With sincere +wishes for the success of the work (for just see how practically +we come to trust to poetical justices after all our +theories—<i>I</i>, I mean, and <i>mine</i>!), and with respect and +esteem for the writer,</p> + +<p>I remain very truly yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Jameson</i><br /> +50 Wimpole Street: December 1, 1845.<br /> + +<p>My dear Mrs. Jameson,—I receive your letter, as I +must do every sign of your being near and inclined to think +of me in kindness, gladly, and assure you at once that whenever +you can spend a half-hour on me you will find me +enough myself to have a true pleasure in welcoming you, +say any day except next Saturday or the Monday immediately +following.</p> + +<p>As soon as I heard of your return to England I ventured +to hope that some good might come of it to me in my room +here, besides the general good, which I look for with the +rest of the public, when the censer swings back into the +midst of us again. And how good of you, dear Mrs. +Jameson, to think of me there where the perfumes were set +burning; it makes me glad and grand that you should have +been able to do so. Also the kind wishes which came with +the thoughts (you say) were not in vain, for I have been +very idle and very <i>well</i>; the angel of the summer has done +more for me even than usual, and till the last wave of his +wing I took myself to be quite well and at liberty, and even +now I am as well as anyone can be who has heard the +prison door shut for a whole winter at least, and knows it to +be the only English alternative of a grave. Which is a +gloomy way of saying that I am well but forced to shut +myself up with disagreeable precautions all round, and I +ought to be gratified instead of gloomy. Believe me that +I <i>shall</i> be so when you come to see me, remaining in the +meanwhile</p> + +<p>Most truly yours,<br /> +ELIZABETH BARRETT.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Friday [about December 1845].<br /> + +<p>I am the guilty person, dearest Mrs. Martin! You +would have heard from Henrietta at least yesterday, only +I persisted in promising to write instead of her; and so, if +there are reproaches, let them fall. Not that I am audacious +and without shame! But I have grown familiar with an +evil conscience as to these matters of not writing when I +ought; and long ago I grew familiar with your mercy and +power of pardoning; and then—and then—if silence and +sulkiness are proved crimes of mine to ever such an extreme, +why it would not be unnatural. Do you think I was born to +live the life of an oyster, such as I <i>do</i> live here? And so, +the moaning and gnashing of teeth are best done alone +and without taking anyone into confidence. And so, this is +all I have to say for myself, which perhaps you will be glad +of; for you will be ready to agree with me that next to such +faults of idleness, negligence, silence (call them by what +names you please!) as I have been guilty of, is the repentance +of them, if indeed the latter be not the most unpardonable +of the two.</p> + +<p>And what are you doing so late in Herefordshire? Is +dear Mr. Martin too well, and tempting the demons? I do +hope that the next news of you will be of your being about +to approach the sun and visit us on the road. You do not +give your wisdom away to your friends, all of it, I hope and +trust—not even to Reynolds.</p> + +<p>Tell Mr. Martin that a new great daily newspaper, professing +'<i>ultraism</i>' at the right end (meaning his and mine), +is making 'mighty preparation,' to be called the 'Daily +News,'<a name="FNanchor_138_138"></a><a href="#Footnote_138_138"><sup>[138]</sup></a> to be edited by Dickens and to combine with the +most liberal politics such literature as gives character to the +French journals—the objects being both to help the people +and to give a <i>status</i> to men of letters, socially and +politically—great objects which will not be attained, I fear, +by any such means. In the first place, I have misgivings as to +Dickens. He has not, I think, <i>breadth</i> of mind enough for +such work, with all his gifts; but we shall see. An immense +capital has been offered and actually advanced. Be good +patriots and order the paper. And talking of papers, I +hope you read in the 'Morning Chronicle' Landor's verses +to my friend and England's poet, Mr. Browning.<a name="FNanchor_139_139"></a><a href="#Footnote_139_139"><sup>[139]</sup></a> They +have much beauty.</p> + +<p>You know that Occy has been ill, and that he is well? +I hope you are not so behindhand in our news as not to +know. For me, I am not yet undone by the winter. I +still sit in my chair and walk about the room. But the +prison doors are shut close, and I could dash myself against +them sometimes with a passionate impatience of the need-less +captivity. I feel so intimately and from evidence, how, +with air and warmth together in any fair proportion, I +should be as well and happy as the rest of the world, that +it is intolerable—well, it is better to sympathise quietly with +Lady—and other energetic runaways, than amuse you +with being riotous to no end; and it is <i>best</i> to write one's +own epitaph still more quietly, is it not?...</p> + +<p>And oh how lightly I write, and then sigh to think of +what different colours my spirits and my paper are. Do +you know what it is to laugh, that you may not cry? Yet I +hold a comfort fast.... Your very affectionate</p> + +<p>BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Saturday [February-March 1846].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—Indeed it has been tantalising +and provoking to have you close by without being able to +gather a better advantage from it than the knowledge that +you were suffering. So passes the world and the glory of it. +I have been vexed into a high state of morality, I assure you. +Now that you are gone away I hear from you again; and it +does seem to me that almost always it happens so, and that +you come to London to be ill and leave it before you can +be well again. It is a comfort in every case to know of +your being better, and Hastings is warm and quiet, and the +pretty country all round (mind you go and see the 'Rocks' +<i>par excellence</i>)! will entice you into very gentle exercise. +At the same time, don't wish me into the house you speak +of. I can lose nothing here, shut up in my prison, and the +nightingales come to my windows and sing through the +sooty panes. If I were at Hastings I should risk the chance +of recovering liberty, and the consolations of slavery would +not reach me as they do here. Also, if I were to set my +heart upon Hastings, I might break it at leisure; there +would be exactly as much difficulty in turning my face that +way as towards Italy—ah, you do not understand! And +<i>I do, at last</i>, I am sorry to say; and it has been very long, +tedious and reluctant work, the learning of the lesson....</p> + +<p>Did Henrietta tell you that I heard at last from Miss +Martineau, who thought me in Italy, she said, and therefore +was silent? She has sent me her new work (have you read +it?) and speaks of her strength and of being able to walk +fifteen miles a day, which seems to me like a fairy tale, or +the 'Three-leagued Boots' at least.</p> + +<p>What am I doing, to tell you of? Nothing! The +winter is kind, and this divine 'muggy' weather (is <i>that</i> the +technical word and spelling thereof?), which gives all reasonable +people colds in their heads, leaves <i>me</i> the hope of +getting back to the summer without much injury. A friend +of mine—one of the greatest poets in England too—brought +me primroses and polyanthuses the other day, as they are +grown in Surrey!<a name="FNanchor_140_140"></a><a href="#Footnote_140_140"><sup>[140]</sup></a> Surely it must be nearer spring than +we think.</p> + +<p>Dearest Mrs. Martin, write and say how you are. And +say, God bless you, both the yous, and mention Mr. Martin +particularly, and what your plans are.</p> + +<p>Ever your affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Tuesday [end of June 1846].<br /> + +<p>So, my dearest Mrs. Martin, you are quite angry with all +of us and with me chiefly. Oh, you need not say no! I +see it, I understand it, and shall therefore take up my own +cause precisely as if I were an injured person. In the first +place, dearest Mrs. Martin, when you wrote to me (at last!) +to say that we were both guilty correspondents, you should +have spoken in the singular number; for I was not guilty +at all, I beg to say, while you were on the Continent. You +were uncertain, you said, on going, where you should go and +how long you should stay, and you promised to write and +give me some sort of address—a promise never kept—and +where was I to write to you? I heard for the first time, +from the Peytons, of your being at Pau, and then you were +expected at home. So innocent I am, and because it is +a pleasure rather rare to make a sincere profession of +innocence, I meant to write to you at least ten days ago; +and then (believe me you will, without difficulty) the dreadful +death of poor Mr. Haydon,<a name="FNanchor_141_141"></a><a href="#Footnote_141_141"><sup>[141]</sup></a> the artist, quite upset me, and +made me disinclined to write a word beyond necessary ones. +I thank God that I never saw him—poor gifted Haydon—but, +a year and a half ago, we had a correspondence which +lasted through several months and was very pleasant while +it lasted. Then it was dropped, and only a few days before +the event he wrote three or four notes to me to ask me to +take charge of some papers and pictures, which I acceded +to as once I had done before. He was constantly in +pecuniary difficulty, and in apprehension of the seizure of +goods; and nothing of <i>fear</i> suggested itself to my +mind—nothing. The shock was very great. Oh! I do not write +to you to write of this. Only I would have you understand +the real case, and that it is not an excuse, and that it was +natural for me to be shaken a good deal. No artist is left +behind with equal largeness of poetical conception! If the +hand had always obeyed the soul, he would have been a +genius of the first order. As it is, he lived on the <i>slope</i> of +greatness and could not be steadfast and calm. His life +was one long agony of self-assertion. Poor, poor Haydon! +See how the world treats those who try too openly for its +gratitude! 'Tom Thumb for ever' over the heads of the +giants.</p> + +<p>So you heard that I was quite well? Don't believe +everything you hear. But I am really in <i>a way</i> to be well, +if I could have such sunshine as we have been burning in +lately, and a fair field of peace besides. Generally, I am +able to go out every day, either walking or in the +carriage—'<i>walking</i>' means as far as Queen Anne's Street. The +wonderful winter did not cast me down, and the hot summer +helps me up higher. Now, to <i>keep in the sun</i> is the problem +to solve; and if I can do it, I shall be 'as well as anybody.' +If I can't, as ill as ever. Which is the <i>résumé</i> of me, without +a word more....</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +June 27, 1846 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>Dearest Mr. Boyd,—Let me be clear of your reproaches +for not going to you this week. The truth is that I have +been so much shocked and shaken by the dreadful suicide +of poor Mr. Haydon, the artist, I had not spirits for it. He +was not personally my friend. I never saw him face to face. +But we had corresponded, and one of his last acts was an +act of <i>trust</i> towards me. Also I admired his genius. And +all to end <i>so</i>! It has naturally affected me much.</p> + +<p>So I could not come, but in a few days I <i>will</i> come; +and in the meantime, I have had the sound of your voice to +think of, more than I could think of the deep melodious +bells, though they made the right and solemn impression. +How I felt, to be under your roof again!</p> + +May God bless you, my very dear friend.<br /> +These words in the greatest haste.<br /> + +<p>From your ever affectionate<br /> +ELIBET</p> +<br /><br /> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<a name="CHAPTER_V"></a><h2>CHAPTER V</h2> +<h3>1846-1849</h3> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>It is now time to tell the story of the romance which, during +the last eighteen months, had entered into Elizabeth Barrett's +life, and was destined to divert its course into new and +happier channels. It is a story which fills one of the +brightest pages in English literary history.</p> + +<p>The foregoing letters have shown something of Miss +Barrett's admiration for the poetry of Robert Browning, and +contain allusions to the beginning of their personal acquaintance. +Her knowledge of his poetry dates back to the +appearance of 'Paracelsus,' not to 'Pauline,' of which there +is no mention in her letters, and which had been practically +withdrawn from circulation by the author. Her personal +acquaintance with him was of much later date, and was +directly due to the publication of the 'Poems' in 1844. +Chancing to express his admiration of them to Mr. Kenyon, +who had been his friend since 1839 and his father's school-fellow +in years long distant, Mr. Browning was urged by him +to write to Miss Barrett himself, and tell her of his pleasure +in her work. Possibly the allusion to him in 'Lady +Geraldine's Courtship' may have been felt as furnishing an +excuse for addressing her; however that may be, he took +Mr. Kenyon's advice, and in January 1845 we find Miss +Barrett in 'ecstasies' over a letter (evidently the first) from +'Browning the poet, Browning the author of "Paracelsus" +and king of the mystics' (see p. 236, above).</p> + +<p>The correspondence, once begun, continued to flourish, +and in the course of the same month Miss Barrett tells Mrs. +Martin that she is 'getting deeper and deeper into correspondence +with Robert Browning, poet and mystic; and we +are growing to be the truest of friends.' At the end of +May, when the return of summer brought her a renewal of +strength, they met face to face for the first time; and from +that time Robert Browning was included in the small list +of privileged friends who were admitted to visit her in person.</p> + +<p>How this friendship ripened into love, and love into +courtship, it is not for us to inquire too closely. Something +has been told already in Mrs. Orr's 'Life of Robert +Browning;' something more is told in the long and +most interesting letter which stands first in the present +chapter. More precious than either is the record of her +fluctuating feelings which Mrs. Browning has enshrined for +ever in her 'Sonnets from the Portuguese,' and in the +handful of other poems—'Life and Love,' 'A Denial,' +'Proof and Disproof,' 'Inclusions,' 'Insufficiency,'<a name="FNanchor_142_142"></a><a href="#Footnote_142_142"><sup>[142]</sup></a> which +likewise belong to this period and describe its hesitations, +its sorrows and its overwhelming joys. In the difficult circumstances +under which they were placed, the conduct of both +was without reproach. Mr. Browning knew that he was +asking to be allowed to take charge of an invalid's +life—believed indeed that she was even worse than was really +the case, and that she was hopelessly incapacitated from ever +standing on her feet—but was sure enough of his love to +regard that as no obstacle. Miss Barrett, for her part, +shrank from burdening the life of the man she loved with a +responsibility so trying and perhaps so painful, and refused +his unchanging devotion for his sake, not for her own.</p> + +<p>The situation was complicated by the character of Mr. +Barrett, and by the certainty—for such it was to his +daughter—that he would refuse to entertain the idea of her +marriage, or, indeed, that of any of his children. The truth +of this view was absolutely vindicated not only in the case +of Elizabeth, but also in those of two others of the +family in later years. The reasons for his feeling it is +probable he could not have explained to himself. He was +fond of his family after his own fashion—proud, too, of his +daughter's genius; but he could not, it would seem, regard +them in any other light than as belonging to himself. The +wish to leave his roof and to enter into new relations was +looked upon as unfilial treachery; and no argument or persuasion +could shake him from his fixed idea. So long as +this disposition could be regarded as the result of a devoted +love of his children, it could be accepted with respect, if not +with full acquiescence; but circumstances brought the proof +that this was not the case, and thereby ultimately paved +the way to Elizabeth's marriage.</p> + +<p>These circumstances are stated in several of her letters, +and alluded to in several others, but it may help to the +understanding of them if a brief summary be given here. +In the autumn of 1845, as described above, Miss Barrett's +doctors advised her to winter abroad. The advice was +strongly pressed, as offering a good prospect of a real +improvement of health, and as the only way of avoiding +the annual relapse brought on by the English winter. +One or more of her brothers could have gone with her, +and she was willing and able to try the experiment; but +in face of this express medical testimony, Mr. Barrett +interposed a refusal. This indifference to her health +naturally wounded Miss Barrett very deeply; but it also +gave her the right of taking her fate into her own hands. +Convinced at last that no refusal on her part could +alter Mr. Browning's devotion to her, and that marriage +with him, so far from being an increase of risk to her +health, offered the only means by which she might +hope for an improvement in it, she gave him the conditional +promise that if she came safely through the then impending +winter, she would consent to a definite engagement.</p> + +<p>The winter of 1845-6 was an exceptionally mild one, +and she suffered less than usual; and in the spring of 1846 +her lover claimed her promise. Throughout the summer +she continued to gain strength, being able, not only to +drive out, but even to walk short distances, and to visit a +few of her special friends such as Mr. Kenyon and Mr. +Boyd. Accordingly it was agreed that at the end of the +summer they should be married, and leave England for +Italy before the cold weather should return. The uselessness +of asking her father's consent was so evident, and the +certainty that it would only result in the exclusion of Mr. +Browning from the house so clear, that no attempt was +made to obtain it. Only her two sisters were aware of what +was going on; but even they were not informed of the final +arrangements for the marriage, in order that they might +not be involved in their father's anger when it should +become known. For the same reason the secret was kept +from so close a friend of both parties as Mr. Kenyon; +though both he and Mr. Boyd, and possibly also Mrs. +Jameson, had suspicions amounting to different degrees of +certainty as to the real state of affairs. It had been +intended that they should wait until the end of September, +but a project for a temporary removal of the family into +the country precipitated matters; and on September 12, +accompanied only by her maid, Wilson, Miss Barrett slipped +from the house and was married to Robert Browning +in Marylebone Church.<a name="FNanchor_143_143"></a><a href="#Footnote_143_143"><sup>[143]</sup></a> The associations which that +ponderous edifice has gained from this act for all lovers of +English poetry tempt one to forgive its unromantic appearance, +and to remember rather the pilgrimages which +Robert Browning on his subsequent visits to England +never failed to pay to its threshold.</p> + +<p>For a week after the marriage Mrs. Browning—by which +more familiar name we now have the right to call +her—remained in her father's house; her husband refraining +from seeing her, since he could not now ask for her by +her proper name without betraying their secret. Then, +on September 19, accompanied once more by her maid and +the ever-beloved Flushie, she left her home, to which she +was never to return, crossed the Channel with her husband +to Havre, and so travelled on to Paris. Her father's anger, +if not loud, was deep and unforgiving. From that moment +he cast her off and disowned her. He would not read or +open her letters; he would not see her when she returned +to England. Even the birth of her child brought no +relenting; he expressed no sympathy or anxiety, he would +not look upon its face. He died as he lived, unrelenting, +cut off by his own unbending anger from a daughter who +could with difficulty bring herself to speak a harsh word of +him, even to her most intimate friends.</p> + +<p>It was a more unexpected and consequently an even +more bitter blow to find that her brothers at first disapproved +of her action; the more so, since they had sympathised with +her in the struggle of the previous autumn. This disapprobation +was, however, less deep-seated, resting partly upon +doubts as to the practical prudence of the match, partly, no +doubt, upon a natural annoyance at having been kept in the +dark. Such an estrangement could only be temporary, and +as time went on was replaced by a full renewal of the old +affection towards herself and a friendly acceptance of her +husband. With her sisters, on the other hand, there was +never a shadow of difference or estrangement. That love +remained unaffected; and almost the only circumstance +that caused Mrs. Browning to regret her enforced absence +from England was the separation which it entailed from +her two sisters.</p> + +<p>In Paris the fugitives found a friend who proved a friend +indeed. A few weeks earlier Mrs. Jameson, knowing of +the needs of Miss Barrett's health, had offered to take her +to Italy; but her offer had been refused. Her astonishment +may be imagined when, after this short interval of +time, she found her invalid friend in Paris as the wife of +Robert Browning. The prospect filled her with almost as +much dismay as pleasure. 'I have here,' she wrote to a +friend from Paris, 'a poet and a poetess—two celebrities who +have run away and married under circumstances peculiarly +interesting, and such as to render imprudence the height of +prudence. Both excellent; but God help them! for I +know not how the two poet heads and poet hearts will get +on through this prosaic world.'<a name="FNanchor_144_144"></a><a href="#Footnote_144_144"><sup>[144]</sup></a> Mrs. Jameson, who was +travelling with her young niece, Miss Geraldine Bate,<a name="FNanchor_145_145"></a><a href="#Footnote_145_145"><sup>[145]</sup></a> lent +her aid to smooth the path of her poet friends, and it was +in her company that, after a week's rest in Paris, the +Brownings proceeded on their journey to Italy. It is easy +to imagine what a comfort her presence must have been to +the invalid wife and her naturally anxious husband; and +this journey sealed a friendship of no ordinary depth and +warmth. Mrs. Browning bore the journey wonderfully, +though suffering much from fatigue. During a rest of two +days at Avignon, a pilgrimage was made to Vaucluse, in +honour of Petrarch and his Laura; and there, as Mrs. +Macpherson has recorded in an often quoted passage of +her biography of her aunt, 'there, at the very source of the +"chiare, fresche e dolci acque," Mr. Browning took his +wife up in his arms, and carrying her across the shallow, +curling water, seated her on a rock that rose throne-like +in the middle of the stream. Thus love and poetry +took a new possession of the spot immortalised by +Petrarch's loving fancy.'<a name="FNanchor_146_146"></a><a href="#Footnote_146_146"><sup>[146]</sup></a></p> + +<p>So at the beginning of October the party reached +Pisa; and there the newly wedded pair settled for the +winter. Here first since the departure from London was +there leisure to renew the intercourse with friends at home, +to answer congratulations and good wishes, to explain what +might seem strange and unaccountable. From this point +Mrs. Browning's correspondence contains nearly a full +record of her life, and can be left to tell its own story in +better language than the biographer's. The first letter to +Mrs. Martin is an 'apologia pro connubio suo' in fullest +detail; the others carry on the story from the point at +which that leaves it.</p> + +<p>With regard to this first letter, full as it is of the +most intimate personal and family revelations, it has +seemed right to give it entire. The marriage of Robert and +Elizabeth Browning has passed into literary history, and it +is only fair that it should be set, once for all, in its true +light. Those who might be pained by any expressions in it +have passed away; and those in whose character and reputation +the lovers of English literature are interested have +nothing to fear from the fullest revelation. If anything +were kept back, false and injurious surmises might be +formed; the truth leaves little room for controversy, and +none for slander.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Collegio Ferdinando, Pisa; October 20(?), 1846.<a name="FNanchor_147_147"></a><a href="#Footnote_147_147"><sup>[147]</sup></a><br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—Will you believe that I began +a letter to you before I took this step, to give you the whole +story of the impulses towards it, feeling strongly that I +owed what I considered my justification to such dear friends +as yourself and Mr. Martin, that you might not hastily conclude +that you had thrown away upon one who was quite +unworthy the regard of years? I had begun such a letter—when, +by the plan of going to Little Bookham, my plans +were all hurried forward—changed—driven prematurely into +action, and the last hours of agitation and deep anguish—for +it was the deepest of its kind, to leave Wimpole Street +and those whom I tenderly loved—<i>so</i> would not admit of +my writing or thinking: only I was able to think that my +beloved sisters would send you some account of me when I +was gone. And now I hear from them that your generosity +has not waited for a letter from me to do its best for me, and +that instead of being vexed, as you might well be, at my +leaving England without a word sent to you, you have used +kind offices in my behalf, you have been more than the +generous and affectionate friend I always considered you. +So my first words must be that I am deeply grateful to you, +my very dear friend, and that to the last moment of my life +I shall remember the claim you have on my gratitude. +Generous people are inclined to acquit generously; but it +has been very painful to me to observe that with all my mere +friends I have found more sympathy and <i>trust</i>, than in +those who are of my own household and who have been +daily witnesses of my life. I do not say this for papa, +who is peculiar and in a peculiar position; but it pained +me that——, who <i>knew</i> all that passed last year—for +instance, about Pisa—who knew that the alternative of +making a single effort to secure my health during the +winter was the severe displeasure I have incurred now, +and that the fruit of yielding myself a prisoner was the +sense of being of no use nor comfort to any soul; papa +having given up coming to see me except for five minutes, +a day; ==—, who said to me with his own lips, 'He does +not love you—do not think it' (said and repeated it two +months ago)—that —— should now turn round and reproach +me for want of affection towards my family, for not letting +myself drop like a dead weight into the abyss, a sacrifice +without an object and expiation—this did surprise me +and pain me—pained me more than all papa's dreadful words. +But the personal feeling is nearer with most of us than +the tenderest feeling for another; and my family had been +so accustomed to the idea of my living on and on in that +room, that while my heart was eating itself, their love for me +was consoled, and at last the evil grew scarcely perceptible. +It was no want of love in them, and quite natural in itself: +we all get used to the thought of a tomb; and I was buried, +that was the whole. It was a little thing even for myself a +short time ago, and really it would be a pneumatological +curiosity if I could describe and let you see how perfectly +for years together, after what broke my heart at Torquay, I +lived on the outside of my own life, blindly and darkly +from day to day, as completely dead to hope of any kind +as if I had my face against a grave, never feeling a personal +instinct, taking trains of thought to carry out as an occupation +absolutely indifferent to the <i>me</i> which is in every +human being. Nobody quite understood this of me, +because I am not morally a coward, and have a hatred of +all the forms of audible groaning. But God knows what is +within, and how utterly I had abdicated myself and thought +it not worth while to put out my finger to touch my share of +life. Even my poetry, which suddenly grew an interest, +was a thing on the outside of me, a thing to be done, and +then done! What people said of it did not touch <i>me</i>. A +thoroughly morbid and desolate state it was, which I look +back now to with the sort of horror with which one would +look to one's graveclothes, if one had been clothed in them +by mistake during a trance.</p> + +<p>And now I will tell you. It is nearly two years ago since +I have known Mr. Browning. Mr. Kenyon wished to bring +him to see me five years ago, as one of the lions of London +who roared the gentlest and was best worth my knowing; +but I refused then, in my blind dislike to seeing strangers. +Immediately, however, after the publication of my last +volumes, he wrote to me, and we had a correspondence +which ended in my agreeing to receive him as I never had +received any other man. I did not know why, but it was +utterly impossible for me to refuse to receive him, though +I consented against my will. He writes the most exquisite +letters possible, and has a way of putting things +which I have not, a way of putting aside—so he came. +He came, and with our personal acquaintance began his +attachment for me, a sort of <i>infatuation</i> call it, which +resisted the various denials which were my plain duty at the +beginning, and has persisted past them all. I began with—a +grave assurance that I was in an exceptional position +and saw him just in consequence of it, and that if ever he +recurred to that subject again I never could see him again +while I lived; and he believed me and was silent. To my +mind, indeed, it was a bare impulse—a generous man of +quick sympathies taking up a sudden interest with both +hands! So I thought; but in the meantime the letters +and the visits rained down more and more, and in every one +there was something which was too slight to analyse and +notice, but too decided not to be understood; so that at +last, when the 'proposed respect' of the silence gave way, +it was rather less dangerous. So then I showed him how +he was throwing into the ashes his best affections—how +the common gifts of youth and cheerfulness were behind +me—how I had not strength, even of <i>heart</i>, for the ordinary +duties of life—everything I told him and showed him. 'Look +at this—and this,' throwing down all my disadvantages. +To which he did not answer by a single +compliment, but simply that he had not then to choose, +and that I might be right or he might be right, he was +not there to decide; but that he loved me and should to +his last hour. He said that the freshness of youth had +passed with him also, and that he had studied the world +out of books and seen many women, yet had never loved +one until he had seen me. That he knew himself, and +knew that, if ever so repulsed, he should love me to his +last hour—it should be first and last. At the same time, +he would not tease me, he would wait twenty years if I +pleased, and then, if life lasted so long for both of us, then +when it was ending perhaps, I might understand him and +feel that I might have trusted him. For my health, he had +believed when he first spoke that I was suffering from an +incurable injury of the spine, and that he never could hope +to see me stand up before his face, and he appealed to my +womanly sense of what a pure attachment should be—whether +such a circumstance, if it had been true, was inconsistent +with it. He preferred, he said, of free and deliberate choice, +to be allowed to sit only an hour a day by my side, to the +fulfilment of the brightest dream which should exclude me, in +any possible world.</p> + +<p>I tell you so much, my ever dear friend, that you may +see the manner of man I have had to do with, and the sort +of attachment which for nearly two years has been drawing +and winning me. I know better than any in the world, +indeed, what Mr. Kenyon once unconsciously said before +me—that 'Robert Browning is great in everything.' Then, +when you think how this element of an affection so pure +and persistent, cast into my dreary life, must have acted on +it—how little by little I was drawn into the persuasion that +something was left, and that still I could do something to +the happiness of another—and he what he was, for I have +deprived myself of the privilege of praising him—then it +seemed worth while to take up with that unusual energy (for +me!), expended in vain last year, the advice of the physicians +that I should go to a warm climate for the winter. Then +came the Pisa conflict of last year. For years I had looked +with a sort of indifferent expectation towards Italy, knowing +and feeling that I should escape there the annual relapse, +yet, with that <i>laisser aller</i> manner which had become a +habit to me, unable to form a definite wish about it. But +last year, when all this happened to me, and I was better +than usual in the summer, I <i>wished</i> to make the experiment—to +live the experiment out, and see whether there was +hope for me or not hope. Then came Dr. Chambers, with his +encouraging opinion. 'I wanted simply a warm climate and +<i>air</i>,' he said; 'I might be well if I pleased.' Followed what +you know—or do not precisely know—the pain of it was +acutely felt by me; for I never had doubted but that papa +would catch at any human chance of restoring my health. +I was under the delusion always that the difficulty of +making such trials lay in <i>me</i>, and not in <i>him</i>. His manner +of acting towards me last summer was one of the most +painful griefs of my life, because it involved a disappointment +in the affections. My dear father is a very peculiar +person. He is naturally stern, and has exaggerated notions +of authority, but these things go with high and noble +qualities; and as for feeling, the water is under the rock, +and I had faith. Yes, and have it. I admire such qualities +as he has—fortitude, integrity. I loved him for his courage +in adverse circumstances which were yet felt by him more +literally than I could feel them. Always he has had the +greatest power over my heart, because I am of those weak +women who reverence strong men. By a word he might +have bound me to him hand and foot. Never has he +spoken a gentle word to me or looked a kind look which +has not made in me large results of gratitude, and throughout +my illness the sound of his step on the stairs has had +the power of quickening my pulse—I have loved him so +and love him. Now if he had said last summer that he was +reluctant for me to leave him—if he had even allowed me +to think <i>by mistake</i> that his affection for me was the +motive of such reluctance—I was ready to give up Pisa in +a moment, and I told him as much. Whatever my new +impulses towards life were, my love for him (taken so) +would have resisted all—I loved him so dearly. But his +course was otherwise, quite otherwise, and I was wounded +to the bottom of my heart—cast off when I was ready to +cling to him. In the meanwhile, at my side was another; +I was driven and I was drawn. Then at last I said, 'If +you like to let this winter decide it, you may. I will allow +of no promises nor engagement. I cannot go to Italy, and +I know, as nearly as a human creature can know any fact, +that I shall be ill again through the influence of this +English winter. If I am, you will see plainer the foolishness +of this persistence; if I am not, I will do what you +please.' And his answer was, 'If you are ill and keep +your resolution of not marrying me under those circumstances, +I will keep mine and love you till God shall take +us both.' This was in last autumn, and the winter came +with its miraculous mildness, as you know, and I was saved +as I dared not hope; my word therefore was claimed in +the spring. Now do you understand, and will you feel for +me? An application to my father was certainly the obvious +course, if it had not been for his peculiar nature and my +peculiar position. But there is no speculation in the case; +it is a matter of <i>knowledge</i> that if Robert had applied to +him in the first instance he would have been forbidden the +house without a moment's scruple; and if in the last (as my +sisters thought best as a respectable <i>form</i>), I should have +been incapacitated from any after-exertion by the horrible +scenes to which, as a thing of course, I should have been +exposed. Papa will not bear some subjects, it is a thing +<i>known</i>; his peculiarity takes that ground to the largest. +Not one of his children will ever marry without a breach, +which we all know, though he probably does not—deceiving +himself in a setting up of <i>obstacles</i>, whereas the real obstacle +is in his own mind. In my case there was, or would have +been, a great deal of apparent reason to hold by; my +health would have been motive enough—ostensible motive. +I see that precisely as others may see it. Indeed, if I were +charged now with want of generosity for casting myself so, +a dead burden, on the man I love, nothing of the sort +could surprise me. It was what occurred to myself, that +thought was, and what occasioned a long struggle and +months of agitation, and which nothing could have overcome +but the very uncommon affection of a very uncommon +person, reasoning out to me the great fact of love making +its own level. As to vanity and selfishness blinding me, +certainly I may have made a mistake, and the future may +prove it, but still more certainly I was not blinded <i>so</i>. On +the contrary, never have I been more humbled, and never +less in danger of considering any personal pitiful advantage, +than throughout this affair. You, who are generous and a +woman, will believe this of me, even if you do not comprehend +the <i>habit</i> I had fallen into of casting aside the +consideration of possible happiness of my own. But I was +speaking of papa. Obvious it was that the application to +him was a mere form. I knew the result of it. I had +made up my mind to act upon my full right of taking my +own way. I had long believed such an act (the most +strictly personal act of one's life) to be within the rights of +every person of mature age, man or woman, and I had +resolved to exercise that right in my own case by a resolution +which had slowly ripened. All the other doors of +life were shut to me, and shut me in as in a prison, and +only before this door stood one whom I loved best and +who loved me best, and who invited me out through it for +the good's sake which he thought I could do him. Now if +for the sake of the mere form I had applied to my father, +and if, as he would have done directly, he had set up his +'curse' against the step I proposed to take, would it have +been doing otherwise than placing a knife in his hand? A +few years ago, merely through the reverberation of what he +said to another on a subject like this, I fell on the floor in +a fainting fit, and was almost delirious afterwards. I +cannot bear some words. I would much rather have +blows without them. In my actual state of nerves and +physical weakness, it would have been the sacrifice of my +whole life—of my convictions, of my affections, and, +above all, of what the person dearest to me persisted in +calling <i>his</i> life, and the good of it—if I had observed that +'form.' Therefore, wrong or right, I determined not to +observe it, and, wrong or right, I did and do consider that +in not doing so I sinned against no duty. That I was <i>constrained</i> +to act clandestinely, and did not <i>choose</i> to do so, +God is witness, and will set it down as my heavy misfortune +and not my fault. Also, up to the very last act we stood in +the light of day for the whole world, if it pleased, to judge +us. I never saw him out of the Wimpole Street house; he +came twice a week to see me—or rather, three times in the +fortnight, openly in the sight of all, and this for nearly +two years, and neither more nor less. Some jests used to +be passed upon us by my brothers, and I allowed them +without a word, but it would have been infamous in me to +have taken any into my confidence who would have +suffered, as a direct consequence, a blighting of his own +prospects. My secrecy towards them all was my simple +duty towards them all, and what they call want of affection +was an affectionate consideration for them. My sisters did +indeed know the truth to a certain point. They knew of +the attachment and engagement—I could not help that—but +the whole of the event I kept from them with a strength +and resolution which really I did not know to be in me, +and of which nothing but a sense of the injury to be done +to them by a fuller confidence, and my tender gratitude and +attachment to them for all their love and goodness, could +have rendered me capable. Their faith in me, and undeviating +affection for me, I shall be grateful for to the end +of my existence, and to the extent of my power of feeling +gratitude. My dearest sisters!—especially, let me say, my +own beloved Arabel, who, with no consolation except the +exercise of a most generous tenderness, has looked only to +what she considered my good—never doubting me, never +swerving for one instant in her love for me. May God +reward her as I cannot. Dearest Henrietta loves me too, +but loses less in me, and has reasons for not misjudging +me. But both my sisters have been faultless in their bearing +towards me, and never did I love them so tenderly as I love +them now.</p> + +<p>The only time I met R.B. clandestinely was in the +parish church, where we were married before two witnesses—it +was the first and only time. I looked, he says, more +dead than alive, and can well believe it, for I all but +fainted on the way, and had to stop for sal volatile at a +chemist's shop. The support through it all was <i>my trust +in him</i>, for no woman who ever committed a like act of +trust has had stronger motives to hold by. Now may I not +tell you that his genius, and all but miraculous attainments, +are the least things in him, the moral nature being +of the very noblest, as all who ever knew him admit? +Then he has had that wide experience of men which ends +by throwing the mind back on itself and God; there is +nothing incomplete in him, except as all humanity is +incompleteness. The only wonder is how such a man, +whom any woman could have loved, should have loved +<i>me</i>; but men of genius, you know, are apt to love with +their imagination. Then there is something in the sympathy, +the strange, straight sympathy which unites us on all +subjects. If it were not that I look up to him, we should +be too alike to be together perhaps, but I know my place +better than he does, who is too humble. Oh, you cannot +think how well we get on after six weeks of marriage. If I +suffer again it will not be through <i>him</i>. Some day, dearest +Mrs. Martin, I will show you and dear Mr. Martin how his +<i>prophecy was fulfilled</i>, saving some picturesque particulars. +I did not know before that Saul was among the prophets.</p> + +<p>My poor husband suffered very much from the constraint +imposed on him by my position, and did, for the +first time in his life, for my sake do that in secret which +he could not speak upon the housetops. <i>Mea culpa</i> all of +it! If one of us two is to be blamed, it is I, at whose +representation of circumstances he submitted to do violence +to his own self-respect. I would not suffer him to +tell even our dear common friend Mr. Kenyon. I felt that +it would be throwing on dear Mr. Kenyon a painful +responsibility, and involve him in the blame ready to fall. +And dear dear Mr. Kenyon, like the noble, generous +friend I love so deservedly, comprehends all at a word, +sends us <i>not</i> his forgiveness, but his sympathy, his +affection, the kindest words which can be written! I +cannot tell you all his inexpressible kindness to us both. +He justifies us to the uttermost, and, in that, all the +grateful attachment we had, each on our side, so long +professed towards him. Indeed, in a note I had from him +yesterday, he uses this strong expression after gladly +speaking of our successful journey: 'I considered that you +had <i>perilled your life</i> upon this undertaking, and, reflecting +upon your last position, I thought that <i>you had done well</i>.' +But my life was not perilled in the journey. The agitation +and fatigue were evils, to be sure, and Mrs. Jameson, who +met us in Paris by a happy accident, thought me 'looking +horribly ill' at first, and persuaded us to rest there for a +week on the promise of accompanying us herself to Pisa +to help Robert to take care of me. He, who was in a fit of +terror about me, agreed at once, and so she came with us, +she and her young niece, and her kindness leaves us both +very grateful. So kind she was, and is—for still she is in +Pisa—opening her arms to us and calling us 'children of +light' instead of ugly names, and declaring that she should +have been 'proud' to have had anything to do with our +marriage. Indeed, we hear every day kind speeches and +messages from people such as Mr. Chorley of the 'Athenaeum,' +who 'has tears in his eyes,' Monckton Milnes, +Barry Cornwall, and other friends of my husband's, but who +only know <i>me</i> by my books, and I want the love and +sympathy of those who love me and whom I love. I was +talking of the influence of the journey. The change of air +has done me wonderful good notwithstanding the fatigue, +and I am renewed to the point of being able to throw off +most of my invalid habits; and of walking quite like a +woman. Mrs. Jameson said the other day, 'You are not +<i>improved</i>, you are <i>transformed</i>.' We have most +comfortable rooms here at Pisa and have taken them for six +months, in the best situation for health, and close to the +Duomo and Leaning Tower. It is a beautiful, solemn +city, and we have made acquaintance with Professor +Ferucci, who is about to admit us to [a sight]<a name="FNanchor_148_148"></a><a href="#Footnote_148_148"><sup>[148]</sup></a> of the +[University Lib]rary. We shall certainly [spend] next +summer in Italy <i>somewhere</i>, and [talk] of Rome for the +next winter, but, of course, this is all in air. Let me hear</p> + +<p>from you, dearest Mrs. Martin, and direct, 'M. Browning, +Poste Restante, Pisa'—it is best. Just before we left Paris +I wrote to my aunt Jane, and from Marseilles to Bummy, +but from neither have I heard yet.</p> + +<p>With best love to dearest Mr. Martin, ever both my +dear kind friends,</p> + +<p>Your affectionate and grateful<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><a name="FNanchor_149_149"></a><a href="#Footnote_149_149"><sup>[149]</sup></a><br /> +Moulins: October 2, 1846.<br /> + +<p>I began to write to you, my beloved friend, earlier, that +I might follow your kindest wishes literally, and also to +thank you at once for your goodness to me, for which may +God bless you. But the fatigue and agitation have been +very great, and I was forced to break off—as now I dare not +revert to what is behind. I will tell you more another +day. At Orleans, with your kindest letter, I had one from +my dearest, gracious friend Mr. Kenyon, who, in his goodness, +does more than exculpate—even <i>approves</i>—he wrote +a joint letter to both of us. But oh, the anguish I have +gone through! You are good, you are kind. I thank +you from the bottom of my heart for saying to me that you +would have gone to the church with me. <i>Yes, I know you +would</i>. And for that very reason I forbore involving you +in such a responsibility and drawing you into such a net. +I took Wilson with me. I had courage to keep the secret +to my sisters for their sakes, though I will tell you in strict +confidence that it was known to them <i>potentially</i>, that is, +the attachment and engagement were known, the necessity +remaining that, for stringent reasons affecting their own +tranquillity, they should be able to say at last, 'We were not +instructed in this and this.' The dearest, fondest, most +affectionate of sisters they are to me, and if the sacrifice of +a life, or of all prospect of happiness, would have worked +any lasting good to them, it should have been made even +in the hour I left them. I knew <i>that</i> by the anguish I +suffered in it. But a sacrifice, without good to anyone—I +shrank from it. And also, it was the sacrifice of <i>two</i>. And +<i>he</i>, as you say, had done everything for me, had loved me +for reasons which had helped to weary me of myself, loved +me heart to heart persistently—in spite of my own will—drawn +me back to life and hope again when I had done +with both. My life seemed to belong to him and to none +other at last, and I had no power to speak a word. Have +faith in me, my dearest friend, till you can know him. +The intellect is so little in comparison to all the rest, to the +womanly tenderness, the inexhaustible goodness, the high +and noble aspiration of every hour. Temper, spirits, +manners: there is not a flaw anywhere. I shut my eyes +sometimes and fancy it all a dream of my guardian angel. +Only, if it had been a dream, the pain of some parts of it +would have awakened me before now; it is not a dream. +I have borne all the emotion of fatigue miraculously well, +though, of course, a good deal exhausted at times. We +had intended to hurry on to the South at once, but at +Paris we met Mrs. Jameson, who opened her arms to us +with the most literal affectionateness, <i>kissed us both</i>, and +took us by surprise by calling us 'wise people, wild poets +or not.' Moreover, she fixed us in an apartment above her +own in the Hôtel de la Ville de Paris, that I might rest for +a week, and crowned the rest of her goodnesses by agreeing +to accompany us to Pisa, where she was about to travel +with her young niece. Therefore we are five travelling, +Wilson being with me. Oh, yes, Wilson came; her attachment +to me never shrank for a moment. And Flush came +and I assure you that nearly as much attention has been +paid to Flush as to me from the beginning, so that he is +perfectly reconciled, and would be happy if the people at the +railroads were not barbarians, and immovable in their evil +designs of shutting him up in a box when we travel that +way.</p> + +<p>You understand now, ever dearest Miss Mitford, how +the pause has come about writing. The week at Paris! +Such a strange week it was, altogether like a vision. +Whether in the body or out of the body I cannot tell +scarcely. Our Balzac should be flattered beyond measure +by my thinking of him at all. Which I did, but of <i>you</i> +more. I will write and tell you more about Paris. You +should go there indeed. And to our hotel, if at all. Once +we were at the Louvre, but we kept very still of course, and +were satisfied with the <i>idea</i> of Paris. I could have +borne to live on there, it was all so strange and full of contrast....</p> + +<p>Now you will write—I feel my way on the paper to +write this. Nothing is changed between us, nothing can +ever interfere with sacred confidences, remember. I do +not show letters, you need not fear my turning traitress.... +Pray for me, dearest friend, that the bitterness of old affections +may not be too bitter with me, and that God may turn those +salt waters sweet again.</p> + +<p>Pray for your grateful and loving<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +[Pisa:] November 5, [1846].<br /> + +<p>It was pleasant to me, my dearest friend, to think while +I was reading your letter yesterday, that almost by that +time you had received mine, and could not even seem to +doubt a moment longer whether I admitted your claim of +hearing and of speaking to the uttermost. I recognised you +too entirely as my friend. Because you had put faith in me, +so much the more reason there was that I should justify it +as far as I could, and with as much frankness (which was a +part of my gratitude to you) as was possible from a woman +to a woman. Always I have felt that you have believed in +me and loved me; and, for the sake of the past and of the +present, your affection and your esteem are more to me +than I could afford to lose, even in these changed and +happy circumstances. So I thank you once more, my dear +kind friends, I thank you both—I never shall forget your +goodness. I feel it, of course, the more deeply, in proportion +to the painful disappointment in other quarters.... Am I, +bitter? The feeling, however, passes while I write it out, +and my own affection for everybody will wait patiently to +be 'forgiven' in the proper form, when everybody shall be +at leisure properly. Assuredly, in the meanwhile, however, +my case is not to be classed with other cases—what +happened to me could not have happened, perhaps, with +any other family in England.... I hate and loathe everything +too which is clandestine—we <i>both</i> do, Robert and I; +and the manner the whole business was carried on in +might have instructed the least acute of the bystanders. +The flowers standing perpetually on my table for the last +two years were brought there by one hand, as everybody +knew; and really it would have argued an excess of benevolence +in an unmarried man with quite enough resources +in London, to pay the continued visits he paid to me without +some strong motive indeed. Was it his fault that he +did not associate with everybody in the house as well as +with me? He desired it; but no—that was not to be. The +endurance of the pain of the position was not the least +proof of his attachment to me. How I thank you for +believing in him—how grateful it makes me! He will +justify to the uttermost that faith. We have been married +two months, and every hour has bound me to him more and +more; if the beginning was well, still better it is now—that +is what he says to me, and I say back again day by day. +Then it is an 'advantage,' to have an inexhaustible companion +who talks wisdom of all things in heaven and earth, +and shows besides as perpetual a good humour and gaiety +as if he were—a fool, shall I say? or a considerable quantity +more, perhaps. As to our domestic affairs, it is not to +<i>my</i> honour and glory that the 'bills' are made up every +week and paid more regularly 'than hard beseems,' while +dear Mrs. Jameson laughs outright at our miraculous +prudence and economy, and declares that it is past belief +and precedent that we should not burn the candles at both +ends, and the next moment will have it that we remind her +of the children in a poem of Heine's who set up housekeeping +in a tub, and inquired gravely the price of coffee. +Ah, but she has left Pisa at last—left it yesterday. It was +a painful parting to everybody. Seven weeks spent in such +close neighbourhood—a month of it under the same roof +and in the same carriages—will fasten people together, and +then travelling <i>shakes</i> them together. A more affectionate, +generous woman never lived than Mrs. Jameson, and it is +pleasant to be sure that she loves us both from her heart, +and not only <i>du bout des lèvres</i>. Think of her making +Robert promise (as he has told me since) that in the case +of my being unwell he would write to her instantly, and she +would come at once if anywhere in Italy. So kind, so like +her. She spends the winter in Rome, but an intermediate +month at Florence, and we are to keep tryst with her somewhere +in the spring, perhaps at Venice. If not, she says +that she will come back here, for that certainly she will see +us. She would have stayed altogether perhaps, if it had +not been for her book upon art which she is engaged to +bring out next year, and the materials for which are to be +<i>sought</i>. As to Pisa, she liked it just as we like it. Oh, it is +so beautiful and so full of repose, yet not <i>desolate</i>: it is +rather the repose of sleep than of death. Then after the +first ten days of rain, which seemed to refer us fatally to +Alfieri's 'piove e ripiove,' came as perpetual a divine sunshine, +such cloudless, exquisite weather that we ask +whether it may not be June instead of November. Every +day I am out walking while the golden oranges look at me +over the walls, and when I am tired Robert and I sit down +on a stone to watch the lizards. We have been to your +seashore, too, and seen your island, only he insists on it +(Robert does) that it is not Corsica but Gorgona, and that +Corsica is not in sight. <i>Beautiful</i> and blue the island was, +however, in any case. It might have been Romero's instead +of either. Also we have driven up to the foot of mountains, +and seen them reflected down in the little pure lake of +Ascuno, and we have seen the pine woods, and met the +camels laden with faggots all in a line. So now ask me +again if I enjoy my liberty as you expect. My head goes +round sometimes, that is all. I never was happy before in +my life. Ah, but, of course, the painful thoughts recur!</p> + +<p>There are some whom I love too tenderly to be easy under +their displeasure, or even under their injustice. Only it, +seems to me that with time and patience my poor dearest +papa will be melted into opening his arms to us—will +be melted into a clearer understanding of motives and +intentions; I cannot believe that he will forget me, as +he says he will, and go on thinking me to be dead rather +than alive and happy. So I manage to hope for the best, +and all that remains, all my life here, <i>is</i> best already, could +not be better or happier. And willingly tell dear Mr. +Martin I would take him and you for witnesses of it, and in +the meanwhile he is not to send me tantalising messages; +no, indeed, unless you really, really, should let yourselves be +wafted our way, and could you do so much better at Pau? +particularly if Fanny Hanford should come here. Will she +really? The climate is described by the inhabitants as a +'pleasant spring throughout the winter,' and if you were to +see Robert and me threading our path along the shady side +everywhere to avoid the 'excessive heat of the sun' in this +November (!) it would appear a good beginning. We are +not in the warm orthodox position by the Arno because we +heard with our ears one of the best physicians of the place +advise against it. 'Better,' he said, 'to have cool rooms to +live in and warm walks to go out along.' The rooms we +have are rather over-cool perhaps; we are obliged to have +a little fire in the sitting-room, in the mornings and evenings +that is; but I do not fear for the winter, there is too much +difference to my feelings between this November and any +English November I ever knew. We have our dinner from +the Trattoria at two o'clock, and can dine our favorite way +on thrushes and chianti with a miraculous cheapness, and +no trouble, no cook, no kitchen; the prophet Elijah or the +lilies of the field took as little thought for their dining, +which exactly suits us. It is a continental fashion which we +never cease commending. Then at six we have coffee, and +rolls of milk, made of milk, I mean, and at nine our supper +(call it supper, if you please) of roast chestnuts and grapes. +So you see how primitive we are, and how I forget to praise +the eggs at breakfast. The worst of Pisa is, or would be to +some persons, that, socially speaking, it has its dullnesses; +it is not lively like Florence, not in that way. But we do +not want society, we shun it rather. We like the Duomo +and the Campo Santo instead. Then we know a little of +Professor Ferucci, who gives us access to the University +library, and we subscribe to a modern one, and we have +plenty of writing to do of our own. If we can do anything +for Fanny Hanford, let us know. It would be too happy, +I suppose, to have to do it for yourselves. Think, however, +I am quite well, quite well. I can thank God, too, for being +alive and well. Make dear Mr. Martin keep well, and not +forget himself in the Herefordshire cold—draw him into the +sun somewhere. Now write and tell me everything of your +plans and of you both, dearest friends. My husband bids +me say that he desires to have my friends for his own friends, +and that he is grateful to you for not crossing that feeling. Let +him send his regards to you. And let me be throughout all +changes,</p> + +<p>Your ever faithful and most affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>I am expecting every day to hear from my dearest +sisters. Write to them and love them for me.</p> + +<p>This letter has been kept for several days from different +causes. Will you inclose the little note to Miss Mitford? +I do not hear from home, and am uneasy.</p> + +<p>May God bless you!</p> + +<p>November 9.</p> + +<p>I am so vexed about those poems appearing just now in +'Blackwood.'<a name="FNanchor_150_150"></a><a href="#Footnote_150_150"><sup>[150]</sup></a> Papa must think it <i>impudent</i> of me. It is +unfortunate.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +[Pisa]: November 5, 1846.<br /> + +<p>I have your letter, ever dearest Miss Mitford, and it is +welcome even more than your letters have been used to be +to me—the last charm was to come, you see, by this distance. +For all your affection and solicitude, may you trust +my gratitude; and if you love me a little, I love you indeed, +and never shall cease. The only difference shall be that two +may love you where one did, and for my part I will answer +for it that if you could love the poor one you will not refuse +any love to the other when you come to know him. I never +could bear to speak to you of <i>him</i> since quite the beginning, +or rather I never could dare. But when you know him and +understand how the mental gifts are scarcely half of him, +you will not wonder at your friend, and, indeed, two +years of steadfast affection from such a man would have, +overcome any woman's heart. I have been neither much +wiser nor much foolisher than all the shes in the world, only +much happier—the difference is in the happiness. Certainly +I am not likely to repent of having given myself to him. I +cannot, for all the pain received from another quarter, the +comfort for which is that my conscience is pure of the sense +of having broken the least known duty, and that the same +consequence would follow any marriage of any member of +my family with any possible man or woman. I look to +time, and reason, and natural love and pity, and to the +justification of the events acting through all; I look on so +and hope, and in the meanwhile it has been a great comfort +to have had not merely the indulgence but the approbation +and sympathy of most of my old personal friends—oh, such +kind letters; for instance, yesterday one came from dear +Mrs. Martin, who has known me, she and her husband, since +the very beginning of my womanhood, and both of them +are acute, thinking people, with heads as strong as their +hearts. I in my haste left England without a word to them, +for which they might naturally have reproached me; instead +of which they write to say that never <i>for a moment</i> have +they doubted my having acted for the best and happiest, +and to assure me that, having sympathised with me in every +sorrow and trial, they delightedly feel with me in the new +joy; nothing could be more cordially kind. See how I +write to you as if I could speak—all these little things which +are great things when seen in the light. Also R, and I +are not in the least tired of one another notwithstanding +the very perpetual <i>tête-à-tête</i> into which we have fallen, and +which (past the first fortnight) would be rather a trial in +many cases. Then our housekeeping may end perhaps in +being a proverb among the nations, for at the beginning it +makes Mrs. Jameson laugh heartily. It disappoints her +theories, she admits—finding that, albeit poets, we abstain +from burning candles at both ends at once, just as if we did +statistics and historical abstracts by nature instead. And do +not think that the trouble falls on me. Even the pouring +out of the coffee is a divided labour, and the ordering of the +dinner is quite out of my hands. As for me, when I am +so good as to let myself be carried upstairs, and so angelical +as to sit still on the sofa, and so considerate, moreover, as +<i>not</i> to put my foot into a puddle, why <i>my</i> duty is considered +done to a perfection which is worthy of all adoration; it +really is not very hard work to please this taskmaster. For +Pisa, we both like it extremely. The city is full of beauty +and repose, and the purple mountains gloriously seem to +beckon us on deeper into the vineland. We have rooms +close to the Duomo and Leaning Tower, in the great +Collegio built by Vasari, three excellent bedrooms and a +sitting-room, matted and carpeted, looking comfortable even +for England. For the last fortnight, except the very last +few sunny days, we have had rain; but the climate is as mild +as possible, no cold, with all the damp. Delightful weather +we had for the travelling. Ah, you, with your terrors of +travelling, how you amuse me! Why, the constant change +of air in the continued fine weather made me better and +better instead of worse. It did me infinite good. Mrs. +Jameson says she 'won't call me <i>improved</i>, but <i>transformed</i> +rather.' I like the new sights and the movement; my spirits +rise; I live—I can adapt myself. If you really tried it and +got as far as Paris you would be drawn on, I fancy, and on—on +to the East perhaps with H. Martineau, or at least as +near it as we are here. By the way, or out of the way, it +struck me as unfortunate that my poems should have been +printed <i>just now</i> in 'Blackwood;' I wish it had been otherwise. +Then I had a letter from one of my Leeds readers +the other day to expostulate about the <i>inappropriateness</i> of +certain of them! The fact is that I sent a heap of verses +swept from my desk and belonging to old feelings and +impressions, and not imagining that they were to be used +in that quick way. There can't be very much to like, I +fear, apart from your goodness for what calls itself mine. +Love me, dearest dear Miss Mitford, my dear kind friend—love +me, I beg of you, still and ever, only ceasing when I +cease to think of you; I will allow of that clause. Mrs. +Jameson and Gerardine are staying at the hotel here in Pisa +still, and we manage to see them every day; so good and +true and affectionate she is, and so much we shall miss her +when she goes, which will be in a day or two now. She +goes to Florence, to Siena, to Rome to complete her work +upon art, which is the object of her Italian journey. I read +your vivid and glowing description of the picture to her, or +rather I showed your picture to her, and she quite believes +with you that it is most probably a <i>Velasquez</i>. Much to be +congratulated the owner must be. I mean to know something +about pictures some day. Robert does, and I shall +get him to open my eyes for me with a little instruction. +You know that in this place are to be seen the first steps of +art, and it will be interesting to trace them from it as we go +farther ourselves. Our present residence we have taken for +six months; but we have dreams, dreams, and we discuss +them like soothsayers over the evening's roasted chestnuts +and grapes. Flush highly approves of Pisa (and the roasted +chestnuts), because here he goes out every day and speaks +Italian to the little dogs. Oh, Mr. Chorley, such a kind, +feeling note he wrote to Robert from Germany, when he +read of our marriage in 'Galignani;' we were both touched +by it. And Monckton Milnes and others—very kind all. +But in a particular manner I remember the kindness of my +valued friend Mr. Horne, who never failed me nor could fail. +Will you explain to him, or rather ask him to understand, +why I did not answer his last note? I forget even Balzac here; +tell me what he writes, and help me to love that dear, +generous Mr. Kenyon, whom I can love without help. And +let me love you, and you love me.</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate and grateful<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Jameson</i><br /> +Collegio Ferdinando [Pisa]:<br /> +Saturday, November 23, 1846 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>We were delighted to have your note, dearest Aunt +Nina, and I answer it with my feet on your stool, so that +my feet are full of you even if my head is not, always. +Now, I shall not go a sentence farther without thanking +you for that comfort; you scarcely guessed perhaps what a +comfort it would be, that stool of yours. I am even apt to +sit on it for hours together, leaning against the sofa, till I +get to be scolded for putting myself so into the fire, and +prophesied of in respect to the probability of a 'general +conflagration' of stools and Bas; on which the prophet is +to leap from the Leaning Tower, and Flush to be left to +make the funeral oration of the establishment. In the +meantime, it really is quite a comfort that our housekeeping +should be your 'example' at Florence; we have edifying +countenances whenever we think of it. And Robert will +not by any means believe that you passed us on our own +ground, though the eleven pauls a week for breakfast, and +my humility, seemed to suggest something of the sort. I +am so glad, we are both so glad, that you are enjoying yourself +at the fullest and highest among the wonders of art, +and cannot be chilled in the soul by any of those fatal winds +you speak of. For me, I am certainly better here at Pisa, +though the penalty is to see Frate Angelico's picture with +the remembrance of you rather than the presence. Here, +indeed, we have had a little too much cold for two days; +there was a feeling of frost in the air, and a most undeniable +east wind which prevented my going out, and made me feel +less comfortable than usual at home. But, after all, one felt +ashamed to call it <i>cold</i>, and Robert found the heat on the +Arno insupportable; which set us both mourning over our +'situation' at the Collegio, where one of us could not get +out on such days without a blow on the chest from the +'wind at the corner.' Well, experience teaches, and we +shall be taught, and the cost of it is not so very much after +all. We have seen your professor once since you left us +(oh, the leaving!), or <i>spoken</i> to him once, I should say, when +he came in one evening and caught us reading, sighing, +yawning over 'Nicolò de' Lapi,' a romance by the son-in law +of Manzoni. Before we could speak, he called it 'excellent, +très beau,' one of their very best romances, upon which, of +course, dear Robert could not bear to offend his literary and +national susceptibilities by a doubt even. <i>I</i>, not being so +humane, thought that any suffering reader would be justified +(under the rack-wheel) in crying out against such a book, +as the dullest, heaviest, stupidest, lengthiest. Did you ever +read it? If not, <i>don't</i>. When a father-in-law imitates +Scott, and a son-in-law imitates his father-in-law, think of +the consequences! Robert, in his zeal for Italy and against +Eugène Sue, tried to persuade me at first (this was before +the scene with your professor) that 'really, Ba, it wasn't so +bad,' 'really you are too hard to be pleased,' and so on; but +after two or three chapters, the dullness grew too strong for +even his benevolence, and the yawning catastrophe (supposed +to be peculiar to the 'Guida') overthrew him as completely +as it ever did me, though we both resolved to hold on by +the stirrup to the end of the two volumes. The catalogue of +the library (for observe that we subscribe now—the object is +attained!) offers a most melancholy insight into the actual +literature of Italy. Translations, translations, translations +from third and fourth and fifth rate French and English +writers, chiefly French; the roots of thought, here in Italy, +seem dead in the ground. It is well that they have great +memories—nothing else lives.</p> + +<p>We have had the kindest of letters from dear noble Mr. +Kenyon; who, by the way, speaks of you as we like to hear +him. Dickens is going to Paris for the winter, and Mrs. +Butler<a name="FNanchor_151_151"></a><a href="#Footnote_151_151"><sup>[151]</sup></a> (he adds) is expected in London. Dear Mr. Kenyon +calls me 'crotchety,' but Robert 'an incarnation of the +good and the true,' so that I have everything to thank him +for. There are noble people who take the world's side and +make it seem 'for the <i>nonce</i>' almost respectable; but he +gives up all the talk and fine schemes about money-making, +and allows us to wait to see whether we want it or not—the +money, I mean.</p> + +<p>It is Monday, and I am only finishing this note. In the +midst came letters from my sisters, making me feel so glad +that I could not write. Everybody is well and happy, and +dear papa <i>in high spirits</i> and <i>having people to dine with him +every day</i>, so that I have not really done anyone harm in +doing myself all this good. It does not indeed bring us a +step nearer to the forgiveness, but to hear of his being in +good spirits makes me inclined to jump, with Gerardine.<a name="FNanchor_152_152"></a><a href="#Footnote_152_152"><sup>[152]</sup></a> +Dear Geddie! How pleased I am to hear of her being +happy, particularly (perhaps) as she is not too happy to +forget <i>me</i>. Is all that glory of art making her very ambitious +to work and enter into the court of the Temple?...</p> + +<p>Robert's love to you both. We often talk of our prospect +of meeting you again. And for the <i>past</i>, dearest Aunt Nina, +believe of me that I feel to you more gratefully than ever I +can say, and remain, while I live,</p> + +<p>Your faithful and affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Pisa: December 19, [1846].<br /> + +<p>Ever dearest Miss Mitford, your kindest letter is three +times welcome as usual. On the day you wrote it in the +frost, I was sitting out of doors, just in my summer mantilla, +and complaining 'of the heat this December!' But woe +comes to the discontented. Within these three or four +days we too have had frost—yes, and a little snow, for the +first time, say the Pisans, during five years. Robert says +that the mountains are powdered toward Lucca, and I, who +cannot see the mountains, can see the cathedral—the +Duomo—how it glitters whitely at the summit, between the +blue sky and its own walls of yellow marble. Of course I do +not stir an inch from the fire, yet have to struggle a little +against my old languor. Only, you see, this can't last! +it is exceptional weather, and, up to the last few days, +has been divine. And then, after all we talk of frost, my +bedroom, which has no fireplace, shows not an English +sign on the window, and the air is not <i>metallic</i> as in +England. The sun, too, is so hot that the women are +seen walking with fur capes and parasols, a curious combination.</p> + +<p>I hope you had your visit from Mr. Chorley, and that +you both had the usual pleasure from it. Indeed I <i>am</i> +touched by what you tell me, and was touched by his note +to my husband, written in the first surprise; and because +Robert has the greatest regard for him, besides my own +personal reasons, I do count him in the forward rank of +our friends. You will hear that he has obliged us by +accepting a trusteeship to a settlement, forced upon me in +spite of certain professions or indispositions of mine; but +as my husband's gifts, I had no right, it appeared, by +refusing it to place him in a false position for the sake of +what dear Mr. Kenyon calls my 'crotchets.' Oh, dear +Mr. Kenyon! His kindness and goodness to us have been +past thinking of, past thanking for; we can only fall into +silence. He has thrust his hand into the fire for us by +writing to papa himself, by taking up the management of +my small money-matters when nearer hands let them drop, +by justifying us with the whole weight of his personal +influence; all this in the very face of his own habits and +susceptibilities. He has resolved that I shall not miss the +offices of father, brother, friend, nor the tenderness and +sympathy of them all. And this man is called a mere man +of the world, and would be called so rightly if the world +were a place for angels. I shall love him dearly and +gratefully to my last breath; we both shall....</p> + +<p>Robert and I are deep in the fourth month of wedlock; +there has not been a shadow between us, nor a <i>word</i> (and +I have observed that all married people confess to <i>words</i>), +and that the only change I can lay my finger on in him is +simply and clearly an increase of affection. Now I need +not say it if I did not please, and I should not please, you +know, to tell a story. The truth is, that I who always did +certainly believe in love, yet was as great a sceptic as you +about the evidences thereof, and having held twenty times +that Jacob's serving fourteen years for Rachel was not too +long by fourteen days, I was not a likely person (with my +loathing dread of marriage as a loveless state, and absolute +contentment with single life as the alternative to the great +majorities of marriages), I was not likely to accept a feeling +not genuine, though from the hand of Apollo himself, +crowned with his various godships. Especially too, in my +position, I could not, would not, should not have done it. +Then, genuine feelings are genuine feelings, and do not +pass like a cloud. We are as happy as people can be, I do +believe, yet are living in a way to <i>try</i> this new relationship +of ours—in the utmost seclusion and perpetual <i>téte-à-téte</i>—no +amusement nor distraction from without, except some of +the very dullest Italian romances which throw us back on +the memory of Balzac with reiterated groans. The Italians +seem to hang on translations from the French—as we find +from the library—not merely of Balzac, but Dumas, your +Dumas, and reaching lower—long past De Kock—to the +third and fourth rate novelists. What is purely Italian is, as +far as we have read, purely dull and conventional. There +is no breath nor pulse in the Italian genius. Mrs. Jameson +writes to us from Florence that in politics and philosophy +the people are getting alive—which may be, for aught we +know to the contrary, the poetry and imagination leave +them room enough by immense vacancies.</p> + +<p>Yet we delight in Italy, and dream of 'pleasures new' +for the summer—<i>pastures</i> new, I should have said—but it +comes to the same thing. The <i>padrone</i> in this house +sent us in as a gift (in gracious recognition, perhaps, of our +lawful paying of bills) an immense dish of oranges—two +hanging on a stalk with the green leaves still moist with the +morning's dew—every great orange of twelve or thirteen +with its own stalk and leaves. Such a pretty sight! And +better oranges, I beg to say, never were eaten, when we are +barbarous enough to eat them day by day after our two +o'clock dinner, softening, with the vision of them, the +winter which has just shown itself. Almost I have been as +pleased with the oranges as I was at Avignon by the +<i>pomegranate</i> given to me much in the same way. Think of +my being singled out of all our caravan of travellers—Mrs. +Jameson and Gerardine Jameson<a name="FNanchor_153_153"></a><a href="#Footnote_153_153"><sup>[153]</sup></a> both there—for +that significant gift of the pomegranates! I had never seen +one before, and, of course, proceeded instantly to cut one +'deep down the middle'<a name="FNanchor_154_154"></a><a href="#Footnote_154_154"><sup>[154]</sup></a>—accepting the omen. Yet, in +shame and confusion of face, I confess to not being able to +appreciate it properly. Olives and pomegranates I set on +the same shelf, to be just looked at and called by their +names, but by no means eaten bodily.</p> + +<p>But you mistake me, dearest friend, about the 'Blackwood' +verses. I never thought of writing <i>applicative poems</i>—the +heavens forfend! Only that just <i>then</i>, [in] the midst of +all the talk, <i>any</i> verses of mine should come into print—and +some of them to that <i>particular effect</i>—looked unlucky. +I dare say poor papa (for instance) thought me turned +suddenly to brass itself. Well, it is perhaps more my +fancy than anything else, and was only an impression, even +there. Mr. Chorley will tell you of a play of his, which I +hope will make its way, though I do wonder how people can +bear to write for the theatres in the present state of things. +Robert is busy preparing a new edition of his collected +poems which are to be so clear that everyone who has +understood them hitherto will lose all distinction. We +both mean to be as little idle as possible.... We shall +meet one day in joy, I do hope, and then you will love my +husband for his own sake, as for mine you do not hate him +now.</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +[Pisa:] December 21 [1846].<br /> + +<p>You must let me tell you, my dearest Mr. Boyd, that I +dreamed of you last night, and that you were looking very +well in my dream, and that you told me to break a crust +from a loaf of bread which lay by you on the table; which I +accept on recollection as a sacramental sign between us, of +peace and affection. Wasn't it strange that I should dream +so of you? Yet no; thinking awake of you, the sleeping +thoughts come naturally. Believe of me this Christmas +time, as indeed at every time, that I do not forget you, and +that all the distance and change of country can make no +difference. Understand, too (for <i>that</i> will give pleasure to +your goodness), that I am very happy, and not unwell, +though it is almost Christmas....</p> + +<p>Dearest friend, are you well and in good spirits? Think +of me over the Cyprus, between the cup and the lip, though +bad things are said to fall out so. We have, instead of +Cyprus, <i>Montepulciano</i>, the famous 'King of Wine,' crowned +king, you remember, by the grace of a poet! Your Cyprus, +however, keeps supremacy over me, and will not abdicate +the divine right of being associated with you. I speak of +wine, but we live here the most secluded, quiet life possible—reading +and writing, and talking of all things in heaven and +earth, and a little besides; and sometimes even laughing as +if we had twenty people to laugh with us, or rather <i>hadn't</i>. +We know not a creature, I am happy to say, except an +Italian professor (of the university here) who called on us +the other evening and praised aloud the scholars of England. +'English Latin was best,' he said, 'and English Greek +foremost.' Do you clap your hands?</p> + +<p>The new pope is more liberal than popes in general, and +people write odes to him in consequence.</p> + +<p>Robert is going to bring out a new edition of his collected +poems, and you are not to read any more, if you please, till +this is done. I heard of Carlyle's saying the other day +'that he hoped more from Robert Browning, for the +people of England, than from any living English writer,' +which pleased me, of course. I am just sending off an anti-slavery +poem for America,<a name="FNanchor_155_155"></a><a href="#Footnote_155_155"><sup>[155]</sup></a> too ferocious, perhaps, for the +Americans to publish: but they asked for a poem and shall +have it.</p> + +<p>If I ask for a letter, shall I have it, I wonder? +Remember me and love me a little, and pray for me, +dearest friend, and believe how gratefully and ever affectionately</p> + +<p>I am your</p> + +<p>ELIBET,</p> + +<p>Though Robert always calls me <i>Ba</i>, and thinks it the +prettiest name in the world! which is a proof, you will say, +not only of blind love but of deaf love.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>It was during the stay at Pisa, and early in the year +1847, that Mr. Browning first became acquainted with his +wife's 'Sonnets from the Portuguese.' Written during the +course of their courtship and engagement, they were not +shown even to him until some months after their marriage. +The story of it was told by Mr. Browning in later life to +Mr. Edmund Gosse, with leave to make it known to the +world in general; and from Mr. Gosse's publication it is +here quoted in his own words.<a name="FNanchor_156_156"></a><a href="#Footnote_156_156"><sup>[156]</sup></a></p> + +<p>'Their custom was, Mr. Browning said, to write alone, +and not to show each other what they had written. This +was a rule which he sometimes broke through, but she +never. He had the habit of working in a downstairs room, +where their meals were spread, while Mrs. Browning studied +in a room on the floor above. One day, early in 1847, their +breakfast being over, Mrs. Browning went upstairs, while +her husband stood at the window watching the street till +the table should be cleared. He was presently aware of +some one behind him, although the servant was gone. It +was Mrs. Browning, who held him by the shoulder to prevent +his turning to look at her, and at the same time pushed +a packet of papers into the pocket of his coat. She told +him to read that, and to tear it up if he did not like it; and +then she fled again to her own room.'</p> + +<p>The sonnets were intended for her husband's eye alone; +in the first instance, not even for his. No poems can ever +have been composed with less thought of the public; +perhaps for that very reason they are unmatched for simplicity +and sincerity in all Mrs. Browning's work. Her +genius in them has full mastery over its material, as it has +in few of her other poems. All impurities of style or +rhythm are purged away by the fire of love; and they stand, +not only highest among the writings of their authoress, but +also in the very forefront of English love-poems. With the +single exception of Rossetti, no modern English poet has +written of love with such genius, such beauty, and such +sincerity, as the two who gave the most beautiful example of +it in their own lives.</p> + +<p>Fortunately for all those who love true poetry, Mr. +Browning judged rightly of the obligation laid upon him by +the possession of these poems. 'I dared not,' he said, +'reserve to myself the finest sonnets written in any language +since Shakespeare's.' Accordingly he persuaded his wife +to commit the printing of them to her friend, Miss Mitford; +and in the course of the year they appeared in a slender +volume, entitled 'Sonnets, by E.B.B.,' with the imprint +'Reading, 1847,' and marked 'Not for publication.' It was +not until three years later that they were offered to the +general public, in the volumes of 1850. Here first they +appeared under the title of 'Sonnets from the Portuguese'—a +title suggested by Mr. Browning (in preference to his +wife's proposal, 'Sonnets translated from the Bosnian') for +the sake of its half-allusion to her other poem, 'Catarina to +Camoens,' which was one of his chief favourites among her +works.</p> + +<p>To these sonnets there is, however, no allusion in the +letters here published, which say little for some time of her +own work.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +February 8, 1847.<br /> + +<p>But, my dearest Miss Mitford, your scheme about +Leghorn is drawn out in the clouds. Now just see how +impossible. Leghorn is fifteen miles off, and though there +is a railroad there is no liberty for French books to wander +backwards and forwards without inspection and seizure. +Why, do remember that we are in Italy after all! Nevertheless, +I will tell you what we have done: transplanted our +subscription from the Italian library, which was wearing us +away into a misanthropy, or at least despair of the wits of +all Southerns, into a library which has a tolerable supply of +French books, and gives us the privilege besides of having +a French newspaper, the 'Siècle,' left with us every evening. +Also, this library admits (is allowed to admit on certain +conditions) some books forbidden generally by the censureship, +which is of the strictest; and though Balzac appears +very imperfectly, I am delighted to find him at all, and +shall dun the bookseller for the 'Instruction criminelle,' +which I hope discharges your Lucien as a 'forçat'—neither +man nor woman—and true poet, least of all....</p> + +<p>The 'Siècle' has for a <i>feuilleton</i> a new romance of +Soulié's, called 'Saturnin Fichet,' which is really not good, +and tiresome to boot. Robert and I began by each of us +reading it, but after a little while he left me alone, being +certain that no good could come of such a work. So, of +course, ever since, I have been exclaiming and exclaiming +as to the wonderful improvement and increasing beauty and +glory of it, just to justify myself, and to make him sorry for +not having persevered! The truth is, however, that but for +obstinacy I should give up too. Deplorably dull the story +is, and there is a crowd of people each more indifferent than +each, to you; the pith of the plot being (very characteristically) +that the hero has somebody exactly like him. To +the reader, it's <i>all one</i> in every sense—who's who, and what's +what. Robert is a warm admirer of Balzac and has read +most of his books, but certainly—oh certainly—he does not +in a general way appreciate our French people quite with +our warmth; he takes too high a standard, I tell him, and +won't listen to a story for a story's sake. I can bear to be +amused, you know without a strong pull on my admiration. +So we have great wars sometimes, and I put up Dumas' +flag, or Soulié's, or Eugène Sue's (yet he was properly +possessed by the 'Mystères de Paris') and carry it till my +arms ache. The plays and vaudevilles he knows far more +of than I do, and always maintains they are the happiest +growth of the French school—setting aside the <i>masters</i>, +observe—for Balzac and George Sand hold all their honours; +and, before your letter came, he had told me about the +'Kean' and the other dramas. Then we read together the +other day the 'Rouge et Noir,' that powerful book of +Stendhal's (Beyle), and he thought it very striking, and +observed—what I had thought from the first and again and +again—that it was exactly like Balzac <i>in the raw</i>, in the +material and undeveloped conception. What a book it is +really, and so full of pain and bitterness, and the gall of +iniquity! The new Dumas I shall see in time, perhaps, +and it is curious that Robert had just been telling me the +very story you speak of in your letter, from the 'Causes +Célèbres.' I never read it—the more shame! Dearest +friend, all this talk of French books and no talk about <i>you</i>—the +<i>most</i> shame! You don't tell me enough of yourself, +and I want to hear, because (besides the usual course of +reasons) Mr. Chorley spoke of you as if you were not as +cheerful as usual; do tell me. Ah! if you fancy that I +do not love you as near, through being so far, you are unjust +to me as you never were before. For myself, the brightness +round me has had a cloud on it lately by an illness of poor +Wilson's.... She would not go to Dr. Cook till I was +terrified one night, while she was undressing me, by her +sinking down on the sofa in a shivering fit. Oh, so +frightened I was, and Robert ran out for a physician; and +I could have shivered too, with the fright. But she is +convalescent now, thank God! and in the meanwhile I have +acquired a heap of practical philosophy, and have learnt +how it is possible (in certain conditions of the human +frame) to comb out and twist up one's own hair, and lace +one's very own stays, and cause hooks and eyes to meet +behind one's very own back, besides making toast and water +for Wilson—which last miracle, it is only just to say, was +considerably assisted by Robert's counsels 'not quite to set +fire to the bread' while one was toasting it. He was the +best and kindest all that time, as even <i>he</i> could be, and +carried the kettle when it was too heavy for me, and helped +me with heart and head. Mr. Chorley could not have +praised him too much, be very sure. I, who always +rather appreciated him, do set down the thoughts I had +as merely unjust things; he exceeds them all, indeed. Yes, +Mr. Chorley has been very kind to us. I had a kind note +myself from him a few days since, and do you know that +we have a sort of hope of seeing him in Italy this year, with +dearest Mr. Kenyon, who has the goodness to crown his +goodness by a 'dream' of coming to see us? We leave +Pisa in April (did I tell you that?) and pass through Florence +towards the north of Italy—to <i>Venice</i>, for instance. In the +way of writing, I have not done much yet—just finished my +rough sketch of an anti-slavery ballad and sent it off to +America, where nobody will print it, I am certain, because +I could not help making it bitter. If they <i>do</i> print it, I +shall thank them more boldly in earnest than I fancy now. +Tell me of Mary Howitt's new collection of ballads—are +they good? I warmly wish that Mr. Chorley may succeed +with his play; but how can Miss Cushman promise a +hundred nights for an untried work?... Perhaps you may +find the two last numbers of the 'Bells and Pomegranates' +less obscure—it seems so to me. Flush has grown an absolute +monarch and barks one distracted when he wants a door +opened. Robert spoils him, I think. Do think of me as +your ever affectionate and grateful</p> + +<p>BA.</p> + +<p>Have you seen 'Agnes de Misanie,' the new play by +the author of 'Lucretia'? A witty feuilletoniste says of it +that, besides all the unities of Aristotle, it comprises, from beginning +to end, <i>unity of situation</i>. Not bad, is it? Madame +Ancelot has just succeeded with a comedy, called 'Une +Année à Paris.' By the way, <i>shall you go to Paris this spring</i>?<a name="FNanchor_157_157"></a><a href="#Footnote_157_157"><sup>[157]</sup></a></p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>From Mr. Browning's family, though she had as yet had no +opportunity of making acquaintance with them face to face, +Mrs. Browning from the first met with an affectionate +reception. The following is the first now extant of a series +of letters written by her to Miss Browning, the poet's +sister. The abrupt and private nature of the marriage +never seems to have caused the slightest coldness of feeling +in this quarter, though it must have caused anxiety; and the +tone of the early letters, in which so new and unfamiliar a +relation had to be taken up, does equal honour to the +writer and to the recipient.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Browning</i><br /> +[Pisa: about February 1847.]<br /> + +<p>I must begin by thanking dearest Sarianna again for her +note, and by assuring her that the affectionate tone of it +quite made me happy and grateful together—that I am grateful +to <i>all of you</i>: do <i>feel</i> that I am. For the rest, when +I see (afar off) Robert's minute manuscripts, a certain distrust +steals over me of anything I can possibly tell you of +our way of living, lest it should be the vainest of repetitions, +and by no means worth repeating, both at once. Such a +quiet silent life it is—going to hear the Friar preach in the +Duomo, a grand event in it, and the wind laying flat all our +schemes about Volterra and Lucca! I have had to give up +even the Friar for these three days past; there is nothing for +me when I have driven out Robert to take his necessary walk +but to sit and watch the pinewood blaze. He is grieved +about the illness of his cousin, only I do hope that your next +letter will confirm the happy change which stops the further +anxiety, and come soon for that purpose, besides others. +Your letters never can come too often, remember, even when +they have not to speak of illness, and I for my part must +always have a thankful interest in your cousin for the kind +part he took in the happiest event of my life. You have to +tell us too of your dear mother—Robert is so anxious about +her always. How deeply and tenderly he loves her and all +of you, never could have been more manifest than now when +he is away from you and has to talk <i>of</i> you instead of +<i>to</i> you. By the way (or rather out of the way) I quite +took your view of the purposed ingratitude to poor Miss +Haworth<a name="FNanchor_158_158"></a><a href="#Footnote_158_158"><sup>[158]</sup></a>—it would have been worse in him than the sins of +'Examiner' and 'Athenaeum.' If authors won't feel for one another, +there's an end of the world of writing! Oh, I think he proposed +it in a moment of hardheartedness—we all put on tortoiseshell +now and then, and presently come out into the sun as +sensitively as ever. Besides Miss Haworth has written to us +very kindly; and kindness doesn't spring up everywhere, +like the violets in your gravel walks. See how I understand +Hatcham. Do try to love me a little, dearest Sarianna, and +(with my grateful love always to your father and mother) let +me be your affectionate sister,</p> + +<p>ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING,<br /> +or rather BA.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>The correspondence with Mr. Westwood, which had +lapsed for a considerable time, was resumed with the +following letter:</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +Collegio Ferdinando, Pisa: March 10, 1847.<br /> + +<p>If really, my dear Mr. Westwood, it was an 'ill temper' +in you, causing the brief note, it was a most flattering ill +temper, and I thank you just as I have had reason to do +for the good nature which has caused you to bear with me +so often and so long. You have been misled on some +points. I did not go to Italy last year, or rather the year +before last! I was disappointed and forced to stay in +Wimpole Street after all; but the winter being so mild, so +miraculously mild for England you may remember, I was +spared my winter relapse and left liberty for new plans such +as I never used to think were in my destiny! Such a change +it is to me, such a strange happiness and freedom, and you +must not in your kindness wish me back again, but rather +be contented, like a friend as you are, to hear that I am +very happy and very well, and still doubtful whether all the +brightness can be meant for <i>me</i>! It is just as if the sun +rose again at 7 o'clock P.M. The strangeness seems so +great....</p> + +<p>I am now very well, and so happy as not to think much +of it, except for the sake of another. And do you fancy +how I feel, carried; into the visions of nature from my +gloomy room. Even now I walk as in a dream. We +made a pilgrimage from Avignon to Vaucluse in right +poetical duty, and I and my husband sate upon two stones +in the midst of the fountain which in its dark prison of +rocks flashes and roars and testifies to the memory of +Petrarch. It was louder and fuller than usual when we +were there, on account of the rains; and Flush, though by +no means born to be a hero, considered my position so +outrageous that he dashed through the water to me, +splashing me all over, so he is baptised in Petrarch's name. +The scenery is full of grandeur, the rocks sheathe themselves +into the sky, and nothing grows there except a little cypress +here and there, and a straggling olive tree; and the fountain +works out its soul in its stony prison, and runs away in a +green rapid stream. Such a striking sight it is. I sate +upon deck, too, in our passage from Marseilles to Genoa, +and had a vision of mountains, six or seven deep, one +behind another. As to Pisa, call it a beautiful town, you +cannot do less with Arno and its palaces, and above all the +wonderful Duomo and Campo Santo, and Leaning Tower +and Baptistery, all of which are a stone's throw from our +windows. We have rooms in a great college-house built +by Vasari, and fallen into desuetude from collegiate +purposes; and here we live the quietest and most <i>tête-à-tête</i> +of lives, knowing nobody, hearing nothing, and for nearly +three months together never catching a glimpse of a paper. +Oh, how wrong you were about the 'Times'! Now, however, +we subscribe to a French and Italian library, and have +a French newspaper every evening, the 'Siècle,' and so look +through a loophole at the world. Yet, not too proud are +we, even now, for all the news you will please to send us in +charity: 'da obolum Belisario!'</p> + +<p>What do you mean about poor Tennyson? I heard of +him last on his return from a visit to the Swiss mountains, +which 'disappointed him,' he was <i>said to say</i>. Very wrong, +either of mountains or poet!</p> + +<p>Tell me if you make acquaintance with Mrs. Hewitt's +new ballads.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jameson is engaged in a work on art which will be +very interesting....</p> + +<p>Flush's love to your Flopsy. Flush has grown very +overbearing in this Italy, I think because my husband +spoils him (if not for the glory at Vaucluse); Robert +declares that the said Flush considers him, my husband, to +be created for the especial purpose of doing him service, and +really it looks rather like it.</p> + +<p>Never do I see the 'Athenaeum' now, but before I left +England some pure gushes between the rocks reminded +me of you. Tell me all you can; it will all be like rain +upon dry ground. My husband bids me offer his regards +to you—if you will accept them; and that you may do it +ask your heart. I will assure you (aside) that his poetry is as +the prose of his nature: he himself is so much better and +higher than his own works.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<p>In the middle of April the Brownings left Pisa and +journeyed to Florence, arriving there on April 20. There, +however, the programme was arrested, and, save for an +abortive excursion to Vallombrosa, whence they were +repulsed by the misogynist principles of the monks, they +continued to reside in Florence for the remainder of the +year. Their first abode was in the Via delle Belle Donne; +but after the return from Vallombrosa, in August, they +moved across the river, and took furnished rooms in the +Palazzo Guidi, the building which, under the name of +'Casa Guidi,' is for ever associated with their memory.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Florence: April 24, 1847.<br /> + +<p>I received your letter, my dearest friend, by this day's +post, and wrote a little note directly to the office as a trap +for the feet of your travellers. If they escape us after all, +therefore, they may praise their stars for it rather than my +intentions—<i>our</i> intentions, I should say, for Robert will +gladly do everything he can in the way of expounding a +text or two of the glories of Florence, and we both shall be +much pleased and cordially pleased to learn more of Fanny +and her brother than the glance at Pisa could teach us. As +for me, she will let me have a little talking for my share: I +can't walk about or see anything. I lie here flat on the sofa +in order to be wise; I rest and take port wine by wineglasses; +and a few more days of it will prepare me, I hope +and trust, for an interview with the Venus de' Medici. +Think of my having been in Florence since Tuesday, this +being Saturday, and not a step taken into the galleries. It +seems a disgrace, a sort of involuntary disgraceful act, or +rather no-act, which to complain of relieves one to some +degree. And how kind of you to wish to hear from me of +myself! There is nothing really much the matter with me; +I am just <i>weak</i>, sleeping and eating dreadfully well considering +that Florence isn't seen yet, and 'looking well,' too, +says Mrs. Jameson, who, with her niece, is our guest just +now. It would have been wise if I had rested longer at +Pisa, but, you see, there was a long engagement to meet +Mrs. Jameson here, and she expressed a very kind +unwillingness to leave Italy without keeping it: also she had +resolved to come out of her way on purpose for this, and, as +I had the consent of my physician, we determined to perform +our part of the compact; and in order to prepare for +the longer journey I went out in the carriage a little too +soon, perhaps, and a little too long. At least, if I had kept +quite still I should have been strong by this time—not that +I have done myself harm in the serious sense, observe—and +now the affair is accomplished, I shall be wonderfully discreet +and self-denying, and resist Venuses and Apollos like +some one wiser than the gods themselves. My chest is very +well; there has been no symptom of evil in that quarter.... +We took the whole coupé of the diligence—but regretted +our first plan of the <i>vettura</i> nevertheless—and now are +settled in very comfortable rooms in the 'Via delle Belle +Donne' just out of the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, very +superior rooms to our apartment in Pisa, in which we were +cheated to the uttermost with all the subtlety of Italy and +to the full extent of our ignorance; think what <i>that</i> must +have been! Our present apartment, with the hire of a grand +piano and music, does not cost us so much within ever so +many francisconi. Oh, and you don't frighten me though +we are on the north side of the Arno! We have taken our +rooms for two months, and may be here longer, and the +fear of the heat was stronger with me than the fear of the cold, +or we might have been in the Pitti and 'arrostiti' by this time. +We expected dear Mrs. Jameson on Saturday, but she came +on Friday evening, having suddenly remembered that it was +Shakespeare's birthday, and bringing with her from Arezzo +a bottle of wine to 'drink to his memory with two other +poets,' so there was a great deal of merriment, as you may +fancy, and Robert played Shakespeare's favorite air, 'The +Light of Love,' and everybody was delighted to meet +everybody, and Roman news and Pisan dullness were +properly discussed on every side. She saw a good deal of +Cobden in Rome, and went with him to the Sistine Chapel. +He has no feeling for art, and, being very true and earnest, +could only do his best to <i>try</i> to admire Michael Angelo; +but here and there, where he understood, the pleasure was +expressed with a blunt characteristic simplicity. Standing +before the statue of Demosthenes, he said: 'That man is +persuaded himself of what he speaks, and will therefore +persuade others.' She liked him exceedingly. For my part, +I should join in more admiration if it were not for his having +<i>accepted money</i>, but paid patriots are no heroes of mine. +'Verily they have their reward.' O'Connell had arrived in +Rome, and it was considered that he came only to die. +Among the artists, Gibson and Wyatt were doing great +things; she wishes us to know Gibson particularly. As to +the Pope he lives in an atmosphere of love and admiration, +and 'he is doing <i>what he can</i>,' Mrs. Jameson believes. +Robert says: 'A dreadful situation, after all, for a man of +understanding and honesty! I pity him from my soul, for +he can, at best, only temporise with truth.' But human +nature is doomed to pay a high price for its opportunities. +Delighted I am to have your good account of dear Mr. +Martin, though you are naughty people to persist in going +to England so soon. Do write to me and tell me all about +both of you. I will do what I can—like the Pope—but +what can I do? Yes, indeed, I mean to enjoy art and +nature too; one shall not exclude the other. This +Florence seems divine as we pass the bridges, and my +husband, who knows everything, is to teach and show me +all the great wonders, so that I am reasonably impatient +to try my advantages. His kind regards to you both, and +my best love, dearest friends....</p> + +<p>Your very affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Jameson</i><br /> +Florence: May 12, [1847].<br /> + +<p>I was afraid, we both were afraid for you, dearest +friend, when we saw the clouds gather and heard the rain +fall as it did that day at Florence. It seemed impossible +that you should be beyond the evil influence, should you +have travelled ever so fast; but, after all, a storm in the +Apennines, like many a moral storm, will be better perhaps +than a calm to look back upon. We talked of you and +thought of you, and missed you at coffee time, and +regretted that so pleasant a week (for us) should have gone +so fast, as fast as a dull week, or, rather, a good deal faster. +Dearest friend, do believe that we <i>felt</i> your goodness in +Coming to us—in making us an object—before you left +Italy; it fills up the measure of goodness and kindness for +which we shall thank and love you all our lives. Never +fancy that we can forget you or be less touched by the +memory of what you have been to us in affection and +sympathy—never. And don't <i>you</i> lose sight of <i>us</i>; do +write often, and do, <i>do</i> make haste and come back to Italy, +and then make use of us in any and every possible way as +house-takers or house-mates, for we are ready to accept the +lowest place or the highest. The week you gave us would +be altogether bright and glad if it had not been for the +depression and anxiety on your part. May God turn it +all to gain and satisfaction in some unlooked-for way. To +be a <i>road-maker</i> is weary work, even across the Apennines +of life. We have not science enough for it if we have +strength, which we haven't either. Do you remember how +Sindbad shut his eyes and let himself be carried over the +hills by an eagle? <i>That</i> was better than to set about +breaking stones. Also what you could do you have done; +you have finished your part, and the sense of a fulfilled +duty is in itself satisfying—is and must be. My sympathies +go with you entirely, while I wish your dear Gerardine to +be happy; I wish it from my heart.... Just after you +left us arrived our box with the precious deeds, which are +thrown into the cabinet for want of witnesses. And then +Robert has had a letter from Mr. Forster with the date of +<i>Shakespeare's birthday</i>, and overflowing with kindness really +both to himself and me. It quite touched me, that letter. +Also we have had a visitation from an American, but on the +point of leaving Florence and very tame and inoffensive, and +we bore it very well considering. He sent us a new literary +periodical of the old world, in which, among other interesting +matter, I had the pleasure of reading an account of my +own 'blindness,' taken from a French paper (the 'Presse'), +and mentioned with humane regret. Well! and what more +news is there to tell you? I have been out once, only +once, and only for an inglorious glorious drive round the +Piazza Gran Duca, past the Duomo, outside the walls, and +in again at the Cascine. It was like the trail of a vision in +the evening sun. I saw the Perseus in a sort of flash. +The Duomo is more after the likeness of a Duomo than +Pisa can show; I like those masses in ecclesiastical +architecture. Now we are plotting how to, engage a +carriage for a month's service without ruining ourselves, for +we <i>must</i> see, and I <i>can't</i> walk and see, though much +stronger than when we parted, and looking much better, as +Robert and the looking glass both do testify. I have +seemed at last 'to leap to a conclusion' of convalescence. +But the heat—oh, so hot it is. If it is half as hot with you, +you must be calling on the name of St. Lawrence by this +time, and require no 'turning.' I should not like to travel +under such a sun. It would be too like playing at snapdragon. +Yes, 'brightly happy.' Women generally <i>lose</i> by +marriage, but I have gained the world by mine. If it were +not for some griefs, which are and must be griefs, I should +be too happy perhaps, which is good for nobody. May +God bless you, my dear, dearest friend! Robert must be +content with sending his love to-day, and shall write +another day. We both love you every day. My love and +a kiss to dearest Gerardine, who is to remember to write +to me.</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To H.S. Boyd</i><br /> +Florence: May 26, 1847.<br /> + +<p>I should have answered your letter, my dearest friend, +more quickly, but when it came I was ill, as you may have +heard, and afterwards I wished to wait until I could send +you information about the Leaning Tower and the bells<a name="FNanchor_159_159"></a><a href="#Footnote_159_159"><sup>[159]</sup></a>. +The book you required, about the cathedral, Robert has +tried in vain to procure for you. Plenty of such books, +but <i>not in English</i>. In London such things are to be +found, I should think, without difficulty, for instance, +'Murray's Handbook to Northern Italy,' though rather +dear (12<i>s.</i>), would give you sufficiently full information +upon the ecclesiastical glories both of Pisa and of this +beautiful Florence, from whence I write to you.... I +will answer for the harmony of the bells, as we lived within +a stone's throw of them, and they began at four o'clock +every morning and rang my dreams apart. The Pasquareccia +(the fourth) especially has a profound note in it, +which may well have thrilled horror to the criminal's heart.<a name="FNanchor_160_160"></a><a href="#Footnote_160_160"><sup>[160]</sup></a> +It was ghastly in its effects; dropped into the deep of +night like a thought of death. Often have I said, 'Oh, +how ghastly!' and then turned on my pillow and dreamed a +bad dream. But if the bell founders at Pisa have a merited +reputation, let no one say as much for the bellringers. +The manner in which all the bells of all the churches in +the city are shaken together sometimes would certainly +make you groan in despair of your ears. The discord is +fortunately indescribable. Well—but here we are at +Florence, the most beautiful of the cities devised by +man....</p> + +<p>In the meanwhile I have seen the Venus, I have seen +the divine Raphaels. I have stood by Michael Angelo's +tomb in Santa Croce. I have looked at the wonderful +Duomo. This cathedral! After all, the elaborate grace of +the Pisan cathedral is one thing, and the massive grandeur +of this of Florence is another and better thing; it struck +me with a sense of the sublime in architecture. At Pisa +we say, 'How beautiful!' here we say nothing; it is enough +if we can breathe. The mountainous marble masses overcome +as we look up—we feel the weight of them on the +soul. Tesselated marbles (the green treading its elaborate +pattern into the dim yellow, which seems the general hue of +the structure) climb against the sky, self-crowned with that +prodigy of marble domes. It struck me as a wonder in +architecture. I had neither seen nor imagined the like of +it in any way. It seemed to carry its theology out with it; +it signified more than a mere building. Tell me everything +you want to know. I shall like to answer a thousand +questions. Florence is beautiful, as I have said before, and +must say again and again, most beautiful. The river rushes +through the midst of its palaces like a crystal arrow, and it +is hard to tell, when you see all by the clear sunset, +whether those churches, and houses, and windows, and +bridges, and people walking, in the water or out of the +water, are the real walls, and windows, and bridges, and +people, and churches. The only difference is that, down +below, there is a double movement; the movement of the +stream besides the movement of life. For the rest, the +distinctness of the eye is as great in one as in the +other.... Remember me to such of my friends as +remember me kindly when unreminded by me. I am very +happy—happier and happier.</p> + +<p>ELIBET.</p> + +<p>Robert's best regards to you always.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Jameson</i><br /> +Palazzo Guidi, Via Maggio, Florence:<br /> +August 7, 1847 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>You will be surprised perhaps, and perhaps not, dearest +friend, to find that we are still at Florence. Florence 'holds +us with a glittering eye;' there's a charm cast round us, and +we can't get away. In the first place, your news of Recoaro +came so late that, as you said yourself, we ought to have +been there before your letter reached us. Nobody would +encourage us to go north on any grounds, indeed, and if +anybody speaks a word now in favour of Venice, straight +comes somebody else speaking the direct contrary. Altogether, +we took to making a plan of our own—a great, wild, +delightful plan of plunging into the mountains and spending +two or three months at the monastery of Vallombrosa, +until the heat was passed, and dear Mr. Kenyon decided, +and we could either settle for the winter at Florence or +pass on to Rome. Could anything look more delightful than +that? Well, we got a letter of recommendation to the abbot, +and left our apartment, Via delle Belle Donne, a week +before our three months were done, thoroughly burned +out by the sun; set out at four in the morning, reached +Pelago, and from thence travelled five miles along a 'via +non rotabile' through the most romantic scenery. Oh, +such mountains!—as if the whole world were alive with +mountains—such ravines—black in spite of flashing waters +in them—such woods and rocks—travelled in basket +sledges drawn by four white oxen—Wilson and I and the +luggage—and Robert riding step by step. We were four +hours doing the five miles, so you may fancy what rough +work it was. Whether I was most tired or charmed was a +<i>tug</i> between body and soul. The worst was that, there +being a new abbot at the monastery—an austere man +jealous of his sanctity and the approach of women—our +letter, and Robert's eloquence to boot, did nothing for us, +and we were ingloriously and ignominiously expelled at the +end of five days. For three days we were welcome; for two +more we kept our ground; but after <i>that</i>, out we were +thrust, with baggage and expectations. Nothing could be +much more provoking. And yet we came back very +merrily for disappointed people to Florence, getting up at +three in the morning, and rolling or sliding (as it might +happen) down the precipitous path, and seeing round us a +morning glory of mountains, clouds, and rising sun, such as +we never can forget—back to Florence and our old lodgings, +and an eatable breakfast of coffee and bread, and a confession +one to another that if we had won the day instead +of losing it, and spent our summer with the monks, we +should have grown considerably <i>thinner</i> by the victory. +They make their bread, I rather imagine, with the sawdust +of their fir trees, and, except oil and wine—yes, and plenty +of beef (of <i>fleisch</i>, as your Germans say, of all kinds, +indeed), which isn't precisely the fare to suit us—we were +thrown for nourishment on the great sights around. Oh, +but so beautiful were mountains and forests and waterfalls +that I could have kept my ground happily for the two +months—even though the only book I saw there was the +chronicle of their San Gualberto. Is he not among your +saints? Being routed fairly, and having breakfasted fully +at our old apartment, Robert went out to find cool rooms, if +possible, and make the best of our position, and now we are +settled magnificently in this Palazzo Guidi on a first floor +in an apartment which <i>looks</i> quite beyond our means, and +<i>would be</i> except in the dead part of the season—a suite of +spacious rooms opening on a little terrace and furnished +elegantly—rather to suit our predecessor the Russian prince +than ourselves—but cool and in a delightful situation, six +paces from the Piazza Pitti, and with right of daily +admission to the Boboli gardens. We pay what we paid +in the Via Belle Donne. Isn't this prosperous? You +would be surprised to see <i>me</i>, I think, I am so very well +(and look so)—dispensed from being carried upstairs, and +inclined to take a run, for a walk, every now and then. I +scarcely recognise myself or my ways, or my own spirits, all +is so different....</p> + +<p>We have made the acquaintance of Mr. Powers,<a name="FNanchor_161_161"></a><a href="#Footnote_161_161"><sup>[161]</sup></a> who is +delightful—of a most charming simplicity, with those great +burning eyes of his. Tell me what you think of his boy +listening to the shell. Oh, your Raphaels! how divine! +And M. Angelo's sculptures! His pictures I leap up to +in vain, and fall back regularly. Write of your book and +yourself, and write soon; and let me be, as always, your +affectionate BA.</p> + +<p>We are here for two months certain, and perhaps longer. +Do write.</p> + +<p>Dear Aunt Nina,—Ba has said something for me, I +hope. In any case, my love goes with hers, I trust you +are well and happy, as we are, and as we would make you +if we could. Love to Geddie. Ever yours, [R.B.]</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Florence: August 7, 1847.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—How I have been longing to +get this letter, which comes at last, and justifies the longing +by the pleasure it gives!... How kind, how affectionate +you are to me, and how strong your claim is that I should +thrust on you, in defiance of good taste and conventions, +every evidence and assurance of my happiness, so as to +justify your <i>faith</i> to yourselves and others. Indeed, indeed, +dearest Mrs. Martin, you may 'exult' for me—and this +though it should all end here and now. The uncertainties +of life and death seem nothing to me. A year (nearly) is +saved from the darkness, and if that one year has compensated +for those that preceded it—which it has, abundantly—why, +let it for those that shall follow, if it so please God. +Come what may, I feel as if I never could have a right to +murmur. I have been happy enough. Brought about too +it was, indeed, by a sort of miracle which to this moment, +when I look back, bewilders me to think of; and if you +knew the details, counted the little steps, and could; +compare my moral position three years and a half ago with +<i>this</i>, you would come to despise San Gualberto's miraculous +tree at Vallombrosa, which, being dead, gave out green leaves +in recognition of his approach, as testified by the inscription—do +you remember? But you can't stop to-day to read mine, +so rather I shall tell you of our exploit in the mountains. +Only one thing I must say first, one thing which you must +forgive me for the vanity of resolving to say at last, having had +it in my head very often. There's a detestable engraving, +which, if you have the ill luck to see (and you <i>may</i>, because, +horrible to relate, it is in the shop windows), will you have the +kindness, for my sake, not to fancy <i>like Robert</i>?—it being, as +he says himself, the very image of '<i>a young man at Waterloo +House</i>, in a moment of inspiration—"A lovely blue, +ma'am."' It is as like Robert as Flush. And now I am +going to tell you of Vallombrosa. You heard how we +meant to stay two months there, and you are to imagine +how we got up at three in the morning to escape the heat +(imagine me!)—and with all our possessions and a 'dozen +of port' (which my husband doses me with twice a day +because once it was necessary) proceeded to Pelago by +vettura, and from thence in two sledges, drawn each by +two white bullocks up to the top of the holy mountain. +(Robert was on horseback.) Precisely it must be as you +left it. Who can make a road up a house? We were four +hours going five miles, and I with all my goodwill was +dreadfully tired, and scarcely in appetite for the beef and +oil with which we were entertained at the House of +Strangers. We are simple people about diet, and had said +over and over that we would live on eggs and milk and +bread and butter during these two months. We might +as well have said that we would live on manna from +heaven. The things we had fixed on were just the impossible +things. Oh, that bread, with the fetid smell, which stuck +in the throat like Macbeth's amen! I am not surprised, +you recollect it! The hens had 'got them to a nunnery,' +and objected to lay eggs, and the milk and the holy water +stood confounded. But of course we spread the tablecloth, +just as you did, over all drawbacks of the sort; and +the beef and oil, as I said, and the wine too, were liberal +and excellent, and we made our gratitude apparent in +Robert's best Tuscan—in spite of which we were turned +out ignominiously at the end of five days, having been +permitted to overstay the usual three days by only two. No, +nothing could move the lord abbot. He is a new abbot, and; +given to sanctity, and has set his face against women. +'While he is abbot,' he said to our mediating monk, 'he +<i>will</i> be abbot. So he is abbot, and we had to come back to +Florence.' As I read in the 'Life of San Gualberto,' laid +on the table for the edification of strangers, the brothers +attain to sanctification, among other means, by cleaning +out pigsties with their bare hands, without spade or shovel; +but <i>that</i> is uncleanliness enough—they wouldn't touch the +little finger of a woman. Angry I was, I do assure you. +I should have liked to stay there, in spite of the bread. +We should have been only a little thinner at the end. And +the scenery—oh, how magnificent! How we enjoyed that +great, silent, ink-black pine wood! And do you remember +the sea of mountains to the left? How grand it is! We +were up at three in the morning again to return to Florence, +and the glory of that morning sun breaking the clouds to +pieces among the hills is something ineffaceable from my +remembrance. We came back ignominiously to our old +rooms, but found it impossible to stay on account of the +suffocating heat, yet we scarcely could go far from Florence, +because of Mr. Kenyon and our hope of seeing him here +(since lost). A perplexity ended by Robert's discovery of +our present apartments, on the Pitti side of the river (indeed, +close to the Grand Duke's palace), consisting of a suite of +spacious and delightful rooms, which come within our +means only from the deadness of the summer season, comparatively +quite cool, and with a terrace which I enjoy to +the uttermost through being able to walk there without a +bonnet, by just stepping out of the window. The church of +San Felice is opposite, so we haven't a neighbour to look +through the sunlight or moonlight and take observations. +Isn't that pleasant altogether? We ordered back the piano +and the book subscription, and settled for two months, and +forgave the Vallombrosa monks for the wrong they did us, +like secular Christians. What is to come after, I can't tell +you. But probably we shall creep slowly along toward +Rome, and spend some hot time of it at Perugia, which is +said to be cool enough. I think more of other things, +wishing that my dearest, kindest sisters had a present as +bright as mine—to think nothing at all of the future. +Dearest Henrietta's position has long made me uneasy, +and, since she frees me into confidence by her confidence to +you, I will tell you so. Most undesirable it is that this +should be continued, and yet where is there a door open +to escape?<a name="FNanchor_162_162"></a><a href="#Footnote_162_162"><sup>[162]</sup></a> ... My dear brothers have the illusion that +nobody should marry on less than two thousand a year. +Good heavens! how preposterous it does seem to me! +<i>We</i> scarcely spend three hundred, and I have every luxury, +I ever had, and which it would be so easy to give up, at +need; and Robert wouldn't sleep, I think, if an unpaid +bill dragged itself by any chance into another week. He +says that when people get into 'pecuniary difficulties,' his +'sympathies always go with the butchers and bakers.' So +we keep out of scrapes yet, you see....</p> + +<p>Your grateful and most affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>We have had the most delightful letter from Carlyle, +who has the goodness to say that not for years has a +marriage occurred in his private circle in which he so +heartily rejoiced as in ours. He is a personal friend of +Robert's, so that I have reason to be very proud and glad.</p> + +<p>Robert's best regards to you both always, and he is no +believer in magnetism (only <i>I</i> am). Do mention Mr. C. +Hanford's health. How strange that he should come to +witness my marriage settlement! Did you hear?</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: August 20, [1847],<br /> + +<p>I have received your letter at last, my ever dearest Miss +Mitford, not the missing letter, but the one which comes to +make up for it and to catch up my thoughts, which were +grumbling at high tide, I do assure you.... As you +observed last year (not without reason), these are the days +of marrying and giving in marriage. Mr. Horne<a name="FNanchor_163_163"></a><a href="#Footnote_163_163"><sup>[163]</sup></a>, you +see ... With all my heart I hope he may be very happy. +Men risk a good deal in marriage, though not as much as +women do; and on the other hand, the singleness of a man +when his youth is over is a sadder thing than the saddest +which an unmarried woman can suffer. Nearly all my +friends of both sexes have been draining off into marriage +these two years, scarcely one will be left in the sieve, and I +may end by saying that I have happiness enough for my +own share to be divided among them all and leave everyone, +contented. For me, I take it for pure magic, this life of +mine. Surely nobody was ever so happy before. I shall +wake some morning with my hair all dripping out of the +enchanted bucket, or if not we shall both claim the 'Flitch' +next September, if you can find one for us in the land of +Cockaigne, drying in expectancy of the revolution in +Tennyson's 'Commonwealth.' Well, I don't agree with +Mr. Harness in admiring the lady of 'Locksley Hall.' I +<i>must</i> either pity or despise a woman who could have married +Tennyson and chose a common man. If happy in her +choice, I despise her. That's matter of opinion, of course. +You may call it matter of foolishness when I add that I +personally would rather be teased a little and smoked over a +good deal by a man whom I could look up to and be proud of, +than have my feet kissed all day by a Mr. Smith in boots and +a waistcoat, and thereby chiefly distinguished. Neither I nor +another, perhaps, had quite a right to expect a combination +of qualities, such as meet, though, in my husband, who is as +faultless and pure in his private life as any Mr. Smith of +them all, who would not owe five shillings, who lives like a +woman in abstemiousness on a pennyworth of wine a day, +never touches a cigar even.... Do you hear, as we do, +from Mr. Forster, that his<a name="FNanchor_164_164"></a><a href="#Footnote_164_164"><sup>[164]</sup></a> new poem is his best work? As +soon as you read it, let me have your opinion. The subject +seems almost identical with one of Chaucer's. Is it not so? +We have spent here the most delightful of summers, +notwithstanding the heat, and I begin to comprehend the +possibility of St. Lawrence's ecstasies on the gridiron. +Very hot it certainly has been and is, yet there have been +cool intermissions; and as we have spacious and airy rooms, +and as Robert lets me sit all day in my white dressing gown +without a single masculine criticism, and as we can step out +of the window on a sort of balcony terrace which is quite +private and swims over with moonlight in the evenings, and +as we live upon water melons and iced water and figs and +all manner of fruit, we bear the heat with an angelic patience +and felicity which really are edifying. We tried to make the +monks of Vallombrosa let us stay with them for two months, +but their new abbot said or implied that Wilson and I stank in +his nostrils, being women, and San Gualberto, the establishes +of their order, had enjoined on them only the mortification +of cleaning out pigsties without fork or shovel. So here a +couple of women besides was (as Dickens's American said) +'a piling it up rayther too mountainious.' So we were sent +away at the end of five days. So provoking! Such scenery, +such hills, such a sea of hills looking alive among the clouds. +<i>Which</i> rolled, it was difficult to discern. Such pine woods, +supernaturally silent, with the ground black as ink, such +chestnut and beech forests hanging from the mountains, +such rocks and torrents, such chasms and ravines. There +were eagles there, too, [and] there was <i>no road</i>. Robert +went on horseback, and Flush, Wilson, and I were drawn +in a sledge (i.e. an old hamper, a basket wine hamper +without a wheel) by two white bullocks up the precipitous +mountains. Think of my travelling in that fashion in those +wild places at four o'clock in the morning, a little frightened, +dreadfully tired, but in an ecstasy of admiration above all! +It was a sight to see before one died and went away to +another world. Well, but being expelled ignominiously at +the end of five days, we had to come back to Florence, and +find a new apartment cooler than the old, and wait for dear +Mr. Kenyon. And dear Mr. Kenyon does not come (not this +autumn, but he may perhaps at the first dawn of spring), and +on September 20 we take up our knapsacks and turn our +faces towards Rome, I think, creeping slowly along, with a +pause at Arezzo, and a longer pause at Perugia, and another +perhaps at Terni. Then we plan to take an apartment we +have heard of, over the Tarpeian Rock, and enjoy Rome as +we have enjoyed Florence. More can scarcely be. This +Florence is unspeakably beautiful, by grace both of nature and +art, and the wheels of life slide on upon the grass (according +to continental ways) with little trouble and less expense. +Dinner, 'unordered,' comes through the streets and spreads +itself on our table, as hot as if we had smelt cutlets hours +before. The science of material life is understood here and +in France. Now tell me, what right has England to be the +dearest country in the world? But I love dearly dear +England, and we hope to spend many a green summer in +her yet. The winters you will excuse us, will you not? +People who are, like us, neither rich nor strong, claim +such excuses. I am wonderfully well, and far better and +stronger than before what you call the Pisan 'crisis.' +Robert declares that nobody would know me, I <i>look</i> so +much better. And you heard from dearest Henrietta. Ah, +both of my dearest sisters have been perfect to me. No +words can express my feelings towards their goodness. +Otherwise, I have good accounts from home of my father's +excellent health and spirits, which is better even than to hear +of his loving and missing me. I had a few kind lines yesterday +from Miss Martineau, who invites us from Florence to +Westmoreland. She wants to talk to me, she says, of 'her +beloved Jordan.' She is looking forward to a winter of +work by the lakes, and to a summer of gardening. The +kindest of letters Robert has had from Carlyle, who makes +us very happy by what he says of our marriage. Shakespeare's +favorite air of the 'Light of Love,' with the full +evidence of its being Shakespeare's favorite air, is given in +Charles Knight's edition. Seek for it there. Now do write +to me and at length, and tell me everything of yourself. +Flush hated Vallombrosa, and was frightened out of his +wits by the pine forests. Flush likes civilised life, and the +society of little dogs with turned-up tails, such as Florence +abounds with. Unhappily it abounds also with <i>fleas</i>, which +afflict poor Flush to the verge sometimes of despair. Fancy +Robert and me down on our knees combing him, with a +basin of water on one side! He suffers to such a degree +from fleas that I cannot bear to witness it. He tears off his +pretty curls through the irritation. Do you know of a +remedy? Direct to me, Poste Restante, Florence. Put <i>via</i> +France. Let me hear, do; and everything of yourself, +mind. Is Mrs. Partridge in better spirits? Do you read +any new French books? Dearest friend, let me offer you +my husband's cordial regards, with the love of your own +affectionate</p> + +<p>E.B.B., BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +Florence: September 1847.<br /> + +<p>Yes, indeed, my dear Mr. Westwood, I have seen +'friars.' We have been on a pilgrimage to Vallombrosa, +and while my husband rode up and down the precipitous +mountain paths, I and my maid and Flush were dragged in +a hamper by two white bullocks—and such scenery; such +hilly peaks, such black ravines and gurgling waters, and +rocks and forests above and below, and at last such a +monastery and such friars, who wouldn't let us stay with +them beyond five days for fear of corrupting the fraternity. +The monks had a new abbot, a St. Sejanus of a holy man, +and a petticoat stank in his nostrils, said he, and all the I +beseeching which we could offer him with joined hands was +classed with the temptations of St. Anthony. So we had +to come away as we went, and get the better as we could of +our disappointment, and really it was a disappointment not +to be able to stay our two months out in the wilderness as +we had planned it, to say nothing of the heat of Florence, +to which at the moment it was not pleasant to return. But +we got new lodgings in the shade and comforted ourselves +as well as we could. 'Comforted'—there's a word for +Florence—that ingratitude was a slip of the pen, believe +me. Only we had set our hearts upon a two months' +seclusion in the deep of the pine forests (which have such +a strange dialect in the silence they speak with), and the +mountains were divine, and it was provoking to be crossed +in our ambitions by that little holy abbot with the red face, +and to be driven out of Eden, even to Florence. It is said, +observe, that Milton took his description of Paradise from +Vallombrosa—so driven out of Eden we were, literally. To +Florence, though! and what Florence is, the tongue of man +or poet may easily fail to describe. The most beautiful of +cities, with the golden Arno shot through the breast of her +like an arrow, and 'non dolet' all the same. For what +helps to charm here is the innocent gaiety of the people, +who, for ever at feast day and holiday celebrations, come +and go along the streets, the women in elegant dresses and +with glittering fans, shining away every thought of Northern +cares and taxes, such as make people grave in England. +No little orphan on a house step but seems to inherit, +naturally his slice of water-melon and bunch of purple +grapes, and the rich fraternise with the poor as we are +unaccustomed to see them, listening to the same music and +walking in the same gardens, and looking at the same +Raphaels even! Also we were glad to be here just now, +when there is new animation and energy given to Italy by +this new wonderful Pope, who is a great man and doing +greatly. I hope you give him your sympathies. Think +how seldom the liberation of a people begins from the +throne, <i>à fortiori</i> from a papal throne, which is so high and +straight.<a name="FNanchor_165_165"></a><a href="#Footnote_165_165"><sup>[165]</sup></a> And the spark spreads! here is even our Grand +Duke conceding the civic guard,<a name="FNanchor_166_166"></a><a href="#Footnote_166_166"><sup>[166]</sup></a> and forgetting his Austrian +prejudices. The world learns, it is pleasant to observe....</p> + +<p>So well I am, dear Mr. Westwood, and so happy after +a year's trial of the stuff of marriage, happier than ever, +perhaps, and the revolution is so complete that one has to +learn to stand up straight and steadily (like a landsman in a +sailing ship) before one can do any work with one's hand +and brain.</p> + +<p>We have had a delightful letter from Carlyle, who loves +my husband, I am proud to say.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +[Florence:] October 1, 1847 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>Ever dearest Miss Mitford,—I am delighted to have your +letter, and lose little time in replying to it. The lost letter +meanwhile does not appear. The moon has it, to make +more shine on these summer nights; if still one may say +'summer' now that September is deep and that we are cool +as people hoped to be when at hottest.... Do tell me your +full thought of the commonwealth of women.<a name="FNanchor_167_167"></a><a href="#Footnote_167_167"><sup>[167]</sup></a> I begin by +agreeing with you as to his implied under-estimate of women; +his women are too voluptuous; however, of the most +refined voluptuousness. His gardener's daughter, for +instance, is just a rose: and 'a Rose,' one might beg +all poets to observe, is as precisely <i>sensual</i> as fricasseed +chicken, or even boiled beef and carrots. Did you read +Mrs. Butler's 'Year of Consolation,' and how did you think +of it in the main? As to Mr. Home's illustrations of national +music, I don't know; I feel a little jealous of his doing +well what many inferior men have done well—men who +couldn't write 'Orion' and the 'Death of Marlowe.' Now, +dearest dear Miss Mitford, you shall call him 'tiresome' if +you like, because I never heard him talk, and he may be +tiresome for aught I know, of course; but you <i>sha'n't</i> say +that he has not done some fine things in poetry. Now, +you <i>know</i> what the first book of 'Orion' is, and 'Marlowe,' +and 'Cosmo;' and you <i>sha'n't</i> say that you don't know it, +and that when you forgot it for a moment, I did not remind +you.... It was our plan to leave Florence on the 21st. +We stay, however, one month longer, half through temptation, +half through reason. Which is strongest, who knows? +We quite love Florence, and have delightful rooms; and +then, though I am quite well now as to my general health, +it is thought better for me to travel a month hence. So I +suppose we shall stay. In the meanwhile our Florentines +kept the anniversary of our wedding day (and the establishment +of the civic guard) most gloriously a day or two or +three ago, forty thousand persons flocking out of the +neighbourhood to help the expression of public sympathy +and overflowing the city. The procession passed under our +eyes into the Piazza Pitti, where the Grand Duke and all his +family stood at the palace window melting into tears, to +receive the thanks of his people. The joy and exultation on +all sides were most affecting to look upon. Grave men +kissed one another, and grateful young women lifted up their +children to the level of their own smiles, and the children +themselves mixed their shrill little <i>vivas</i> with the shouts of +the people. At once, a more frenetic gladness and a more +innocent manifestation of gladness were never witnessed. +During three hours and a half the procession wound on +past our windows, and every inch of every house seemed +alive with gazers all that time, the white handkerchiefs +fluttering like doves, and clouds of flowers and laurel +leaves floating down on the heads of those who passed. +Banners, too, with inscriptions to suit the popular +feeling—'Liberty'—the 'Union of Italy'—the 'Memory of +the Martyrs'—'Viva Pio Nono'—'Viva Leopoldo Secondo'—were +quite stirred with the breath of the shouters. I am glad to +have seen that sight, and to be in Italy at this moment, when +such sights are to be seen.<a name="FNanchor_168_168"></a><a href="#Footnote_168_168"><sup>[168]</sup></a> My wrist aches a little even +now with the waving I gave to my handkerchief, I assure +you, for Robert and I and Flush sate the whole sight out at +the window, and would not be reserved with the tribute of +our sympathy. Flush had his two front paws over the +window sill, with his ears hanging down, but he confessed +at last that he thought they were rather long about it, +particularly as it had nothing to do with dinner and chicken +bones and subjects of consequence. He is less tormented +and looks better; in excellent spirits and appetite always—and +<i>thinner</i>, like your Flush—and very fond of Robert, as +indeed he ought to be. On the famous evening of that +famous day I have been speaking of, we lost him—he ran +away and stayed away all night—which was too bad, +considering that it was our anniversary besides, and that he +had no right to spoil it. But I imagine he was bewildered +with the crowd and the illumination, only as he <i>did</i> look so +very guilty and conscious of evil on his return, there's room +for suspecting him of having been very much amused, +'motu proprio,' as our Grand Duke says in the edict. He +was found at nine o'clock in the morning at the door of our +apartment, waiting to be let in—mind, I don't mean the +Grand Duke. Very few acquaintances have we made at +Florence, and very quietly lived out our days. Mr. Powers +the sculptor is our chief friend and favorite, a most +charming, simple, straight-forward, genial American, as +simple as the man of genius he has proved himself needs +be. He sometimes comes to talk and take coffee with us, +and we like him much. His wife is an amiable woman, +and they have heaps of children from thirteen downwards, +all, except the eldest boy, Florentines, and the sculptor has +eyes like a wild Indian's, so black and full of light. You +would scarcely wonder if they clave the marble without the +help of his hands. We have seen besides the Hoppners, +Lord Byron's friends at Venice, you will remember. And +Miss Boyle, the niece of the Earl of Cork, and authoress +and poetess on her own account, having been introduced +once to Robert in London at Lady Morgan's, has hunted +us out and paid us a visit. A very vivacious little person, +with sparkling talk enough. Lord Holland has lent her +mother and herself the famous Careggi Villa, where Lorenzo +the Magnificent died, and they have been living there +among the vines these four months. These and a few +American visitors are all we have seen at Florence. We +live a far more solitary life than you do, in your village and +with the 'prestige' of the country wrapping you round. +Pray give your sympathies to our Pope, and call him a great +man. For liberty to spring from a throne is wonderful, but +from a papal throne is miraculous. That's my doxy. I +suppose dear Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Chorley are still abroad. +French books I get at, but at scarcely a new one, which is +very provoking. At Rome it may be better. I have not +read 'Martin' even, since the first volume in England, nor +G. Sand's 'Lucretia.'</p> + +<p>May God bless you. Think sometimes of your ever +affectionate +E.B.B.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>The 'month' lengthened itself out, and December +found the Brownings still in Florence, and definitely +established there for the winter. During this time, +although there is no allusion to it in the letters, Mrs. +Browning must have been engaged in writing the first part +of 'Casa Guidi Windows' with its hopeful aspirations for +Italian liberty. It was, indeed, a time when hope seemed +justifiable. Pius IX. had ascended the papal throne—then +a temporal as well as a spiritual sovereignty—in June 1846, +with the reputation of being anxious to introduce liberal +reforms, and even to promote the formation of a united +Italy. The English Government was diplomatically advocating +reform, in spite of the opposition of Austria; and its +representative, Lord Minto, who was sent on a special +mission to Italy to bring this influence to bear on the rulers +of the various Italian States, was received with enthusiastic +joy by the zealots for Italian liberty. The Grand Duke of +Tuscany, as was noticed above, had taken the first step in +the direction of popular government by the institution of a +National Guard; and Charles Albert of Piedmont was +always supposed to have the cause of Italy at heart in spite +of the vacillations of his policy. The catastrophe of 1848 +was still in the distance; and for the moment a friend of +freedom and of Italy might be permitted to hope much.</p> + +<p>Yet a difference will be noticed between the tone of Mrs. +Browning's letters at this time and that which marks her +language in 1859. In 1847 she was still comparatively new +to the country. She is interested in the experiment which +she sees enacted before her; she feels, as any poet must +feel, the attraction of the idea of a free and united Italy. +But her heart is not thrown into the struggle as it was at a +later time. She can write, and does, for the most part, +write, of other matters. The disappointment of Milan and +Novara could not break her heart, as the disappointment of +Villafranca went near to doing. They are not, indeed, so +much as mentioned in detail in the letters that follow. It +is in 'Casa Guidi Windows'—the first part written in 1847-8, +the second in 1851—that her reflections upon Italian +politics, alike in their hopes and in their failures, must be +sought.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: December 8, 1847.<br /> + +<p>Have you thought me long, my dearest Miss Mitford, in +writing? When your letter came we were distracted by +various uncertainties, torn by wild horses of sundry speculations, +and then, when one begins by delay in answering a +letter, you are aware how a silence grows and grows. Also +I heard <i>of</i> you through my sisters and Mrs. Duprey[?], and +<i>that</i> made me lazier still. Now don't treat me according to +the Jewish law, an eye for an eye; no! but a heart for a +heart, if you please; and you never can have reason to +reproach mine for not loving you. Think what we have +done since I wrote last to you. Taken two houses, that is, +two apartments, each for six months, presigning the contract. +You will set it down as excellent poet's work in the +way of domestic economy; but the fault was altogether mine +as usual, and my husband, to please me, took rooms which +I could not be pleased by three days, through the absence +of sunshine and warmth. The consequence was that we had +to pay heaps of guineas away for leave to go away ourselves, +any alternative being preferable to a return of illness, and I +am sure I should have been ill if we had persisted in staying +there. You can scarcely fancy the wonderful difference +which the sun makes in Italy. Oh, he isn't a mere 'round +O' in the air in this Italy, I assure you! He makes us feel +that he rules the day to all intents and purposes. So away +we came into the blaze of him here in the Piazza Pitti, +precisely opposite the Grand Duke's palace, I with my +remorse, and poor Robert without a single reproach. Any +other man, a little lower than the angels, would have +stamped and sworn a little for the mere relief of the thing, +but as to <i>his</i> being angry with <i>me</i> for any cause, except not +eating enough dinner, the said sun would turn the wrong +way first. So here we are on the Pitti till April, in small +rooms yellow with sunshine from morning to evening; and +most days I am able to get out into the piazza, and walk up +and down for some twenty minutes without feeling a shadow +of breath from the actual winter. Also it is pleasant to +be close to the Raffaels, to say nothing of the immense +advantage of the festa days, when, day after day, the civic +guard comes to show the whole population of Florence, +their Grand Duke inclusive, the new helmets and epaulettes +and the glory thereof. They have swords, too, I believe, +somewhere. The crowds come and come, like children to +see rows of dolls, only the children would tire sooner than +the Tuscans. Robert said musingly the other morning as +we stood at the window, 'Surely, after all this, they would +<i>use</i> those muskets.' It's a problem, a 'grand peut-être.' +I was rather amused by hearing lately that our civic heroes +had the gallantry to propose to the ancient military that +these last should do the night work, i.e. when nobody was +looking on and there was no credit, as they found it dull and +fatiguing. Ah, one laughs, you see; one can't help it now +and then. But at the real and rising feeling of the people +by night and day one doesn't laugh indeed. I hear and see +with the deepest sympathy of soul, on the contrary. I love +the Italians, too, and none the less that something of the +triviality and innocent vanity of children abounds in them. +A delightful and most welcome letter was the last you sent +me, my dearest friend. Your bridal visit must have charmed +you, and I am glad you had the gladness of witnessing some +of the happiness of your friend, Mrs. Acton Tyndal, <i>you</i> who +have such quick sympathies, and to whom the happiness +of a friend is a gain counted in your own. The swan's +shadow is something in a clear water. For poor Mrs.——, +if she is really, as you say Mrs. Tyndal thinks, pining +in an access of literary despondency, why <i>that</i> only +proves to me that she is not happy otherwise, that her life +and soul are not sufficiently filled for her woman's need. I +cannot believe of any woman that she can think of <i>fame +first</i>. A woman of genius may be absorbed, indeed, in the +exercise of an active power, engrossed in the charges of the +course and the combat; but this is altogether different to +a vain and bitter longing for prizes, and what prizes, oh, +gracious heavens! The empty cup of cold metal! <i>so</i> cold, +<i>so</i> empty to a woman with a heart. So, if your friend's +belief is true, still more deeply do I pity that other friend, +who is supposed to be unhappy from such a cause. A few +days ago I saw a bride of my own family, Mrs. Reynolds, Arlette +Butler, who married Captain Reynolds some five months +since.... Many were her exclamations at seeing me. She +declared that such a change was never seen, I was so transfigured +with my betterness: 'Oh, Ba, it is quite wonderful +indeed!' We had been calculated on, during her three +months in Rome, as a 'piece of resistance,' and it was a +disappointment to find us here in a corner with the salt. +Just as I was praised was poor Flush criticised. Flush has +not recovered from the effects yet of the summer plague of +fleas, and his curls, though growing, are not grown. I +never saw him in such spirits nor so ugly; and though +Robert and I flatter ourselves upon 'the sensible improvement,' +Arlette could only see him with reference to the +past, when in his Wimpole Street days he was sleek and +over fat, and she cried aloud at the loss of his beauty. +Then we have had [another] visitor, Mr. Hillard, an American +critic, who reviewed me in [the old] world, and so came to +<i>view</i> me in the new, a very intelligent man, of a good, noble +spirit. And Miss Boyle, ever and anon, comes at night, +at nine o'clock, to catch us at our hot chestnuts and mulled +wine, and warm her feet at our fire; and a kinder, more +cordial little creature, full of talent and accomplishment, +never had the world's polish on it. Very amusing, too, +she is, and original, and a good deal of laughing she and +Robert make between them. Did I tell you of her before, +and how she is the niece of Lord Cork, and poetess by +grace of certain Irish Muses? Neither of us know her +writings in any way, but we like her, and for the best +reasons. And this is nearly all, I think, we see of the 'face +divine,' masculine and feminine, and I can't make Robert +go out a single evening, not even to a concert, nor to hear +a play of Alfieri's, yet we fill up our days with books and +music (and a little writing has its share), and wonder at the +clock for galloping. It's twenty-four o'clock with us almost +as soon as we begin to count. Do tell me of Tennyson's +book, and of Miss Martineau's. I was grieved to hear a +distant murmur of a rumour of an apprehension of a return +of her complaint: somebody said that she could not bear +the <i>pressure of dress</i>, and that the exhaustion resulting from +the fits of absorption in work and enthusiasm on the new +subject of Egypt was painfully great, and that her friends +feared for her. I should think that the bodily excitement +and fatigue of her late travels must have been highly +hazardous, and that indeed, throughout her convalescence, +she should have more spared herself in climbing hills and +walking and riding distances. A strain obviously might +undo everything. Still, I do hope that the bitter cup may +not be filled for her again. What a wonderful discovery +this substitute for ether inhalations<a name="FNanchor_169_169"></a><a href="#Footnote_169_169"><sup>[169]</sup></a> seems to be. Do you +hear anything of its operation in your neighbourhood? We +have had a letter from Mr. Horne, who appears happy, and +speaks of his success in lecturing on Ireland, and of a new +novel which he is about to publish in a separate form after +having printed it in a magazine. We have not set up the +types even of our <i>plans</i> about a book, very distinctly, but +we shall do something some day, and you shall hear of it +the evening before. Being too happy doesn't agree with +literary activity quite as well as I should have thought; +and then, dear Mr. Kenyon can't persuade us that we are +not rich enough, so as to bring into force a lower order of +motives. He talks of Rome still. Now write, dear, +dearest Miss Mitford, and tell me of yourself and your +health, and do, <i>do</i> love me as you used to do. As to +French books, one may swear, but you can't get a new +publication, except by accident, at this excellent celebrated +library of Vieusseux, and I am reduced to read some of +my favorites over again, I and Robert together. You ought +to hear how we go to single combat, ever and anon, with +shield and lance. The greatest quarrel we have had since +our marriage, by the way (always excepting my crying +conjugal wrong of not eating enough!), was brought up +by Masson's pamphlet on the Iron Mask and Fouquet. I +wouldn't be persuaded that Fouquet was 'in it,' and so +'the anger of my lord waxed hot.' To this day he says +sometimes: 'Don't be cross, Ba! <i>Fouquet wasn't the Iron +Mask after all</i>.'</p> + +<p>God bless you, dearest Miss Mitford.<br /> +Your ever affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>We are here till April.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Jameson</i><br /> +Florence: December 1847.<br /> + +<p>Indeed, my dear friend, you have a right to complain of +<i>me</i>, whether or not <i>we</i> had any in thinking ourselves deeply +injured creatures by your last silence. Yet when in your +letter which came at last, you said, 'Write directly,' I <i>meant</i> +to write directly; I did not take out my vengeance in a +foregone malice, be very sure. Just at the time we were in +a hard knot of uncertainties about Rome and Venice and +Florence, and a cold house and a warm house; for instance +we managed (that is <i>I</i> did, for altogether it was my fault) to +take two apartments in the course of ten days, each for a +term of six months, getting out of one of them by leaving +the skirts of our garments, <i>rent</i>, literally, in the hand of the +proprietor. You have heard most of this, I dare say, from +Mr. Kenyon or my sisters. Now, too, you are aware of our +being in Piazza Pitti, in a charmed circle of sun blaze. Our +rooms are small, but of course as cheerful as being under the +very eyelids of the sun must make everything; and we have +a cook in the house who takes the office of <i>traiteur</i> on him +and gives us English mutton chops at Florentine prices, +both of us quite well and in spirits, and (though you never +will believe this) happier than ever. For my own part, you +know I need not say a word if it were not true, and I must +say to you, who saw the beginning with us, that this end of +fifteen months is just fifteen times better and brighter; the +mystical 'moon' growing larger and larger till scarcely room is +left for any stars at all: the only differences which have +touched me being the more and more happiness. It would +have been worse than unreasonable if in marrying I had expected +one quarter of such happiness, and indeed I did not, +to do myself justice, and every now and then I look round +in astonishment and thankfulness together, yet with a sort of +horror, seeing that this is not heaven after all. We live just +as we did when you knew us, just as shut-up a life. Robert +never goes anywhere except to take a walk with Flush, which +isn't my fault, as you may imagine: he has not been out one +evening of the fifteen months; but what with music and books +and writing and talking, we scarcely know how the days go, it's +such a gallop on the grass. We are going through some +of old Sacchetti's novelets now: characteristic work for +Florence, if somewhat dull elsewhere. Boccaccios can't be +expected to spring up with the vines in rows, even in this +climate. We got a newly printed addition to Savonarola's +poems the other day, very flat and cold, they did not catch +fire when he was burnt. The most poetic thing in the book +is his face on the first page, with that eager, devouring soul +in the eyes of it. You may suppose that I am able sometimes +to go over to the gallery and adore the Raphaels, and +Robert will tell you of the divine Apollino which you missed +seeing in Poggio Imperiale, and which I shall be set face to +face before, some day soon, I hope....</p> + +<p>Father Prout was in Florence for some two hours in +passing to Rome, and of course, according to contract of +spirits of the air, Robert met him, and heard a great deal +of you and Geddie (saw Geddie's picture, by the way, and +thought it very like), was told much to the advantage of Mr. +Macpherson,<a name="FNanchor_170_170"></a><a href="#Footnote_170_170"><sup>[170]</sup></a> and at the end of all, kissed in the open street +as the speaker was about to disappear in the diligence. When +you write, tell me of the <i>book</i>. Surely it will be out anon, +and then you will be free, shall you not? Have you seen +Tennyson's new poem, and what of it? Miss Martineau is +to discourse about Egypt, I suppose; but in the meanwhile +do you hear that she forswears mesmerism, as Mr. Spenser +Hall does, according to the report Robert brings me home +from the newspaper reading. Now I shall leave him room +to stand on and speak a word to you. Give my love to +Gerardine, and don't forget to mention her letter. I hope +you are happy about your friends, and that, in particular, +Lady Byron's health is strengthening and to strengthen. +Always my dear friend's</p> + +<p>Most affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>Dear Aunt Nina,—A corner is just the place for eating +Christmas pies in, but for venting Christmas wishes, hardly! +What has Ba told you and wished you in the way of love? +I wish you the same and love you the same, but Geddie, +being part of you, gets her due part. We are as happy as +two owls in a hole, two toads under a tree stump; or any +other queer two poking creatures that we let live, after the +fashion of their black hearts, only Ba is fat and rosy; yes, +indeed! Florence is empty and pleasant. Goodbye, therefore, +till next year—shall it not be then we meet? God bless +you. R.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: February 22, [1848].<br /> + +<p>Your letter, my dearest friend, which was written, a part +at least, before Christmas, came lingering in long after +the new year had seen out its matins. Oh, I had wondered +so, and wished so over the long silence. My fault, perhaps +in a measure, for I know how silent <i>I</i> was before. Yes, +and you tell me of your having been unwell (bad news), and +of your dear Flush's death, which made me sorrowful for +you, as I might reasonably be. And now tell me more. +Have you a successor to him? Once you told me that +one of the race was in training, but as you say nothing now +I am all in a doubt. Let me hear everything. If I had +been you, I think I should have preferred some quite other +kind of dog, as the unlikeness of a likeness would be apt to +bring a pain to me; but people can't reason about feelings, +and feelings are like the colour of eyes, not the same in +different faces, however general may be the proximity of +noses.... The great subject with <i>everybody</i> just now is +the new hope of Italy, and the liberal constitution, given +nobly by our good, excellent Grand Duke, whose praise is +in all the houses, streets, and piazzas. The other evening, +the evening after the gift, he went privately to the opera, +was recognised, and in a burst of triumph and a glory of +waxen torches was brought back to the Pitti by the people. +I was undressing to go to bed, had my hair down over my +shoulders under Wilson's ministry, when Robert called me +to look out of the window and see. Through the dark +night a great flock of stars seemed sweeping up the piazza, +but not in silence, nor with very heavenly noises. The +'<i>Evvivas</i>' were deafening. So glad I was. <i>I, too</i>, stood at +the window and clapped my hands. If ever Grand Duke +deserved benediction this Duke does. We hear that he +was quite moved, overpowered, and wept like a child. +Nevertheless the most of Italy is under the cloud, and God +knows how all may end as the thunder ripens. Now I +mustn't, I suppose, write politics. Our plans about England +are afloat. Impossible to know what we shall do, but if not +this summer, the summer after <i>must</i> help us to the sight +of some beloved faces. It will be a midsummer dream, and +we shall return to winter in Italy. My Flush is as well as +ever, and perhaps gayer than ever I knew him. He runs +out in the piazza whenever he pleases, and plays with the +dogs when they are pretty enough, and wags his tail at the +sentinels and civic guard, and takes the Grand Duke as a +sort of neighbour of his, whom it is proper enough to +patronise, but who has considerably less inherent merit and +dignity than the spotted spaniel in the alley to the left. We +have been reading over again 'André' and 'Leone Leoni,'<a name="FNanchor_171_171"></a><a href="#Footnote_171_171"><sup>[171]</sup></a> +and Robert is in an enthusiasm about the first. Happy +person, you are, to get so at new books. Blessed is the +man who reads Balzac, or even Dumas. I have got to +admire Dumas doubly since that fight and scramble for his +brains in Paris. Now do think of me and love me, and let +me be as ever your affectionate</p> + +<p>BA.</p> + +<p>Robert's regards always. Say particularly how you are, +and may God bless you, dearest Miss Mitford, and make +you happy.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: April 15, [1848].<br /> + +<p>... My Flush has recovered his beauty, and is in +more vivacious spirits than I remember to have seen him. +Still, the days come when he will have no pleasure and +plenty of fleas, poor dog, for Savonarola's martyrdom here +in Florence is scarcely worse than Flush's in the summer. +Which doesn't prevent his enjoying the spring, though, and +just now, when, by medical command, I drive out two +hours every day, his delight is to occupy the seat in the +carriage opposite to Robert and me, and look disdainfully +on all the little dogs who walk afoot. We drive day by day +through the lovely Cascine (where the trees have finished +and spread their webs of full greenery, undimmed by the +sun yet), first sweeping through the city, past such a window +where Bianca Capello looked out to see the Duke go by,<a name="FNanchor_172_172"></a><a href="#Footnote_172_172"><sup>[172]</sup></a> +and past such a door where Lapo stood, and past the famous +stone where Dante drew his chair out to sit.<a name="FNanchor_173_173"></a><a href="#Footnote_173_173"><sup>[173]</sup></a> Strange, +to have all that old-world life about us, and the blue sky so +bright besides, and ever so much talk on our lips about the +new French revolution, and the King of Prussia's cunning, +and the fuss in Germany and elsewhere. Not to speak of +our own particular troubles and triumphs in Lombardy close +by. The English are flying from Florence, by the way, in +a helter skelter, just as they always do fly, except (to do +them justice) on a field of battle. The family Englishman +is a dreadful coward, be it admitted frankly. See how they +run from France, even to my dear excellent Uncle Hedley, +who has too many little girls in his household to stay +longer at Tours. Oh, I don't <i>blame</i> him exactly. I only +wish that he had waited a little longer, the time necessary +for being quite reassured. He has great stakes in the +country—a house at Tours and in Paris, and twenty +thousand pounds in the Rouen railway. But Florence will +fall upon her feet we may all be certain, let the worst +happen that can. Meanwhile, republicans as I and my, +husband are by profession, we very anxiously, anxiously even +to pain, look on the work being attempted and done just +now by the theorists in Paris; far from half approving of it +we are, and far from being absolutely confident of the durability +of the other half. Tell me what you think, and if you +are not anxious too. As to communism, surely the +practical part of <i>that</i>, the only not dangerous part, is +attainable simply by the consent of individuals who may +try the experiment of associating their families in order to +the cheaper employment of the means of life, and successfully +in many cases. But make a government scheme of +<i>even so much</i>, and you seem to trench on the individual +liberty. All such patriarchal planning in a government +issues naturally into absolutism, and is adapted to states of +society more or less barbaric. Liberty and civilisation +when married together lawfully rather evolve individuality +than tend to generalisation. Is this not true? I fear, I +fear that mad theories promising the impossible may, in +turn, make the people mad. I Louis Blanc knows not what +he says. Have I not mentioned to you a very gifted +woman, a sculptress, Mademoiselle de Fauveau, who lives +in Florence with her mother practising her profession, an +exile from France, in consequence of their royalist opinions +and participation in the Vendée struggle, some sixteen or +fifteen years? On that occasion she was mistaken for and +allowed herself to be arrested as Madame de la Roche +Jacquelin; therefore she has justified, by suffering in the +cause, her passionate attachment to it. A most interesting +person she is; she called upon us a short time ago and interested +us much. And Mrs. Jameson would tell you that her +celebrity in her art is not comparative 'for a woman,' but +that, since Benvenuto Cellini, more beautiful works of the +kind have not been accomplished. An exquisite fountain +she has lately done for the Emperor of Russia. She has +workmen under her, and is as 'professional' in every +respect as if neither woman nor noble. At the first throb +of this revolution of course she dreamt the impossible +about that dear 'Henri Cinq,' who is as much out of the +question as Henri Quatre himself; and now it ends with the +'French Legation' coming to settle in the house precisely +opposite to hers, with a hideous sign-painting appended O +the Gallic cock on one leg and at full crow inscribed, +'Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.' This, and the death of her +favorite dog, whom, after seventeen years' affection, she +was forced to have destroyed on account of a combination +of diseases, has quite saddened the sculptress. When she +came to see us I observed that after so long a residence at +Florence she must regard it as a second country. 'Ah +non!' (the answer was) 'il n'y a pas de seconde patrie.' +What you tell me of 'Jane Eyre' makes me long to see the +book. I may long, I fancy. It is dismal to have to +disappoint my dearest sisters, who hoped for me in England +this summer, but our English visit <i>must</i> be for next +summer instead; there seems too much against it just now. +The drawback of Italy is the distance from England. If it +were but as near as Paris, for instance, why in that case we +should settle here at once, I do think, the conveniences and +luxuries of life are of such incredible cheapness, the climate +so divine, and the way of things altogether so serene and +suited to our tastes and instincts. But to give up England +and the <i>English</i>, the dear, dearest treasure of English love, +is impossible, so we just linger and linger. The Boyles go +to England from the press of panic, Lady Boyle being old +and infirm. Ah, but your talking friend would interest +you, and you might accept the talk in infinitesimal doses, +you know. Lamartine has surely acted down the fallacy +of the impractical tendencies of imaginative men. I am +full of France just now. Are you all prepared for an +outbreak in Ireland? I hope so. My husband has the +second edition of his collected poems<a name="FNanchor_174_174"></a><a href="#Footnote_174_174"><sup>[174]</sup></a> in the press by this +time, by grace of Chapman and Hall, who accept all risks. +You speak of Tennyson's vexation about the reception of +the 'Princess.' Why did Mr. Harness and others, who +'never could understand' his former divine works, praise +this in manuscript till the poet's hope grew to the height of +his ambition? Strangely unfortunate. We have not read +it yet. I hear that Tennyson had the other day everything +packed for Italy, then turned his face toward Ireland, and +went there. Oh, for a talk with you. But this is a sort of +talk, isn't it? Accept my husband's regards. As to my +love, I throw it to you over the [sea] with both hands. +God bless you.</p> + + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To John Kenyan</i><br /> +[Florence:] May I, [1848].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mr. Kenyon,—Surely it is quite wrong that +we three, Robert, you, and I, should be satisfied with +writing little dry notes, as short as so many proclamations, +and those of the order of your anti-Chartist magistracy, +'Whereas certain evil disposed persons &c. &c.,' instead of +our anti-Austrian Grand duchy's 'O figli amati' (how +characteristic of the north and the south, to be sure, is this +contrast! Yet, after all, they might have managed it +rather better in England!)—little dry notes brief and +business-like as an anti-Chartist proclamation! And, +indeed, two of us are by no means satisfied, whatever the +third may be. The other day we were looking over some +of the dear delightful letters you used to write to us. Real +letters those were, and not little dry notes at all. Robert +said, 'When I write to dear Mr. Kenyon I really do feel +overcome by the sense of what I owe to him, and so, as it +is beyond words to say, why generally I say as little as +possible of anything, keeping myself to matters of business.' +An alternative very objectionable, I told him; for to have +'a dumb devil' from ever such grateful and sentimental +reasons, when the Alps stand betwixt friend, is damnatory +in the extreme. Then, as <i>you</i> are not 'too grateful' to <i>us</i>, +why don't <i>you</i> write? Pray do, my dear friend. Let us +all write as we used to do. And to make sure of it, I +begin.</p> + +<p>Since I ended last the world has turned over on its +other side, in order, one must hope, to some happy change +in the dream. Our friend, Miss Bayley, in that very kind +letter which has just reached me and shall be answered +directly (will you tell her with my thankful love?), asks +if Robert and I are communists, and then half draws back +her question into a discreet reflection that <i>I</i>, at least, was +never much celebrated for acumen on political economy. +Most true indeed! And therefore, and on that very ground, +is it not the more creditable to me that I don't set up for a +communist immediately? In proportion to the ignorance +might be the stringency of the embrace of 'la vérité sociale:' +so I claim a little credit that it isn't. For really we are not +communists, farther than to admit the wisdom of voluntary +association in matters of material life among the poorer +classes. And to legislate even on such points seems as +objectionable as possible; all intermeddlings of government +with domesticities, from Lacedaemon to Peru, were and +must be objectionable; and of the growth of absolutism, let +us, theorise as we choose. I would have the government +educate the people absolutely, and <i>then</i> give room for the +individual to develop himself into life freely. Nothing +can be more hateful to me than this communist idea of +quenching individualities in the mass. As if the hope +of the world did not always consist in the eliciting of the +individual man from the background of the masses, in the +evolvement of individual genius, virtue, magnanimity. Do +you know how I love France and the French? Robert +laughs at me for the mania of it, or used to laugh long +before this revolution. When I was a prisoner, my other +mania for imaginative literature used to be ministered to +through the prison bars by Balzac, George Sand, and the +like immortal improprieties. They kept the colour in my +life to some degree and did good service in their time to +me, I can assure you, though in dear discreet England +women oughtn't to confess to such reading, I believe, or +you told me so yourself one day. Well, but through +reading the books I grew to love France, in a mania too; +and the interest, which all must feel in the late occurrences +there, has been with me, and is, quite painful. I read the +newspapers as I never did in my life, and hope and fear in +paroxysms, yes, and am guilty of thinking far more of Paris +than of Lombardy itself, and try to understand financial +difficulties and social theories with the best will in the +world; much as Flush tries to understand me when I tell +him that barking and jumping may be unseasonable things. +Both of us open our eyes a good deal, but the comprehension +is questionable after all. What, however, I do seem +least of all to comprehend, is your hymn of triumph in +England, just because you have a lower ideal of liberty +than the French people have. See if in Louis Philippe's +time France was not in many respects more advanced +than England is now, property better divided, hereditary +privilege abolished! Are we to blow with the trumpet +because we respect the ruts while everywhere else they +are mending the roads? I do not comprehend. As to +the Chartists, it is only a pity in my mind that you have +not more of them. That's their fault. Mine, you will say, +is being pert about politics when you would rather have +anything else in a letter from Italy. You have heard of +my illness, and will have been sorry for me, I am certain; +but with blessings edging me round, I need not catch at a +thistle in the hedge to make a 'sorrowful complaignte' of. +Our plans have floated round and round, in and out of all +the bays and creeks of the Happy Islands....</p> + +<p>Meanwhile here we are—and when do you mean to +come to see us, pray? Mind, I hold by the skirts of the +vision for next winter. Why, surely <i>you</i> won't talk of +'disturbances' and 'revolutions,' and the like disloyal reasons +which send our brave countrymen flying on all sides, as if +every separate individual expected to be bombarded <i>per se</i>. +Now, mind you come; dear dear Mr. Kenyon, how +delighted past expression we should be to see you! Ah, +do you fancy that I have no regret for our delightful gossips? +If I have the feeling I told you of for Balzac and George +Sand, what must I have for <i>you</i>? Now come, and let us +see you! And still sooner, if you please, write to us—and +write of yourself and in detail—and tell us particularly, +first if the winter has left no sign of a cough with you, and +next, what you mean by something which suggests to my +fancy that you have a book in the course of printing. Is +that true? Tell me all about it—<i>all</i>! Who can be +interested, pray, if <i>I</i> am not? For your and Mr. Chorley's +and Mr. Forster's kind dealings with Robert's poems I +thank you gratefully; and as a third volume can bring up +the rear quickly in the case of success, I make no wailing +for my 'Luria,' however dear it may be.<a name="FNanchor_175_175"></a><a href="#Footnote_175_175"><sup>[175]</sup></a></p> + +<p>You are not to fancy that I am unwell now. On the +contrary, I am nearly as strong as ever, and go out in the carriage +for two hours every day, besides a little walk sometimes. +Not a word more to-day. Write—do—and you shall +hear from us at length. Robert sends his own love, I +suppose. We both love you from our hearts.</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate and grateful<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>(who can't read over, and writes in such a hurry!)</p> + +<br /> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p class="figure"> + <a href="images/379.jpg"> + <img width="50%" src="images/379.jpg" alt="Casa Guidi From a Photograph.jpg" /></a><br /> + +<i>Casa Guidi From a Photograph</i></p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>It was about this time, as appears from the following +letter, that the Brownings finally anchored themselves in +Florence by taking an unfurnished suite of rooms in the +Palazzo Guidi, and making there a home for themselves, +Here, in the Via Maggio, almost opposite the Pitti Palace, +and within easy distance of the Ponte Vecchio, is the +dwelling known to all lovers of English poetry as Casa +Guidi, and bearing now upon its walls the name of the +English poetess whose life and writings formed, in the +graceful words of the Italian poet, 'a golden ring between +Italy and England.' Whatever might be their migrations—and +they were many, especially in later years—Casa Guidi +was henceforth their home.<a name="FNanchor_176_176"></a><a href="#Footnote_176_176"><sup>[176]</sup></a></p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +May 28, 1848.<br /> + +<p>... And now I must tell you what we have done since +I wrote last, little thinking of doing so. You see our +problem was to get to England as much in our summers as +possible, the expense of the intermediate journeys making +it difficult of solution. On examination of the whole case, +it appeared manifest that we were throwing money into the +like to hear you talk of poor France; how I hope that you +are able to hope for her. Oh, this absurdity of communism +and mythological fête-ism! where can it end? They had +better have kept Louis Philippe after all, if they are no +more practical. Your Madame must be insufferable indeed, +seeing that her knowledge of these subjects and men did +not make her sufferable to you. My curiosity never is +exhausted. What I hold is that the French have a higher +ideal than we, and that all this clambering, leaping, struggling +of indefinite awkwardness simply proves it. But <i>success in +the republic</i> is different still. I fear for them. My uncle +and his family are safe at Tunbridge Wells, my aunt longing +to be able to get back again. For those who are still nearer +to me, I have no heart to speak of <i>them</i>, loving them as I +do and must to the end, whatever that end may be; but +my dearest sisters write often to me—never let me miss +their affection. I am quite well again, and strong, and +Robert and I go out after tea in a wandering walk to sit in +the Loggia and look at the Perseus, or, better still, at +the divine sunsets on the Arno, turning it to pure gold +under the bridges. After more than twenty months of +marriage, we are happier than ever—I may say <i>we</i>. Italy +will regenerate herself in all senses, I hope and believe. In +Florence we are very quiet, and the English fly in proportion. +N.B.—<i>Always</i> first fly the majors and gallant +captains, unless there's a general. How I should like to +see dear Mr. Horne's poem! <i>He's</i> bold, at least—yes, and +has a great heart to be bold with. A cloud has fallen on +me some few weeks ago, in the illness and death of my +dear friend Mr. Boyd,<a name="FNanchor_177_177"></a><a href="#Footnote_177_177"><sup>[177]</sup></a> but he did not suffer, and is not to +be mourned by those without hope [<i>sic</i>]. Still, it has been a +cloud. May God bless you, my beloved friend. Write +soon, and of yourself, to your ever affectionate</p> + +<p>BA.</p> + +<p>My husband's regards go to you, of course.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Browning</i><br /> +[Florence: about June 1848.]<br /> + +<p>My dearest Sarianna,—At last, you see, I give sign of +life. The <i>love</i>, I hope you believed in without sign or +symbol; and even for the rest, Robert promised to answer +for me like godfather or godmother, and bear the consequence +of my sins....</p> + +<p>We are a little uneasy just now as to whether you will +be overjoyed or <i>under</i> joyed by our new scheme of taking +an unfurnished apartment. It would spoil all, for instance, +if your dear mother seemed disappointed—vexed—in the +least degree. And I can understand how, to persons at a +distance and of course unable to understand the whole +circumstances of the case, the fact of an apartment taken +and furnished may seem to involve some dreadful giving up +for ever and ever of country and family—which would be +as dreadful to us as to you! How could we give you up, +do you think, when we love you more and more? Oh no. +If Robert has succeeded in making clear the subject to you, +you will all perceive, just as <i>we know</i>, that we have simply +thus solved the problem of making our small income carry +us to England, not only next summer, but many a summer +after. We should like to give every summer to dear +England, and hide away from the cold only when it comes. +By our scheme we shall have saved money even at the end +of the present year; while for afterward, here's a residence—that +is, a<i>pied à terre</i>—in Italy, all but free when we wish to +use it; and when we care to let it, producing eight or ten +pounds a month in help of travelling expenses. It's the +best investment for Mr. Moxon's money we could have +looked the world over for. So the learned tell us; and +after all, you know, we only pay in the proportion of your +working classes in the Pancras building contrived for them +by the philanthropy of your Southwood Smiths. I do wish +you could see what rooms we have, what ceilings, what +height and breadth, what a double terrace for orange trees; +how cool, how likely to be warm, how perfect every way! +Robert leaned once to a ground floor in the Frescobaldi Palace, +being bewitched by a garden full of camellias, and a little +pond of gold and silver fish; but while he saw the fish I saw +the mosquitos in clouds, such an apocalypse of them as has not +yet been visible to me in all Florence, and I dread mosquitos +more than Austrians; and he, in his unspeakable goodness, +deferred to my fear in a moment and gave up the camellias +without one look behind. A heavy conscience I should +have if it were not that the camellia garden was certainly less +private than our terrace here, where we can have camellias also +if we please. How pretty and pleasant your cottage at Windsor +must be! We had a long <i>muse</i> over your father's sketch of +it, and set faces at the windows. That the dear invalid is +better for the change must have brightened it, too, to her +companions, and the very sound of a 'forest' is something +peculiarly delightful and untried to me. I know hills well, +and of the sea too much; but now I want forests, or quite, +quite mountains, such as you have not in England.</p> + +<p>Robert says that if 'Blackwood' likes to print a poem +of mine and send you the proofs, you will be so very good as +to like to correct them. To me it seems too much to ask, +when you have work for him to do beside. Will it be too +much, or is nothing so to your kindness? I would ask my +<i>other</i> sisters, who would gladly, dear things, do it for me; +but I have misgivings through their being so entirely +unaccustomed to occupations of the sort, or any critical +reading of poetry of any sort. Robert is quite well and in +the best spirits, and has the headache now only very +occasionally. I am as well as he, having quite recovered +my strength and power of walking. So we wander to the +bridge of Trinità every evening after tea to see the sunset +on the Arno. May God bless you all! Give my true love +to your father and mother, and my loving thanks to yourself +for that last stitch in the stool. How good you are, +Sarianna, to your ever affectionate sister</p> + +<p>BA.</p> + +<p>Always remind your dear mother that we are no more +<i>bound</i> here than when in furnished lodgings. It is a mere +name.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Palazzo Guidi: June 20, [1848].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—Now I am going to answer +your letter, which I all but lost, and got ever so many days +beyond the right day, because you directed it to Mrs. +<i>William</i> Browning. Pray remember <i>Robert Browning</i> for +the future, in right descent from <i>Robert Brunnyng</i>,<a name="FNanchor_178_178"></a><a href="#Footnote_178_178"><sup>[178]</sup></a> the first +English poet. Mrs. Jameson says, 'It's ominous of the +actual Robert's being the <i>last</i> English poet;' a saying which +I give you to remember us by, rejecting the omen.... We +have grown to be Florentine citizens, as perhaps you have +heard. Health and means both forbade our settlement in +England; and the journey backwards and forwards being +another sort of expense, and very necessary with our ties and +affections, we had to think how to live here, when we were +here, at the cheapest. The difference between taking a +furnished apartment and an unfurnished one is something +immense. For our furnished rooms we have had always +to pay some four guineas a month; and unfurnished rooms +of equal pretension we could have for twelve a year, and the +furniture (out and out) for fifty pounds. This calculation, +together with the consideration that we could let our apartment +whenever we travelled and receive back the whole +cost, could not choose, of course, but determine us. On +coming to the point, however, we grew ambitious, and +preferred giving five-and-twenty guineas for a noble suite of +rooms in the Palazzo Guidi, a stone's throw from the Pitti, +and furnishing them after our own taste rather than after +our economy, the economy having a legitimate share of +respect notwithstanding; and the satisfactory thing being +that the whole expense of this furnishing—rococo chairs, +spring sofas, carved bookcases, satin from cardinals' beds, +and the rest—is covered by the proceeds of our books +during the last two winters. This is satisfying, isn't it? +We shall stand safe within the borders of our narrow +income even this year, and next year comes the harvest! +We shall go to England in the spring, and return <i>home</i> to +Italy. Do you understand? Mr. Kenyon, our friend and +counsellor, writes to applaud—such prudence was never +known before among poets. Then we have a plan, that +when the summer (this summer) grows too hot, we shall just +take up our carpet-bag and Wilson and plunge into the +mountains in search of the monasteries beyond Vallombrosa, +from Arezzo go to St. Sepolchro in the Apennines, and +thence to Fano on the seashore, making a round back +perhaps (after seeing the great fair at Sinigaglia) to Ravenna +and Bologna home. As to Rome, our plan is to give up +Rome next winter, seeing that we <i>must</i> go to England in +the spring. I <i>must</i> see my dearest sisters and whoever else +dear will see me, and Robert <i>must</i> see his family beside; and +going to Rome will take us too far from the route and cost too +much; and then we are not inclined to give the first-fruits of +our new apartment to strangers if we could let it ever so easily +this year. You can't think how well the rooms look already; +you must come and see them, you and dear Mr. Martin. +Three immense rooms we have, and a fourth small one for +a book room and winter room—windows opening on a little +terrace, eight windows to the south; two good bedrooms +behind, with a smaller terrace, and kitchen, &c., all on a +first floor and Count Guidi's favorite suite. The Guidi were +connected by marriage with the Ugolino of Pisa, Dante's +Ugolino, only we shun all traditions of the Tower of +Famine, and promise to give you excellent coffee whenever +you will come to give us the opportunity. We shall have +vines and myrtles and orange trees on the terrace, and I +shall have a watering-pot and garden just as you do, though +it must be on the bricks instead of the ground. For +temperature, the stoves are said to be very effective in the +winter, and in the summer we are cool and airy; the +advantage of these thick-walled palazzos is coolness in +summer and warmth in winter. I am very well and quite +strong again, or rather, stronger than ever, and able to walk +as far as Cellini's Perseus in the moonlight evenings, on +the other side of the Arno. Oh, that Arno in the sunset, +with the moon and evening star standing by, how divine it +is!...</p> + +<p>Think of me as ever your most affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: July 4, [1848].<br /> + +<p>It does grieve me, my ever dearest Miss Mitford, to hear +of the suffering which has fallen upon you! Oh, rheumatism +or not, whatever the name may be, do take care, do +consider, and turn your dear face toward the seaside; somewhere +where you can have warm sea bathing and sea air, +and be able to associate the word 'a drive' not with mad +ponies, but the mildest of donkeys, on a flat sand. The +good it would do you is incalculable, I am certain; it is +precisely a case for change of air, with quiet....</p> + +<p>As for when you come to Florence, we won't have 'a +pony carriage between us,' if you please, because we may +have a carriage and a pair of horses and a coachman, and +pay as little as for the pony-chair in England. For three +hundred a year one may live much like the Grand Duchess, +and go to the opera in the evening at fivepence-halfpenny +inclusive. Indeed, poor people should have their patriotism +tenderly dealt with, when, after certain experiments, they +decide on living upon the whole on the Continent. The +differences are past belief, beyond expectation, and when +the sunshine is thrown in, the head turns at once, and you +fall straight into absenteeism. Ah, for the 'long chats' and +the 'having England at one another's fireside!' You talk +of delightful things indeed. We are very quiet, politically +speaking, and though we hear now and then of melancholy +mothers who have to part with their sons for Lombardy,<a name="FNanchor_179_179"></a><a href="#Footnote_179_179"><sup>[179]</sup></a></p> + +<p>and though there are processions for the blessing of flags +and an occasional firing of guns for a victory, or a cry in +the streets, 'Notizie della guerra—leggete, signori;' this is all +we know of Radetsky in Florence; while, for civil politics, +the meeting of the senate took place a few days since to the +satisfaction of everybody, and the Grand Duke's speech was +generally admired. The elections have returned moderate +men, and many land-proprietors, and Robert, who went out +to see the procession of members, was struck by the grave +thoughtful faces and the dignity of expression. We are +going some day to hear the debates, but it has pleased their +signoria to fix upon twelve (noon) for meeting, and really I +do not dare to go out in the sun. The hour is sufficiently +conclusive against dangerous enthusiasm. Poor France, +poor France! News of the dreadful massacre at Paris just +reaches us, and the letters and newspapers not arriving +to-day, everybody fears a continuation of the crisis. How +is it to end? Who 'despairs of the republic?' Why, <i>I</i> do! +I fear, I fear, that it cannot stand in France, and you seem +to have not much more hope. My husband has a little, +with melancholy intermediate prospects; but my own belief +that the people have had enough of democratic institutions +and will be impatient for a kingship anew. Whom +will they have? How did you feel when the cry was raised, +'Vive l'Empereur'? Only Prince Napoleon is a Napoleon +cut out in paper after all. The Prince de Joinville is said +to be very popular. It makes me giddy to think of the +awful precipices which surround France—to think, too, that +the great danger is on the question of <i>property</i>, which is +perhaps divided there more justly than in any other country +of Europe. Lamartine has comprehended nothing, that is +clear, even if his amount of energy had been effectual.... +Yes, do send me the list of Balzac, <i>after</i> 'Les Misères de la +Vie Conjugale,' I mean. I left him in the midst of 'La +Femme de Soixante Ans,' who seemed on the point of +turning the heads of all 'la jeunesse' around her; and, +after all, she did not strike me as so charming. But Balzac +charms me, let him write what he will; he's an inspired +man. Tell me, too, exactly what Sue has done after 'Martin.' +I read only one volume of 'Martin.' And did poor Soulié +finish his 'Dramas'? And after 'Lucretia' what did George +Sand write? When Robert and I are ambitious, we talk of +buying Balzac in full some day, to put him up in our bookcase +from the convent, if the carved-wood angels, infants +and serpents, should not finish mouldering away in horror +at the touch of him. But I fear it will rather be an +expensive purchase, even here. Would that he gave up the +drama, for which, as you observe, he has no faculty whatever. +In fact, the faculty he has is the very reverse of the dramatic, +ordinarily understood.... Dearest Mr. Kenyon is called +quite well and delightful by the whole world, though he +suffered from cough in the winter; and he is bringing out +a new book of poems, a 'Day at Tivoli,' and others; and +he talks energetically of coming to Florence this autumn. +Also, we have hopes of Mr. Chorley. I congratulate you +on the going away of Madame. Coming and going bring +very various associations in this life of ours. Why, if <i>you</i> +were to come we should appreciate our fortune, and you +should have my particular chair, which Robert calls mine +because I like sitting in a cloud; it's so sybaritically soft a +chair. Now I love you for the kind words you say of <i>him</i>, +who deserves the best words of the best women and men, +wherever spoken! Yes, indeed, I am happy. Otherwise, +I should have a stone where the heart is, and sink by the +weight of it. You must have faith in me, for I never can +make you thoroughly to understand what he is, of himself, +and to me—the noblest and perfectest of human beings. +After a year and ten months' absolute soul-to-soul intercourse +and union, I have to look higher still for my first +ideal. You won't blame me for bad taste that I say these +things, for can I help it, when I am writing my heart to you? +It is a heart which runs over very often with a grateful joy +for a most peculiar destiny, even in the midst of some bitter +drawbacks which I need not allude to farther....</p> + +<p>May God bless you continually, even as I am</p> + +<p>Your affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Jameson</i><br /> +Palazzo Guidi: July 15, [1848].<br /> + +<p>Now at last, my very dear friend, I am writing to you, +and the reproach you sent to me in your letter shall not be +driven inwardly any more by my self-reproaches. Wasn't +it your fault after all, a little, that we did not hear one +another's voice oftener? You are <i>so long</i> in writing. Then +I have been putting off and putting off my letter to you, +just because I wanted to make a full letter of it; and +Robert always says that it's the bane of a correspondence to +make a full letter a condition of writing at all. But so +much I had to tell you! while the mere outline of facts you +had from others, I knew. Which is just said that you may +forgive us both, and believe that we think of you and love +you, yes, and talk of you, even when we don't write to you, +and that we shall write to you for the future more regularly, +indeed. Your letter, notwithstanding its reproach, was +very welcome and very kind, only you must be fagged with +the book, and saddened by Lady Byron's state of health, +and anxious about Gerardine perhaps. The best of all was +the prospect you hold out to us of coming to Italy this +year. Do, do come. Delighted we shall be to see you in +Florence, and wise it will be in you to cast behind your back +both the fear of Radetsky and as much English care as may +be. Now, would it not do infinite good to Lady Byron if +you could carry her with you into the sun? Surely it would +do her great good; the change, the calm, the atmosphere +of beauty and brightness, which harmonises so wonderfully +with every shade of human feeling. Florence just now, +and thanks to the panic, is tolerably <i>clean</i> of the +English—you scarcely see an English face anywhere—and perhaps +this was a circumstance that helped to give Robert courage +to take our apartment here and 'settle down.' You were +surprised at so decided a step I dare say, and, I believe, +though too considerate to say it in your letter, you have +wondered in your thoughts at our fixing at Florence instead +of Rome, and without seeing more of Italy before the finality +of making a choice. But observe, Florence is wonderfully +cheap, one lives here for just nothing; and the convenience +in respect to England, letters, and the facility of letting our +house in our absence, is incomparable altogether. At +Rome a house would be habitable only half the year, and the +distance and the expense are objections at the first sight of +the subject.... Altogether, if I could but get a supply of +French books, turning the cock easily, it would be perfect; +but as to <i>anything</i> new in the book way, Vieusseux seems +to have made a vow against it, and poor Robert comes and +goes in a state of desperation between me and the bookseller +('But what <i>can</i> I do, Ba?'), and only brings news of +some pitiful revolution or other which promises a full flush +of republican virtues and falls off into the fleur de lis as +usual. Think of our not having read 'Lucretia' yet—George +Sand's. And Balzac is six or seven works deep from +us; but these are evils to be borne. We live on just in the +same way, having very few visitors, and receiving them in +the quietest of hospitalities. Mr. Ware, the American, who +wrote the 'Letters from Palmyra,' and is a delightful, +earnest, simple person, comes to have coffee with us once +or twice a week, and very much we like him. Mr. Hillard, +another cultivated American friend of ours, you have in +London, and we should gladly have kept longer. Mr. +Powers does not spend himself much upon visiting, which +is quite right, but we do hope to see a good deal of +Mademoiselle de Fauveau. Robert exceedingly admires her. +As to Italian society, one may as well take to longing for +the evening star, for it seems quite as inaccessible; and +indeed, of society of any sort, we have not much, nor wish +for it, nor miss it. Dearest friend, if I could open my heart +to you in all seriousness, you would see nothing there but a +sort of enduring wonder of happiness—yes, and some gratitude, +I do hope, besides. Could everything be well in +England, I should only have to melt out of the body at +once in the joy and the glow of it. Happier and happier I +have been, month after month; and when I hear <i>him</i> talk +of being happy too, my very soul seems to swim round with +feelings which cannot be spoken. But I tell you a little, +because I owe the telling to you, and also that you may set +down in your philosophy the possibility of book-making +creatures living happily together. I admit, though, to +begin (or end), that my husband is an exceptional human +being, and that it wouldn't be just to measure another by +him. We are planning a great deal of enjoyment in this +'going to the fair' at Sinigaglia, meaning to go by Arezzo +and San Sepolchro, and Urbino, to Fano, where we shall +pitch our tent for the benefit, as Robert says, of the sea air +and the oysters. Fano is very habitable, and we may get +to Pesaro and the footsteps of Castiglione's 'courtier,' to say +nothing of Bernardo Tasso; and Ancona beckons from the +other side of Sinigaglia, and Loreto beside, only we shall +have to restrain our flights a little. The passage of the +Apennine is said to be magnificent, and, altogether, surely +it must be delightful; and we take only two carpet bags—not +to be weighed down by 'impedimenta,' and have our +own home, left in charge of the porter, to return to at last, +I am very well and shall be better for the change, though +Robert is dreadfully afraid, as usual, that I shall fall to pieces +at the first motion....</p> + +<p>May God bless you!<br /> +Ever I am your affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>Write to Florence as usual—Poste Restante. You will +hear how we are in great hopes of dear Mr. Kenyon.</p> + +<p>Dear Aunt Nina,—Only a word in all the hurry of setting +off. We love you as you love us, and are pretty nearly as +happy as you would have us. All love and prosperity to +dear Geddie, too; what do you say of 'Landor,' and my +not sending it to Forster or somebody? <i>Che che</i> (as the +Tuscans exclaim), <i>who</i> was it promised to call at my people's, +who would have tendered it forthwith? I will see about it as +it is. Goodbye, dearest aunt, and let no revolution disturb +your good will to Ba and</p> + +<p>R.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: August 24, 1848.<br /> + +<p>Ever dearest Miss Mitford,—It's great comfort to have +your letter; for as it came more lingeringly than usual, I +had time to be a little anxious, and even my husband has +confessed since that he thought what he would not say +aloud for fear of paining me, as to the probability of your +being less well than usual. Your letters come so regularly +to the hour, you see, that when it strikes without them, we +ask why. Thank God, you are better after all, and reviving +in spirits, as I saw at the first glance before the words said +it clearly....</p> + +<p>As for ourselves, we have scarcely done so well, yet +well; having enjoyed a great deal in spite of drawbacks. +Murray, the traitor, sent us to Fano as a 'delightful summer +residence for an English family,' and we found it uninhabitable +from the heat, vegetation scorched with paleness, +the very air swooning in the sun, and the gloomy looks of +the inhabitants sufficiently corroborative of their words, that +no drop of rain or dew ever falls there during the summer. +A 'circulating library' 'which doesn't give out books,' and +'a refined and intellectual Italian society' (I quote Murray for +that phrase) which 'never reads a book through' (I quote +Mrs. Wiseman, Dr. Wiseman's mother, who has lived in +Fano seven years), complete the advantages of the place, +yet the churches are beautiful, and a divine picture of +Guercino's is worth going all that way to see.<a name="FNanchor_180_180"></a><a href="#Footnote_180_180"><sup>[180]</sup></a> By a happy</p> + +<p>accident we fell in with Mrs. Wiseman, who, having married +her daughter to Count Gabrielli with ancestral possessions +in Fano, has lived on there from year to year, in a state of +permanent moaning as far as I could apprehend. She is a +very intelligent and vivacious person, and having been used +to the best French society, bears but ill this exile from the +common civilities of life. I wish Dr. Wiseman, of whose +childhood and manhood she spoke with touching pride, +would ask her to minister to the domestic rites of his +bishop's palace in Westminster; there would be no hesitation, +I fancy, in her acceptance of the invitation. Agreeable as +she and her daughter were, however, we fled from Fano +after three days, and, finding ourselves cheated out of our +dream of summer coolness, resolved on substituting for it +what the Italians call 'un bel giro.' So we went to Ancona, +a striking sea city, holding up against the brown rocks and +elbowing out the purple tides, beautiful to look upon. An +exfoliation of the rock itself, you would call the houses that +seem to grow there, so identical is the colour and character. +I should like to visit Ancona again when there is a little air +and shadow; we stayed a week as it was, living upon fish +and cold water. Water, water, was the cry all day long, and +really you should have seen me (or you should not have +seen me) lying on the sofa, and demoralised out of all sense +of female vanity, not to say decency, with dishevelled hair +at full length, and 'sans gown, sans stays, sans shoes, sans +everything,' except a petticoat and white dressing wrapper. +I said something feebly once about the waiter; but I don't +think I meant it for earnest, for when Robert said, 'Oh, don't +mind, dear,' certainly I didn't mind in the least. People +<i>don't</i>, I suppose, when they are in ovens, or in exhausted +receivers. Never before did I guess what heat was—that's +sure. We went to Loreto for a day, back through Ancona, +Sinigaglia (oh, I forgot to tell you, there was no fair this +year at Sinigaglia; Italy will be content, I suppose, with +selling her honour), Fano, Pesaro, Rimini to Ravenna, +back again over the Apennines from Forli. A 'bel giro,' +wasn't it? Ravenna, where Robert positively wanted to go +to live once, has itself put an end to those yearnings. The +churches are wonderful: holding an atmosphere of purple +glory, and if one could live just in them, or in Dante's +tomb—well, otherwise keep me from Ravenna. The very +antiquity of the houses is whitewashed, and the marshes on +all sides send up stenches new and old, till the hot air is +sick with them. To get to the pine forest, which is exquisite, +you have to go a mile along the canal, the exhalations +pursuing you step for step, and, what ruffled me more than all +beside, we were not admitted into the house of Dante's tomb +'without an especial permission from the authorities.' +Quite furious I was about this, and both of us too angry to +think of applying: but we stood at the grated window and +read the pathetic inscription as plainly as if we had touched +the marble. We stood there between three and four in the +morning, and then went straight on to Florence from that +tomb of the exiled poet. Just what we should have done, +had the circumstances been arranged in a dramatic intention. +From Forli, the air grew pure and quick again; and the +exquisite, almost visionary scenery of the Apennines, the +wonderful variety of shape and colour, the sudden transitions +and vital individuality of those mountains, the chestnut +forests dropping by their own weight into the deep ravines, +the rocks cloven and clawed by the living torrents, and the +hills, hill above hill, piling up their grand existences as if +they did it themselves, changing colour in the effort—of these +things I cannot give you any idea, and if words could not, +painting could not either. Indeed, the whole scenery of +our journey, except when we approached the coast, was full +of beauty. The first time we crossed the Apennine (near +Borgo San Sepolcro) we did it by moonlight, and the flesh +was weak, and one fell asleep, and saw things between sleep +and wake, only the effects were grand and singular so, even +though of course we lost much in the distinctness. Well, +but you will understand from all this that we were delighted +to get home—<i>I</i> was, I assure you. Florence seemed as +cool as an oven after the fire; indeed, we called it quite cool, +and I took possession of my own chair and put up my feet +on the cushions and was charmed, both with having been +so far and coming back so soon. Three weeks brought us +home. Flush was a fellow traveller of course, and enjoyed +it in the most obviously amusing manner. Never was there +so good a dog in a carriage before his time! Think of +Flush, too! He has a supreme contempt for trees and hills +or anything of that kind, and, in the intervals of natural +scenery, he drew in his head from the window and didn't +consider it worth looking at; but when the population +thickened, and when a village or a town was to be passed +through, then his eyes were starting out of his head with +eagerness; he looked east, he looked west, you would +conclude that he was taking notes or preparing them. His +eagerness to get into the carriage first used to amuse the +Italians. Ah, poor Italy! I am as mortified as an Italian +ought to be. They have only the rhetoric of patriots and +soldiers, I fear! Tuscany is to be spared forsooth, if she +lies still, and here she lies, eating ices and keeping the +feast of the Madonna. Perdoni! but she has a review in the +Cascine besides, and a gallant show of some 'ten thousand +men' they are said to have made of it—only don't think +that I and Robert went out to see that sight. We should +have sickened at it too much. An amiable, refined people, +too, these Tuscans are, conciliating and affectionate. When +you look out into the streets on feast days, you would take +it for one great 'rout,' everybody appears dressed for a +drawing room, and you can scarcely discern the least +difference between class and class, from the Grand Duchess +to the Donna di facenda; also there is no belying of the +costume in the manners, the most gracious and graceful +courtesy and gentleness being apparent in the thickest +crowds. This is all attractive and delightful; but the +people wants <i>stamina</i>, wants conscience, wants self-reverence. +Dante's soul has died out of the land. Enough of this. +As for France, I have 'despaired of the republic' for very +long, but the nation is a great nation, and will right itself +under some flag, white or red. Don't you think so? Thank +you for the news of our authors, it is as 'the sound of a +trumpet afar off,' and I am like the war-horse. Neglectful +that I am, I forgot to tell you before that you heard quite +rightly about Mr. Thackeray's wife, who is ill <i>so</i>. Since +your question, I had in gossip from England that the book +'Jane Eyre' was written by a governess in his house, and +that the preface to the foreign edition refers to him in some +marked way. We have not seen the book at all. But the +first letter in which you mentioned your Oxford student +caught us in the midst of his work upon art.<a name="FNanchor_181_181"></a><a href="#Footnote_181_181"><sup>[181]</sup></a> Very vivid, +very graphic, full of sensibility, but inconsequent in some of +the reasoning, it seemed to me, and rather flashy than full +in the metaphysics. Robert, who knows a good deal about +art, to which knowledge I of course have no pretence, +could agree with him only by snatches, and we, both of us, +standing before a very expressive picture of Domenichino's +(the 'David'—at Fano) wondered how he could blaspheme +so against a great artist. Still, he is no ordinary man, and +for a critic to be so much a poet is a great thing. Also, we +have by no means, I should imagine, seen the utmost of his +stature. How kindly you speak to me of my dearest sisters. +Yes, go to see them whenever you are in London, they are +worthy of the gladness of receiving you. And will you +write soon to me, and tell me everything of yourself, how +you are, how home agrees with you, and the little details +which are such gold dust to absent friends....</p> + +<p>May God bless you, my beloved friend. Let me ever +be (my husband joining in all warm regards) your most +affectionate</p> + +<p>BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: October 10, 1848.<br /> + +<p>My ever dearest Miss Mitford,—Have you not thought +some hard thoughts of me, for not instantly replying to a +letter which necessarily must have been, to one who loved you, +of such painful interest? Do I not love you truly? Yes, indeed. +But while preparing to write to you my deep regret +at hearing that you had been so ill, illness came in another +form to prevent me from writing, my husband being laid up +for nearly a month with fever and ulcerated sore throat. I +had not the heart to write a line to anyone, much less to +prepare a packet to escort your letter free from foreign +postage; and to make you pay for a chapter of Lamentations' +without the spirit of prophecy, would have been too hard on +you, wouldn't it? Quite unhappy I have been over those +burning hands and languid eyes, the only unhappiness I +ever had by <i>them</i>, and then he wouldn't see a physician; and +if it hadn't been that, just at the right moment, Mr. Mahony, +the celebrated Jesuit, and Father Prout of 'Fraser,' knowing +everything as those Jesuits are apt to do, came in to us on +his way to Rome, pointed out that the fever got ahead +through weakness and mixed up with his own kind hand a +potion of eggs and port wine, to the horror of our Italian +servant, who lifted up his eyes at such a prescription +for a fever, crying, 'O Inglesi, Inglesi!' the case would have +been far worse, I have no kind of doubt. For the eccentric +prescription gave the power of sleeping, and the pulse grew +quieter directly. I shall always be grateful to Father Prout, +always. The very sight of some one with a friend's name +and a cheerful face, his very jests at me for being a 'bambina' +and frightened without cause, were as comforting as the +salutation of angels. Also, he has been in Florence ever +since, and we have seen him every day; he came to doctor +and remained to talk. A very singular person, of whom the +world tells a thousand and one tales, you know, but of whom +I shall speak as I find him, because the utmost kindness +and warmheartedness have characterised his whole bearing +towards us. Robert met him years ago at dinner at Emerson +Tennent's, and since has crossed paths with him on various +points of Europe. The first time I saw him was as he +stood on a rock at Leghorn, at our disembarkation in Italy. +Not refined in a social sense by any manner of means, yet +a most accomplished scholar and vibrating all over with +learned associations and vivid combinations of fancy and +experience—having seen all the ends of the earth and the +men thereof, and possessing the art of talk and quotation to +an amusing degree. In another week or two he will be at +Rome.... How graphically you give us your Oxford +student! Well! the picture is more distinct than Turner's, +and if you had called it, in the manner of the Master, 'A +Rock Limpet,' we should have recognised in it the corresponding +type of the gifted and eccentric writer in question. +Very eloquent he is, I agree at once, and true views he takes +of Art in the abstract, true and elevating. It is in the +application of connective logic that he breaks away from one so +violently.... We are expecting our books by an early +vessel, and are about to be very busy, building up a rococo +bookcase of carved angels and demons. Also we shall get +up curtains, and get down bedroom carpets, and finish the +remainder of our furnishing business, now that the hot +weather is at an end. I say 'at an end,' though the glass +stands at seventy. As to the 'war,' <i>that</i> is rather different, +it is painful to feel ourselves growing gradually cooler and +cooler on the subject of Italian patriotism, valour, and good +sense; but the process is inevitable. The child's play +between the Livornese and our Grand Duke provokes a +thousand pleasantries. Every now and then a day is fixed +for a revolution in Tuscany, but up to the present time a +shower has come and put it off. Two Sundays ago +Florence was to have been 'sacked' by Leghorn, when a +drizzle came and saved us. You think this a bad joke of +mine or an impotent sarcasm, perhaps; whereas I merely +speak historically. Brave men, good men, even sensible men +there are of course in the land, but they are not strong +enough for the times or for masterdom. For France, it is a +great nation; but even in France they want a man, and +Cavaignacso<a name="FNanchor_182_182"></a><a href="#Footnote_182_182"><sup>[182]</sup></a> only a soldier. If Louis Napoleon had the +muscle of his uncle's little finger in his soul, he would be +president, and king; but he is flaccid altogether, you see, +and Joinville stands nearer to the royal probability after all. +'Henri Cinq' is said to be too closely espoused to the +Church, and his connections at Naples and Parma don't help +his cause. Robert has more hope of the <i>republic</i> than I +have: but call ye <i>this</i> a republic? Do you know that +Miss Martineau takes up the 'History of England' under +Charles Knight, in the continuation of a popular book? +I regret her fine imagination being so wasted. So you saw +Mr. Chorley? What a pleasant flashing in the eyes! We +hear of him in Holland and Norway. Dear Mr. Kenyon +won't stir from England, we see plainly. Ah! Frederic +Soulié! he is too dead, I fear. Perhaps he goes on, though, +writing romances, after the fashion of poor Miss Pickering, +that prove nothing. I long for my French fountains of +living literature, which, pure or impure, plashed in one's +face so pleasantly. Some old French 'Mémoires' we have +got at lately, 'Brienne' for instance. It is curious how the +leaders of the last revolution (under Louis XVIII.) seem to +have despised one another. Brienne is very dull and flat. +For Puseyism, it runs counter to the spirit of our times, +after all, and will never achieve a church. May God bless +you! Robert's regards go with the love of your ever +affectionate</p> + +<p>BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Florence: December 3, 1848.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—It seemed long to me that +you had not written, and it seems long to me now that +I have not answered the kind letter which came at +last. Then Henrietta told me of your being unwell at +the moment of her mad excursion into Herefordshire. +Altogether I want to speak to you and hear from you, and +shall be easier and gladder when both are done. Do +forgive my sins and write directly, and tell me everything +about both of you, and how you are in spirits and health, +and whether you really make up your minds to see more +danger in the stormy influences of the Continent in the +moral point of view than in those of England in the +physical. For my part I hold to my original class of fear, +and would rather face two or three revolutions than an east +wind of an English winter. If I were you I would go to Pau +as usual and take poor Abd-el-Kader's place (my husband is +furious about the treatment of Abd-el-Kader, so I hear a +good deal about him<a name="FNanchor_183_183"></a><a href="#Footnote_183_183"><sup>[183]</sup></a>), or I would go to Italy and try</p> + +<p>Florence, where really democratic ministries roar as gently +as sucking doves, particularly when they are safe in place. +We have listened to dreadful rumours—Florence was to +have been sacked several times by the Livornese; the +Grand Duke went so far as to send away his family to +Siena, and we had 'Morte a Fiorentini!' chalked up on the +walls. Still, somehow or other, the peace has been kept in +Florentine fashion; it has rained once or twice, which is +always enough here to moderate the most revolutionary +when they wear their best surtouts, and I look forward to +an unbroken tranquillity just as I used to do, even though +the windows of the Ridolfi Palace (the ambassador in +London) were smashed the other evening a few yards from +ours. Perhaps a gentle and affectionate approach to +contempt for our Florentines mixes a little with this feeling +of security, but what then? They are an amiable, refined, +graceful people, with much of the artistic temperament as +distinguished from that of men of genius—effeminate, no, +rather <i>feminine</i> in a better sense—of a fancy easily turned +into impulse, but with no strenuous and determinate +strength in them. What they comprehend best in the +'Italian League' is probably a league to wear silk velvet +and each a feather in his hat, to carry flags and cry <i>vivas</i>, +and keep a grand festa day in the piazzas. Better and +happier in this than in stabbing prime ministers, or hanging +up their dead bodies to shoot at; and not much more +childish than these French patriots and republicans, who +crown their great deeds by electing to the presidency such +a man as Prince Louis Napoleon, simply because 'C'est le +neveu de son oncle!'<a name="FNanchor_184_184"></a><a href="#Footnote_184_184"><sup>[184]</sup></a> A curious precedent for a president, +certainly; but, oh heavens and earth, what curious +things abroad everywhere just now, inclusive of the sea +serpent! I agree with you that much of all is very melancholy +and disheartening, though holding fast by my hope and +belief that good will be the end, as it always <i>is</i> God's +end to man's frenzies, and that all we observe is but the +fermentation necessary to the new wine, which presently we +shall drink pure. Meanwhile, the saddest thing is the +impossibility (which I, for one, feel) to sympathise, to go +along with, the <i>people</i> to whom and to whose cause all my +natural sympathies yearn. The word 'Liberty' ceases to +make me thrill, as at something great and unmistakable, +as, for instance, the other great words Truth, and Justice; +do. The salt has lost its savour, the meaning has escaped +from the term; we know nothing of what people will <i>do</i> +when they aspire to Liberty. The holiness of liberty is +desecrated by the sign of the ass's hoof. Fixed principles, +either of opinion or action, seem clearly gone out of the +world. The principle of Destruction is in the place of the +principle of Re-integration, or of Radical Reform, as we +called it in England. I look all round and can sympathise +nowhere. The rulers hold by rottenness, and the people +leap into the abyss, and nobody knows why this is, or why +that is. As to France, my tears (which I really couldn't +help at the time of the expulsion of poor Louis Philippe +and his family, not being very strong just then) are justified, +it appears, though my husband thought them foolish (and so +did I), and though we both began by an adhesion to the +Republic in the cordial manner. But, just see, the Republic +was a 'man in an iron mask' or helmet, and turns out a +military dictatorship, a throttling of the press, a starving of +the finances, and an election of Louis Napoleon to be +President. Louis Philippe was better than all this, take +him at worst, and at worst he did <i>not</i> deserve the mud and +stones cast at him, which I have always maintained and +maintain still. England might have got up ('happy +country') more crying grievances than France at the +moment of outbreak; but what makes outbreaks now-a-days +is not 'the cause, my soul,' but the stuff of the people. +You are huckaback on the other side of the Channel, and +you wear out the poor Irish linen, let the justice of the case +be what it may. Politics enough and too much, surely, +especially now when they are depressing to you, and more +or less to everybody.... We are still in the slow agonies +of furnishing our apartment. You see, being the poorest +and most prudent of possible poets, we had to solve the +problem of taking our furniture out of our year's income +(proceeds of poems and the like), and of not getting into +debt. Oh, I take no credit to myself; I was always in +debt in my little way ('small <i>im</i> morals,' as Dr. Bowring +might call it) before I married, but Robert, though a poet +and dramatist by profession, being descended from the +blood of all the Puritans, and educated by the strictest of +dissenters, has a sort of horror about the dreadful fact of +owing five shillings five days, which I call quite morbid in +its degree and extent, and which is altogether unpoetical +according to the traditions of the world. So we have been +dragging in by inches our chairs and tables throughout the +summer, and by no means look finished and furnished at +this late moment, the slow Italians coming at the heels of +our slowest intentions with the putting up of our curtains, +which begin to be necessary in this November tramontana. +Yet in a month or three weeks we shall look quite +comfortable—before Christmas; and in the meantime we heap +up the pine wood and feel perfectly warm with these thick +palace walls between us and the outside air. Also my +husband's new edition is on the <i>edge</i> of coming out, and we +have had an application from Mr. Phelps, of Sadler's Wells, +for leave to act his 'Blot on the 'Scutcheon,' which, if it +doesn't succeed, its public can have neither hearts nor +intellects (that being an impartial opinion), and which, if it +succeeds, will be of pecuniary advantage to us. Look out +in the papers.... My love and my husband's go to you, +our dear friends. Let me be always</p> + +<p>Your affectionate and grateful<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>While Italy shows herself so politically demoralised, +and the blood of poor Russia smokes from the ground, the +ground seems to care no more for it than the newspapers, +or anybody else.</p> + +<p>Such a jar of flowers we have to keep December. +White roses, as in June.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: December 16, [1848].<br /> + +<p>... You are wondering, perhaps, how we are so fool-hardy +as to keep on furnishing rooms in the midst of +'anarchy,' the Pope a fugitive, and the crowned heads +packing up. Ah, but we have faith in the <i>softness</i> of our +Florentines, who must be well spurred up to the leap +before they do any harm. These things look worse at a +distance than they do near, although, seen far and near, +nothing <i>can</i> be worse than the evidence of demoralisation +of people, governors, and journalists, in the sympathy given +everywhere to the assassination of poor Rossi.<a name="FNanchor_185_185"></a><a href="#Footnote_185_185"><sup>[185]</sup></a> If Rossi</p> + +<p>was retrocessive, he was at least a constitutional minister, +and constitutional means of opposing him were open to all, +but Italy understands nothing constitutional; liberty is a +fair word and a watchword, nothing more; an idea it is +not in the minds of any. The poor Pope I deeply pity; +he is a weak man with the noblest and most disinterested +intentions. His faithful flock have nearly broken his heart +by the murder of his two personal friends, Rossi and +Palma, and the threat, which they sent him by embassy, of +murdering every man, woman, and child in the Quirinal, +with the exception of his Holiness, unless he accepted +their terms. He should have gone out to them and so +died, but having missed that opportunity, nothing remained +but flight. He was a mere Pope hostage as long as he +stayed in Rome. Curious, the 'intervention of the French,' +so long desired by the Italians, and vouchsafed <i>so</i>.<a name="FNanchor_186_186"></a><a href="#Footnote_186_186"><sup>[186]</sup></a> The +Florentines open their eyes in mute astonishment, and +some of them 'won't read the journals any more.' The +boldest say softly that the <i>Romans are sure not to bear it</i>. +And what is to happen in France? Why, what a world we +have just now.... Father Prout is gone to Rome for a +fortnight, has stayed three weeks, and day by day we +expect him back again. I don't understand how the Prout +papers should have hurt him ecclesiastically, but that he +should be <i>known</i> for their writer is not astonishing, as the +secret was never, I believe, attempted to be kept. We +have been, at least <i>I</i> have been, a little anxious lately +about the fate of the 'Blot on the 'Scutcheon,' which +Mr. Phelps applied for my husband's permission to revive +at Sadler's. Of course, putting the request was a mere +form, as he had every right to act the play, and there was +nothing to answer but one thing. Only it made one +anxious—made <i>me</i> anxious—till we heard the result, and +we, both of us, are very grateful to dear Mr. Chorley, who +not only made it his business to be at the theatre the first +night, but, before he slept, sat down like a true friend to +give us the story of the result, and never, he says, was a +more complete and legitimate success. The play went +straight to the heart of the audience, it seems, and we hear +of its continuance on the stage from the papers. So far, so +well. You may remember, or may not have heard, how +Macready brought it out and put his foot on it in the flash +of a quarrel between manager and author, and Phelps, +knowing the whole secret and feeling the power of the play, +determined on making a revival of it on his own theatre, +which was wise, as the event proves. Mr. Chorley called +his acting really 'fine.' I see the second edition of the +'Poetical Works' advertised at last in the 'Athenaeum,' and +conclude it to be coming out directly. Also my second edition +is called for, only nothing is yet arranged on that point. +We have had a most interesting letter from Mr. Home, +giving terrible accounts, to be sure, of the submersion of all +literature in England and France since the French Revolution, +but noble and instructive proof of individual wave-riding +energy, such as I have always admired in him. He +and his wife, he says, live chiefly on the produce of their +garden, and keep a cheerful heart for the rest; even the +'Institutes' expect gratuitous lectures, so that the sweat of +the brain seems less productive than the sweat of the brow. +I am glad that Mr. Serjeant Talfourd and his wife spoke +affectionately of my husband, for he is attached to both of +them.... My Flush has grown to be passionately fond of +grapes, devouring bunch after bunch, and looking so fat +and well that we attribute some virtue to them. When he +goes to England he will be as much in a strait as an +Italian who related to us his adventures in London; he +had had a long walk in the heat, and catching sight of +grapes hanging up in a grocer's shop, he stopped short to +have a pennyworth, as he said inwardly to himself. Down +he sat and made out a Tuscan luncheon in purple bunches. +At last, taking out his purse to look for the halfpence: +'Fifteen shillings, sir, if you please,' said the shopman. +Now do write soon, and speak particularly of your health, +and take care of it and don't be too complaisant to visitors. +May God bless you, my very dear friend! Think of me as</p> + +<p>Ever your affectionate and grateful<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<i>My husband's regards always.</i><br /> +<br /><br /> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<a name="CHAPTER_VI"></a><h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> +<h3>1849-1851</h3> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>There is here a pause of two months in the correspondence +of Mrs. Browning, during which the happiness of +her already happy life was crowned by the birth, on +March 9, 1849, of her son, Robert Wiedeman Barrett +Browning.<a name="FNanchor_187_187"></a><a href="#Footnote_187_187"><sup>[187]</sup></a> How great a part this child henceforward +played in her life will be shown abundantly by the +letters that follow. Some passages referring to the child's +growth, progress, and performances have been omitted, +partly in the necessary reduction of the bulk of the +correspondence, and partly because too much of one subject +may weary the reader. But enough has been left to show +that, in the case of Mrs. Browning (and of her husband +likewise), the parent was by no means lost in the poet. +There is little in what she says which might not equally be +said, and is in substance said, by hundreds of happy mothers +in every age; but it would be a suppression of one essential +part of her nature, and an injury to the pleasant picture +which the whole life of this poet pair presents, if her +enthusiasms over her child were omitted or seriously +curtailed. Biographers are fond of elaborating the details +in which the lives of poets have not conformed to the +standard of the moral virtues; let us at least recognise +that, in the case of Robert and Elizabeth Browning, the +moral and the intellectual virtues flourished side by side, +each contributing its share to the completeness of the whole +character.</p> + +<p>The joy of this firstborn's birth was, however, very +quickly dimmed by the news of the death, only a few days +later, of Mr. Browning's mother, to whom he was devotedly +attached. Her death was very sudden, and the shock of +the reaction completely prostrated him for a long time. +The following letters from Mrs. Browning tell how he felt +this loss.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Browning</i><br /> +April 1, 1849 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>I do indeed from the bottom of my heart pity you and +grieve with you, my dearest Sarianna. I may grieve with +you as well as for you; for I too have lost. Believe that, +though I never saw her face; I loved that pure and tender +spirit (tender to me even at this distance), and that she will +be dear and sacred to me to the end of my own life.</p> + +<p>Dearest Sarianna, I thank you for your consideration +and admirable self-control in writing those letters. I do +thank and bless you. If the news had come unbroken by +such precaution to my poor darling Robert, it would have +nearly killed him, I think. As it is, he has been able to +cry from the first, and I am able to tell you that though +dreadfully affected, of course, for you know his passionate +love for her, he is better and calmer now—much better. +He and I dwell on the hope that you and your dear father +will come to us at once. Come—dear, dear Sarianna—I +will at least love you as you deserve—you and him—if +I can do no more. If you would comfort Robert, come.</p> + +<p>No day has passed since our marriage that he has not +fondly talked of her. I know how deep in his dear heart +her memory lies. God comfort you, my dearest Sarianna. +The blessing of blessed duties heroically fulfilled <i>must</i> be +With you. May the blessing of the Blessed in heaven be +added to the rest!</p> + +<p>Robert stops me. My dear love to your father.</p> + +<p>Your ever attached sister, +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Browning</i><br /> +[April 1849.]<br /> + +<p>You will have comfort in hearing, my dearest Sarianna, +that Robert is better on the whole than when I wrote last, +though still very much depressed. I wish I could get him +to go somewhere or do something—at any rate God's +comforts are falling like dew on all this affliction, and must +in time make it look a green memory to you both. Continually +he thinks of you and of his father—believe how +continually and tenderly he thinks of you. Dearest +Sarianna, I feel so in the quick of my heart how you must +feel, that I scarcely have courage to entreat you to go out +and take the necessary air and exercise, and yet that is a +duty, clear as other duties, and to be discharged like others +by you, as fully, and with as little shrinking of the will. If +your health should suffer, what grief upon grief to those +who grieve already! And besides, we who have to live +are not to lie down under the burden. There will be time +enough for lying down presently, very soon; and in the +meanwhile there is plenty of God's work to do with the +body and with the soul, and we have to do it as cheerfully +as we can. Dearest Sarianna, you can look behind and +before, on blessed memories and holy hopes—love is as +full for you as ever in the old relation, even though her +life in the world is cut off. There is no drop of bitterness +in all this flood of sorrow. In the midst of the great +anguish which God has given, you have to thank Him +for some blessing with every pang as it comes. Never was +a more beautiful, serene, assuring death than this we are +all in tears for—for, believe me, my very dear sister, I +have mourned with you, knowing what we all have lost, +I who never saw her nor shall see her until a few years +shall bring us all together to the place where none mourn +nor are parted. Sarianna, will it not be possible, do you +think, for you and your father to come here, if only for a +few months? Then you might decide on the future upon +more knowledge than you have now. It would be comfort +and joy to Robert and me if we could all of us live together +henceforward. Think what you would like, and how you +would best like it. Your living on <i>even through this summer +at that house</i>, I, who have well known the agony of such +bindings to the rack, do protest against. Dearest Sarianna, +it is not good or right either for you or for your dear father. +For Robert to go back to that house unless it were to do one +of you some good, think how it would be with <i>him</i>! Tell us +now (for he yearns towards you—we both do), what is the +best way of bringing us all together, so as to do every one of +us some good? If Florence is too far off, is there any other +place where we could meet and arrange for the future? +Could not your dear father's leave of absence be extended +this summer, out of consideration of what has happened, +and would he not be so enabled to travel with you and +meet us <i>somewhere</i>? We will do anything. For my part, +I am full of anxiety; and for Robert, you may guess what +his is, you who know him. Very bitter has it been to me +to have interposed unconsciously as I have done and +deprived him of her last words and kisses—very bitter—and +nothing could be so consolatory to me as to give him +back to <i>you</i> at least. So think for me, dearest Sarianna—think +for your father and yourself, think for Robert—and +remember that Robert and I will do anything which shall +appear possible to you. May God bless you, both of you! +Give my true love to your father. Feeling for you and with +you always and most tenderly, I am your affectionate sister, +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: April 30, 1849.<br /> + +<p>I am writing to you, <i>at last</i>, you will say, ever dearest +Miss Mitford; but, except once to Wimpole Street, this is +the first packet of letters which goes from me since my +confinement. You will have heard how our joy turned +suddenly into deep sorrow by the death of my husband's +mother. An unsuspected disease (ossification of the heart) +terminated in a fatal way, and she lay in the insensibility +precursive of the grave's, when the letter, written in such +gladness by my poor husband, and announcing the birth of +his child, reached her address. 'It would have made her +heart bound,' said her daughter to us. Poor, tender heart, +the last throb was too near. The medical men would not +allow the news to be communicated. The next joy she +felt was to be in heaven itself. My husband has been in +the deepest anguish, and indeed, except for the courageous +consideration of his sister, who wrote two letters of preparation +saying that 'she was not well,' and she 'was very ill,' +when in fact all was over, I am frightened to think what the +result would have been to him. He has loved his mother +as such passionate natures only can love, and I never saw a +man so bowed down in an extremity of sorrow—never. +Even now the depression is great, and sometimes when I +leave him alone a little and return to the room, I find him +in tears. I do earnestly wish to change the scene and air; +but where to go? England looks terrible now. He says it +would break his heart to see his mother's roses over the +wall, and the place where she used to lay her scissors and +gloves. Which I understand so thoroughly that I can't say, +'Let us go to England.' We must wait and see what his +father and sister will choose to do or choose us to do, for of +course a duty plainly seen would draw us anywhere. My +own dearest sisters will be painfully disappointed by any +change of plan, only they are too good and kind not to +understand the difficulty, not to see the motive. So do +<i>you</i>, I am certain. It has been very very painful altogether, +this drawing together of life and death. Robert was too +enraptured at my safety, and with his little son, and the +sudden reaction was terrible. You see how natural that +was. How kind of you to write that note to him full of +affectionate expressions towards me! Thank you, dearest +friend. He had begged my sisters to let you know of my +welfare, and I hope they did; and now it is my turn to know +of <i>you</i>, and so I do entreat you not to delay, but to let me +hear exactly how you are and what your plans are for the +summer. Do you think of Paris seriously? Am I not a +sceptic about your voyages round the world? It's about +the only thing that I don't thoroughly believe you <i>can</i> do. +But (not to be impertinent) I want to hear so much! I +want first and chiefly to hear of your health; and occupations +next, and next your plans for the summer. Louis +Napoleon is astonishing the world, you see, by his firmness +and courage; and though really I don't make out the aim +and end of his French republicans in going to Rome to +extinguish the republic there, I wait before I swear at him +for it till my information becomes fuller. If they have at +Rome such a republic as we have had in Florence, without +a public, imposed by a few bawlers and brawlers on many +mutes and cowards, why, the sooner it goes to pieces the +better, of course. Probably the French Government acts +upon information. In any case, if the Romans are in earnest +they may resist eight thousand men. We shall see. My +<i>faith</i> in every species of Italian is, however, nearly tired out. +I don't believe they are men at all, much less heroes and +patriots. Since I wrote last to you, I think we have had +two revolutions here at Florence, Grand Duke out, Grand +Duke in.<a name="FNanchor_188_188"></a><a href="#Footnote_188_188"><sup>[188]</sup></a> The bells in the church opposite rang for both. +They first planted a tree of liberty close to our door, and, +then they pulled it down. The same tune, sung under the +windows, did for 'Viva la republica!' and 'Viva Leopoldo!' +The genuine popular feeling is certainly for the Grand Duke +('O, santissima madre di Dio!' said our nurse, clasping her +hands, 'how the people do love him!'); only nobody would +run the risk of a pin's prick to save the ducal throne. If +the Leghornese, who put up Guerazzi on its ruins, had not +refused to pay at certain Florentine cafés, we shouldn't have +had revolution the second, and all this shooting in the +street! Dr. Harding, who was coming to see me, had time +to get behind a stable door, just before there was a fall +against it of four shot corpses; and Robert barely managed +to get home across the bridges. He had been out walking +in the city, apprehending nothing, when the storm gathered +and broke. Sad and humiliating it all has been, and the +author of 'Vanity Fair' might turn it to better uses for a +chapter. By the way, we have just been reading 'Vanity +Fair.' Very clever, very effective, but cruel to human +nature. A painful book, and not the pain that purifies and +exalts. Partial truths after all, and those not wholesome. +But I certainly had no idea that Mr. Thackeray had +intellectual force for such a book; the power is considerable. +For Balzac, Balzac may have gone out of the world as far as +we are concerned. Isn't it hard on us? exiles from Balzac! +The bookseller here, having despaired of the republic and +the Grand Duchy both, I suppose, and taking for granted +on the whole that the world must be coming shortly to an +end, doesn't give us the sign of a new book. We ought to, +be done with such vanities. There! and almost I have +done my paper without a single word to you of the <i>baby</i>! +Ah, you won't believe that I forgot him even if I pretend, +so I won't. He is a lovely, fat, strong child, with double +chins and rosy cheeks, and a great wide chest, undeniable +lungs, I can assure you. Dr. Harding called him 'a robust +child' the other day, and 'a more beautiful child he never +saw.' I never saw a child half as beautiful, for my part.... +Dear Mr. Chorley has written the kindest letter to my +husband. I much regard him indeed. May God bless +you. Let me ever be (with Robert's thanks and warm +remembrance)</p> + +<p>Your most affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>Flush's jealousy of the baby would amuse you. For a +whole fortnight he fell into deep melancholy and was proof +against all attentions lavished on him. Now he begins to +be consoled a little and even condescends to patronise the +cradle.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Browning</i><br /> +[Florence:] May 2, 1849.<br /> + +<p>Robert gives me this blank, and three minutes to write +across it. Thank you, my very dear Sarianna, for all your +kindness and affection. I understand what I have lost. I +know the worth of a tenderness such as you speak of, +and I feel that for the sake of my love for Robert she was +ready out of the fullness of her heart to love <i>me</i> also. It +has been bitter to me that I have unconsciously deprived +him of the personal face-to-face shining out of her angelic +nature for more than two years, but she has forgiven me, +and we shall all meet, when it pleases God, before His +throne. In the meanwhile, my dearest Sarianna, we are +thinking much of you, and neither of us can bear the +thought of your living on where you are. If you could +imagine the relief it would be to us—to me as well as to +Robert—to be told frankly what we ought to do, where we +ought to go, to please you best—you and your dearest +father—you would think the whole matter over and use +plain words in the speaking of it. Robert naturally shrinks +from the idea of going to New Cross under the circumstances +of dreary change, and for his sake England has +grown suddenly to me a land of clouds. Still, to see you +and his father, and to be some little comfort to you both, +would be the best consolation to him, I am very sure; and +so, dearest Sarianna, think of us and speak to us. Could +not your father get a long vacation? Could we not meet +somewhere? Think how we best may comfort ourselves by +comforting you. Never think of us, Sarianna, as apart +from you—as if our interest or our pleasure <i>could</i> be apart +from yours. The child is so like Robert that I can believe +in the other likeness, and may the inner nature indeed, as +you say, be after that pure image! He is so fat and rosy +and strong that almost I am sceptical of his being my child. +I suppose he is, after all. May God bless you, both of you. +I am ashamed to send all these letters, but Robert makes +me. He is better, but still much depressed sometimes, and +over your letters he drops heavy tears. Then he treasures +them up and reads them again and again. Better, however, +on the whole, he is certainly. Poor little babe, who was too +much rejoiced over at <i>first</i>, fell away by a most natural +recoil (even <i>I</i> felt it to be <i>most natural</i>) from all that +triumph, but Robert is still very fond of him, and goes to +see him bathed every morning, and walks up and down on +the terrace with him in his arms. If your dear father can +toss and rock babies as Robert can, he will be a nurse in +great favour.</p> + +<p>Dearest Sarianna, take care of yourself, and do walk +out. No grief in the world was ever freer from the +corroding drop of bitterness—was ever sweeter, holier, and +more hopeful than this of yours must be. Love is for you +on both sides of the grave, and the blossoms of love meet +over it. May God's love, too, bless you!</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate sister,<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Florence: May 14, [1849].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—At last I come to thank you +for all your kindness, all your goodness, all your sympathy +for both of us. Robert would have written to you in the +first instance (for we <i>both</i> thought of you) if we had not +agreed that you would hear as quickly from Henrietta, we +not knowing your direct address. Also your welcome little +note should have had an immediate acknowledgment from +him if he had not been so depressed at that time that I was +glad to ask him to wait till I should be ready to write +myself. In fact, he has suffered most acutely from the +affliction you have since of course heard of; and just because +he was <i>too happy</i> when the child was born, the pain was +overwhelming afterwards. That is easy to understand, I +think. While he was full of joy for the child, his mother +was dying at a distance, and the very thought of accepting +that new affection for the old became a thing to recoil +from—do you not see? So far from suffering less through +the particular combination of circumstances, as some people +seemed to fancy he would, he suffered much more, I am +certain, and very naturally. Even now he is looking very +unwell—thinner and paler than usual, and his spirits, which +used to be so good, have not rallied. I long to get him +away from Florence somewhere—<i>where</i>, I can't fix my +wishes; our English plans seem flat on the ground for the +present, <i>that</i> is one sad certainty. My dearest sisters will +be very grieved if we don't go to England, and yet how can +I even try to persuade my husband back into the scene of +old associations where he would feel so much pain? Do I +not know what I myself should suffer in some places? +And he loved his mother with all his power of loving, which +is deeper and more passionate than love is with common +men. She hearts of men are generally strong in proportion +to their heads. Well, I am not to send you such a dull +letter though, after waiting so long, and after receiving so +much to speak thankfully of. My child you never would +believe to be <i>my child</i>, from the evidence of his immense +cheeks and chins—for pray don't suppose that he has only +one chin. People call him a lovely child, and if <i>I</i> were to +call him the same it wouldn't be very extraordinary, only I +assure you 'a robust child' I may tell you that he is with a +sufficient modesty, and also that Wilson says he is universally +admired in various tongues when she and the nurse go out +with him to the Cascine—'What a beautiful baby!' and +'Che bel bambino!' He has had a very stormy entrance +upon life, poor little fellow; and when he was just three +days old, a grand festa round the liberty tree planted at our +door, attended with military music, civic dancing and +singing, and the firing of cannons and guns from morning +to night, made him start in his cradle, and threw my careful +nurse into paroxysms of devotion before the 'Vergine +Santissima' that I mightn't have a fever in consequence. +Since then the tree of liberty has come down with a crash +and we have had another festa as noisy on that occasion. +Revolution and counter-revolution, Guerazzi<a name="FNanchor_189_189"></a><a href="#Footnote_189_189"><sup>[189]</sup></a> and Leopold, +sacking of Florence and entrance of the Austrian army—we +live through everything, you see, and baby grows fat +indiscriminately. For my part, I am altogether <i>blasée</i> about +revolutions and invasions. Don't think it want of feeling in +me, or want of sympathy with 'the people,' but really I +can't help a certain political latitudinarianism from creeping +over me in relation to this Tuscany. You ought to be here +to understand what I mean and how I think. Oh heavens! +how ignoble it all has been and is! A revolution made by +boys and <i>vivas</i>, and unmade by boys and <i>vivas</i>—no, +there was blood shed in the unmaking—some horror and +terror, but not as much patriotism and truth as could lift +up the blood from the kennel. The counter-revolution was +strictly <i>counter</i>, observe. I mean, that if the Leghornese +troops here bad paid their debts at the Florentine coffee +houses, the Florentines would have let their beloved Grand +Duke stay on at Gaeta to the end of the world. The +Grand Duke, too, whose part I have been taking hitherto +(because he did seem to me a good man, more sinned +against than sinning)—the Grand Duke I give up from +henceforth, seeing that he has done this base thing of +taking again his Austrian titles in his proclamations +coincidently with the approach of the Austrians. Of Rome, +knowing nothing, I don't like to speak. If a republic <i>in +earnest</i> is established there, Louis Napoleon should not try +to set his foot on it. Dearest Mrs. Martin, how you +mistake me about France, and how too lightly I must have +spoken. If you knew how I admire the French as a nation! +Robert always calls them '<i>my beloved French</i>.' Their very +faults appear to me to arise from an excess of ideality +land aspiration; but I was vexed rather at their selection +of Louis Napoleon—a selection since justified by the +firmness and apparent integrity of the man. His reputation +in England, you will admit, did not promise the conclusion. +Will he be emperor, do you imagine? And shall I ever +have done talking politics? I would far rather talk of <i>you</i>, +after all. Henrietta tells me of your looking well, but of +your not being strong yet. Now do, <i>for once</i>, have a fit of +egotism and tell me a little about yourself.... Surely I ought +especially to thank you, dearest kind friend, for your goodness +in writing to—, of which Henrietta very properly told +me. I never shall forget this and other proofs of your +affection for me, and shall remember them with warm +gratitude always. As to—, I have held out both [my] +hands, and my husband's hands in mine, again and again +to him; he cannot possibly, in the secret place of his heart, +expect more from either of us. My husband would have +written to him in the first place, but for the obstacles raised +by himself and others, and now what <i>could</i> Robert write +and say except the bare repetition of what I have said over +and over for him and myself? It is exactly an excuse—not +more and not less. Just before I was ill I sent my last +messages, because, with certain hazards before me, my +heart turned to them naturally. I might as well have turned +to a rock.—has been by far the kindest, and has +written to me two or three little notes, and one since the +birth of our child. I love them all far too well to be proud, +and my husband loves me too well not to wish to be friends +with every one of them; we have neither of us any stupid +feeling about 'keeping up our dignity.' Yes, I had a letter +from—some time ago, in which something was said +of Robert's being careless of reconciliation. I answered +it most explicitly and affectionately, with every possible +assurance from Robert, and offering them from himself the +affection of a brother. Not a word in answer! To my +poor dearest papa I have written very lately, and as my +letter has not, after a week, been sent back, I catch at the +hope of his being moved a little. If he neither sends it +back nor replies severely, I shall take courage to write to +him again after a while. It will be an immense gain to get +him only to read my letters. My father and my brothers +hold quite different positions, of course, and though he has +acted sternly towards me, I, knowing his peculiarities, do +not feel embittered and astonished and disappointed as in +the other cases. Absolutely happy my marriage has been—never +could there be a happier marriage (as there are no +marriages in heaven); but dear Henrietta is quite wrong in +fancying, or seeming to fancy, that this quarrel with my +family has given or gives me slight pain. Old affections +are not so easily trodden out of me, indeed, and while I +live unreconciled to them, there must be a void and +drawback. Do write to me and tell me of both of you, +my very dear friends. Don't fancy that we are not anxious +for brave Venice and Sicily, and that we don't hate this +Austrian invasion. But Tuscany has acted a vile part +altogether—<i>so</i> vile, that I am sceptical about the Romans. +We expect daily the Austrians in Florence, and have made +up our minds to be very kind. May God bless you! Do +write, and mention your health particularly, as I am anxious +about it. I am quite well myself, and, as ever,</p> + +<p>Your affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>Don't you both like Macaulay's History? We are +delighted just now with it.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Browning</i><br /> +[Florence: about June 1849.]<br /> + +<p>I must say to my dearest Sarianna how delighted we are +at the thought of seeing her in Florence. I wish it had +been before the autumn, but since autumn is decided for +we must be content to reap our golden harvest at the time +for such things. Certainly the summer heat of Florence is +terrible enough—only we should have carried you with us +into the shade somewhere to the sea or to the mountains—and +Robert has, of course, told you of our Spezzia plan. +The 'fatling of the flock' has been sheared closely of his +long petticoats. Did he tell you that? And you can't +think how funny the little creature looks without his train, +his wise baby face appearing to approve of the whole +arrangement. He talks to himself now and smiles at +everybody, and admired my roses so much the other day +that he wanted to eat them; having a sublime transcendental +notion about the mouth being the receptacle of all +beauty and glory in this world. Tell your dear father that +certainly he <i>is</i> a 'sweet baby,' there's no denying it. We +lay him down on the floor to let him kick at ease, and he +makes violent efforts to get up by himself, and Wilson +declares that the least encouragement would set him walking. +Robert's nursing does not mend his spirits much. I +shall be very glad to get him away from Florence; he has +suffered too much here to rally as I long to see him do, +because, dearest Sarianna, we have to live after all; and to +live rightly we must turn our faces forward and press +forward and not look backward morbidly for the footsteps +in the dust of those beloved ones who travelled with us but +yesterday. They themselves are not behind but before, +and we carry with us our tenderness living and undiminished +towards them, to be completed when the round of this life +is complete for us also. Dearest Sarianna, why do I say +such things, but because I have known what grief is? Oh, +and how I could have compounded with you, grief for grief, +mine for yours, for <i>I</i> had no last words nor gestures, +Sarianna. God keep you from such a helpless bitter agony +as mine then was. Dear Sarianna, you will think of us and +of Florence, my dear sister, and remember how you have +made us a promise and have to keep it. May God bless +you and comfort you. We think of you and love you +continually, and I am always your most affectionate</p> + +<p>BA.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>In July the move from Florence, of which Mrs. Browning +speaks in the above letter, was effected, the place ultimately +chosen for escape from the summer heat in the valley of +the Arno being the Bagni di Lucca. Here three months +were spent, as the following letters describe. By this time +the struggle for Italian liberty had ended in failure everywhere. +The battle of Novara, on March 23, had prostrated +Piedmont, and caused the abdication of its king, Charles +Albert. The Tuscan Republic had come and gone, and +the Grand Duke had re-entered his capital under the +protection of Austrian bayonets. Sicily had been reduced +to subjection to the Bourbons of Naples. On July 2 the +French entered Rome, bringing back the Pope cured of his +leanings to reform and constitutional government; on the +24th, Venice, after an heroic resistance, capitulated to the +Austrians. The struggle was over for the time; the longing +for liberty becomes, of necessity, silent; and we hear little, +for a space, of Italian politics. For the moment it might +seem justifiable to despair of the republic.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Bagni di Lucca, Toscana: [about July 1849].<br /> + +<p>At last, you will say, dearest friend. The truth is, I have +not been forgetting you (how far from that!) but wandering +in search of cool air and a cool bough among all the olive +trees to build our summer nest on. My husband has been +suffering beyond what one could shut one's eyes to in consequence +of the great mental shock of last March—loss of +appetite, loss of sleep, looks quite worn and altered. His +spirits never rallied except with an effort, and every letter +from New Cross threw him back into deep depressions. I +was very anxious, and feared much that the end of it all +(the intense heat of Florence assisting) would be a nervous +fever or something similar. And I had the greatest difficulty +in persuading him to leave Florence for a month or two—he +who generally delights so in travelling, had no mind for +change or movement. I had to say and swear that baby +and I couldn't bear the heat, and that we must and would +go away. <i>Ce que femme veut</i>, if the latter is at all reasonable, +or the former persevering. At last I gained the +victory. It was agreed that we two should go on an +exploring journey to find out where we could have most +shadow at least expense; and we left our child with his +nurse and Wilson while we were absent. We went along +the coast to Spezzia, saw Carrara with the white marble +mountains, passed through the olive forests and the vineyards, +avenues of acacia trees, chestnut woods, glorious +surprises of most exquisite scenery. I say olive forests +advisedly; the olive grows like a forest tree in those regions, +shading the ground with tents of silvery network. The +olive near Florence is but a shrub in comparison, and I +have learnt to despise a little, too, the Florentine vine, +which does not swing such portcullises of massive dewy +green from one tree to another as along the whole road +where we travelled. Beautiful, indeed, it was. Spezzia +wheels the blue sea into the arms of the wooded mountains, +and we had a glance at Shelley's house at Lerici. It was +melancholy to me, of course. I was not sorry that the +lodgings we inquired about were far above our means. We +returned on our steps (after two days in the dirtiest of +possible inns), saw Seravezza, a village in the mountains, +where rock, river, and wood enticed us to stay, and the +inhabitants drove us off by their unreasonable prices. It is +curious, but just in proportion to the want of civilisation the +prices rise in Italy. If you haven't cups and saucers you are +made to pay for plate. Well, so finding no rest for the + +sole of our feet, I persuaded Robert to go to the Baths of +Lucca, only to see them. We were to proceed afterwards +to San Marcello or some safer wilderness. We had both of +us, but he chiefly, the strongest prejudice against these Baths +of Lucca, taking them for a sort of wasp's nest of scandal +and gaming, and expecting to find everything trodden flat +by the Continental English; yet I wanted to see the place, +because it is a place to see after all. So we came, and were +so charmed by the exquisite beauty of the scenery, by the +coolness of the climate and the absence of our countrymen, +political troubles serving admirably our private requirements, +that we made an offer for rooms on the spot, and returned +to Florence for baby and the rest of our establishment +without further delay. Here we are, then; we have been +here more than a fortnight. We have taken an apartment +for the season—four months—paying twelve pounds for the +whole term, and hoping to be able to stay till the end of +October. The living is cheaper than even at Florence, so +that there has been no extravagance in coming here. In +fact, Florence is scarcely tenable during the summer from +the excessive heat by day and night, even if there were no +particular motive for leaving it. We have taken a sort of eagle's +nest in this place, the highest house of the highest of the three +villages which are called the Bagni di Lucca, and which lie +at the heart of a hundred mountains sung to continually by +a rushing mountain stream. The sound of the river and of +the cicala is all the noise we hear. Austrian drums and +carriage wheels cannot vex us; God be thanked for it; the +silence is full of joy and consolation. I think my husband's +spirits are better already and his appetite improved. +Certainly little babe's great cheeks are growing rosier and +rosier. He is out all day when the sun is not too strong, +and Wilson will have it that he is prettier than the whole +population of babies here. He fixes his blue eyes on +everybody and smiles universal benevolence, rather too +indiscriminately it might be if it were not for Flush. But +certainly, on the whole he prefers Flush. He pulls his ears +and rides on him, and Flush, though his dignity does not +approve of being used as a pony, only protests by turning +his head round to kiss the little bare dimpled feet. A +merrier, sweeter-tempered child there can't be than our +baby, and people wonder at his being so forward at four +months old and think there must be a mistake in his age. +He is so strong that when I put out two fingers and he has +seized them in his fists he can draw himself up on his feet, +but we discourage this forwardness, which is not desirable, +say the learned. Children of friends of mine at ten months +and a year can't do so much. Is it not curious that <i>my</i> +child should be remarkable for strength and fatness? He +has a beaming, thinking little face, too; oh, I wish you +could see it. Then my own strength has wonderfully improved, +just as my medical friends prophesied; and it seems +like a dream when I find myself able to climb the hills with +Robert and help him to lose himself in the forests. I have +been growing stronger and stronger, and where it is to stop +I can't tell, really; I can do as much, or more, now than at +any point of my life since I arrived at woman's estate. The +air of this place seems to penetrate the heart and not the lungs +only; it draws you, raises you, excites you. Mountain air +without its keenness, sheathed in Italian sunshine, think +what <i>that</i> must be! And the beauty and the solitude—for +with a few paces we get free of the habitations of men—all +is delightful to me. What is peculiarly beautiful and +wonderful is the variety of the shapes of the mountains. They +are a multitude, and yet there is no likeness. None, except +where the golden mist comes and transfigures them into +one glory. For the rest, the mountain there wrapt in the +chestnut forest is not like that bare peak which tilts against +the sky, nor like that serpent twine of another which seems +to move and coil in the moving coiling shadow. Oh, I +wish you were here. You would enjoy the shade of the +chestnut trees, and the sound of the waterfalls, and at nights +seem to be living among the stars; the fireflies are so +thick, you would like that too. We have subscribed to a +French library where there are scarcely any new books. I have +read Bernard's 'Gentilhomme Campagnard' (see how <i>arriérés</i> +we are in French literature!), and thought it the dullest and +worst of his books. I wish I could see the 'Memoirs of +Louis Napoleon,' but there is no chance of such good +fortune. All this egotism has been written with a heart full +of thoughts of you and anxieties for you. Do write to me +directly and say first how your precious health is, and then +that you have ceased to suffer pain for your friends.... +But your dear self chiefly—how are you, my dearest Miss +Mitford? I do long so for good news of you. On our +arrival here Mr. Lever called on us. A most cordial +vivacious manner, a glowing countenance, with the animal +spirits somewhat predominant over the intellect, yet the +intellect by no means in default; you can't help being +surprised into being pleased with him, whatever your previous +inclination may be. Natural too, and a <i>gentleman</i> +past mistake. His eldest daughter is nearly grown up, and +his youngest six months old. He has children of every sort +of intermediate age almost, but he himself is young enough +still. Not the slightest Irish accent. He seems to have +spent nearly his whole life on the Continent and by no +means to be tired of it. Ah, dearest Miss Mitford, hearts +feel differently, adjust themselves differently before the prick +of sorrow, and I confess I agree with Robert. There are +places stained with the blood of my heart for ever, and +where I could not bear to stand again. If duty called him +to New Cross it would be otherwise, but his sister is rather +inclined to come to us, I think, for a few weeks in the +autumn perhaps. Only these are scarcely times for plans +concerning foreign travel. It is something to talk of. It +has been a great disappointment to me the not going to +England this year, but I could not run the risk of the bitter +pain to him. May God bless you from all pain! Love me +and write to me, who am ever and ever your affectionate +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Jameson</i><br /> +Bagni di Lucca: August 11, 1849.<br /> + +<p>I thank you, dearest friend, for your most affectionate +and welcome letter would seem to come by instinct, and we +have thanked you in our thoughts long before this moment, +when I begin at last to write some of them. Do believe +that to value your affection and to love you back again are +parts of our life, and that it must be always delightful to us +to read in your handwriting or to hear in your voice that we +are not exiled from your life. Give us such an assurance +whenever you can. Shall we not have it face to face at +Florence, when the booksellers let you go? And meantime +there is the post; do write to us.... Did you ever see +this place, I wonder? The coolness, the charm of the +mountains, whose very heart you seem to hear beating in +the rush of the little river, the green silence of the chestnut +forests, and the seclusion which anyone may make for +himself by keeping clear of the valley-villages; all these +things drew us. We took a delightful apartment over the +heads of the whole world in the highest house of the Bagni +Caldi, where only the donkeys and the <i>portantini</i> can +penetrate, and where we sit at the open windows and hear +nothing but the cicale. Not a mosquito! think of that! +The thermometer ranges from sixty-eight to seventy-four, +but the seventy-four has been a rare excess: the nights, +mornings, and evenings are exquisitely cool. Robert and I +go out and lose ourselves in the woods and mountains, and +sit by the waterfalls on the starry and moonlit nights, and +neither by night nor day have the fear of picnics before our +eyes. We were observing the other day that we never met +anybody except a monk girt with a rope, now and then, or +a barefooted peasant. The sight of a pink parasol never +startles us into unpleasant theories of comparative anatomy. +One cause, perhaps, may be that on account of political +matters it is a delightfully 'bad season,' but, also, we are +too high for the ordinary walkers, who keep to the valley +and the flatter roads. Robert is better, looking better, and +in more healthy spirits; and we are both enjoying this +great sea of mountains and our way of life here altogether. +Of course, we remembered to go back to Florence for baby +and the rest of our little establishment, and we mean to stay +as long as we can, perhaps to the end of October. Baby +is in the triumph of health and full-blown roses, and as +he does not hide himself in the woods like his ancestors, +but smiles at everybody, he is the most popular of possible +babies.... We had him baptised before we left Florence, without +godfathers and godmothers, in the simplicities of the French +Lutheran Church. I gave him your kiss as a precious +promise that you would love him one day like a true dear +Aunt Nina; and I promise you on my part that he shall be +taught to understand both the happiness and the honour of +it. Robert is expecting a visit from his sister in the course +of this autumn. She has suffered much, and the change +will be good for her, even if, as she says, she can stay with +us only a few weeks. With her we shall have your book, to +be disinherited of which so long has been hard on us. +Robert's own we have not seen yet. It must be satisfactory +to you to have had such a clear triumph after all the dust +and toil of the way. And now tell me, won't it be <i>necessary</i> +for you to come again to Italy for what remains to be done? +Poor Florence is quiet enough under the heel of Austria, +and Leopold 'l'intrepido,' as he was happily called by a +poet of Viareggio in a welcoming burst of inspiration, sits +undisturbed at the Pitti. I despair of the republic in Italy, +or rather of Italy altogether. The instructed are not +patriotic, and the patriots are not instructed. We want not +only a <i>man</i>, but men, and we must throw, I fear, the bones +of their race behind us before the true deliverers can spring +up. Still, it is not all over; there will be deliverance +presently, but it will not be now. We are full of painful +sympathy for poor Venice. There! why write more about +politics? It makes us sick enough to think of Austrians in +our Florence without writing the thought out into greater +expansion. Only don't let the 'Times' newspaper persuade +you that there is no stepping with impunity out of England. +... We have 'lectures on Shakespeare' just now by a Mr. +Stuart, who is enlightening the English barbarians at the +lower village, and quoting Mrs. Jameson to make his +discourse more brilliant. We like to hear 'Mrs. Jameson +observes.' Give our love to dear Gerardine. I am anxious +for her happiness and yours involved in it. Love and +remember us, dearest friend.</p> + +<p>Your E.B.B., or rather, BA.</p> +<div class="blkquot"> +<p>The following note is added in Mr. Browning's handwriting:</p> +</div> + +<p>Dear Aunt Nina,—Will there be three years before I see +you again? And Geddie; does she not come to Italy? +When we passed through Pisa the other day, we went to +your old inn in love of you, and got your very room to dine +in (the landlord is dead and gone, as is Peveruda—of the +other house, you remember). There were the old vile +prints, the old look-out into the garden, with its orange +trees and painted sentinel watching them. Ba must have +told you about our babe, and the little else there is to tell—that +is, for <i>her</i> to tell, for she is not likely to encroach upon +<i>my</i> story which I <i>could</i> tell of her entirely angel nature, as +divine a heart as God ever made; I know more of her every +day; I, who thought I knew something of her five years +ago! I think I know you, too, so I love you and am</p> + +Ever yours and dear Geddie's<br /> +R.B.<br /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Bagni di Lucca: August 31, 1849.<br /> + +<p>I told Mr. Lever what you thought of him, dearest +friend, and then he said, all in a glow and animation, that +you were not only his own delight but the delight of his +children, which is affection by refraction, isn't it? Quite +gratified he seemed by the hold of your good opinion. Not +only is he the notability <i>par excellence</i> of these Baths of +Lucca, where he has lived a whole year, during the snows +upon the mountains, but he presides over the weekly balls +at the casino where the English 'do congregate' (all except +Robert and me), and is said to be the light of the flambeaux +and the spring of the dancers. There is a general desolation +when he <i>will</i> retire to play whist. In addition to +which he really seems to be loving and loveable in his +family. You always see him with his children and his wife; +he drives her and her baby up and down along the only +carriageable road of Lucca: so set down that piece of +domestic life on the bright side in the broad charge against +married authors; now do. I believe he is to return to +Florence this winter with his family, having had enough of +the mountains. Have you read 'Roland Cashel,' isn't <i>that</i> +the name of his last novel? The 'Athenaeum' said of it +that it was '<i>new ground</i>,' and praised it. I hear that he gets +a hundred pounds for each monthly number. Oh, how +glad I was to have your letter, written in such pain, read in +such pleasure! It was only fair to tell me in the last lines +that the face-ache was better, to keep off a fit of remorse. +I do hope that Mr. May is not right about neuralgia, because +that is more difficult to cure than pain which arises from +the teeth. Tell me how you are in all ways. I look into +your letters eagerly for news of your health, then of your +spirits, which are a part of health. The cholera makes me +very frightened for my dearest people in London, and +silence, the last longer than usual, ploughs up my days +and nights into long furrows. The disease rages in the +neighbourhood of my husband's family, and though Wimpole +Street has been hitherto clear, who can calculate on what +may be? My head goes round to think of it. And papa, +who <i>will</i> keep going into that horrible city! Even if my +sisters and brothers should go into the country as every +year, he will be left, he is no more movable than St. +Paul's. My sister-in-law will probably not come to us +as soon as she intended, through a consideration for her +father, who ought not, Robert thinks, to stay alone in the +midst of such contingencies, so perhaps we may go to seek +her ourselves in the spring, if she does not seek us out +before in Italy. God keep us all, and near to one another. +Love runs dreadful risks in the world. Yet Love is, how +much the best thing in the world? We have had a great +event in our house. Baby has cut a tooth.... His little +happy laugh is always ringing through the rooms. He is +afraid of nobody or nothing in the world, and was in fits +of ecstasy at the tossing of the horse's head, when he rode +on Wilson's knee five or six miles the other day to a village +in the mountains—screaming for joy, she said. He is not +six months yet by a fortnight! His father loves him; +passionately, and the sentiment is reciprocated, I assure +you. We have had the coolest of Italian summers at these +Baths of Lucca, the thermometer at the hottest hour of the +hottest day only at seventy-six, and generally at sixty-eight +or seventy. The nights invariably cool. Now the freshness +of the air is growing almost too fresh. I only hope we shall +be able (for the cold) to keep our intention of staying here +till the end of October, I have enjoyed it so entirely, and +shall be so sorry to break off this happy silence into the +Austrian drums at poor Florence. And then we want to see +the vintage. Some grapes are ripe already, but it is not +vintage time. We have every kind of good fruit, great +water-melons, which with both arms I can scarcely carry, at +twopence halfpenny each, and figs and peaches cheap in +proportion. And the place agrees with Baby, and has done +good to my husband's spirits, though the only 'amusement' +or distraction he has is looking at the mountains and +climbing among the woods with me. Yes, we have been +reading some French romances, 'Monte Cristo,' for instance, +I for the second time—but I have liked it, to read it with +him. That Dumas certainly has power; and to think of +the scramble there was for his brains a year or two ago in +Paris! For a man to write so much and so well together +is a miracle. Do you mean that they have left off writing—those +French writers—or that they have tired you out with +writing that looks faint beside the rush of facts, as the range +of French politics show those? Has not Eugène Sue been +illustrating the passions? Somebody told me so. Do <i>you</i> +tell me how you like the French President, and whether he +will ever, in your mind, sit on Napoleon's throne. It +seems to me that he has given proof, as far as the evidence +goes, of prudence, integrity, and conscientious patriotism; +the situation is difficult, and he fills it honorably. The +Rome business has been miserably managed; this is the +great blot on the character of his government. But I, for +my own part (my husband is not so minded), do consider +that the French motive has been good, the intention pure, +the occupation of Rome by the Austrians being imminent +and the French intervention the only means (with the +exception of a European war) of saving Rome from the hoof +of the Absolutists. At the same time if Pius IX. is the +obstinate idiot he seems to be, good and tenderhearted man +as he surely is, and if the old abuses are to be restored, why +Austria might as well have done her own dirty work and +saved French hands from the disgrace of it. It makes us +two very angry. Robert especially is furious. We are +not within reach of the book you speak of, 'Portraits des +Orateurs Français' oh, we might nearly as well live on a +desert island as far as modern books go. And here, at +Lucca, even Robert can't catch sight of even the 'Athenaeum.' +We have a two-day old 'Galignani,' and think ourselves +royally off; and then this little shop with French books in +it, just a few, and the 'Gentilhomme Campagnard' the +latest published. Yes, but somebody lent us the first +volume of 'Chateaubriand's Mémoires.' Have you seen +it? Curiously uninteresting, considering 'the man and the +hour.' He writes of his youth with a grey goose quill; the +paper is all wrinkled. And then he is not frank; he must +have more to tell than he tells. I looked for a more intense +and sincere book <i>outre tombe</i> certainly. I am busy +about my new edition, that is all at present, but some things +are written. Good of Mr. Chorley (he is <i>good</i>) to place +you face to face with Robert's books, and I am glad you +like 'Colombe' and 'Luria.' Dear Mr. Kenyon's poems +we have just received and are about to read, and I am +delighted at a glance to see that he has inserted the +'Gipsy Carol,' which in MS. was such a favorite of +mine. Really, is he so rich? I am glad of it, if he is. +Money could not be in more generous and intelligent +hands. Dearest Miss Mitford, you are only just in being +trustful of my affection for you. Never do I forget +nor cease to love you. Write and tell me of your dear +self; how you are <i>exactly</i>, and whether you have been +at Three Mile Cross all the summer. May God bless +you. Robert's regards. Can you read? Love a little +your</p> + +<p>Ever affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Jameson</i><br /> +Bagni di Lucca: October 1, [1849].<br /> + +<p>There seems to be a fatality about our letters, dearest +friend, only the worst fate comes to me! I lose, and you +are <i>near</i> losing! And I should not have liked you to lose +any least proof of my thinking of you, lest a worst loss +should happen to me as a consequence, even worse than +the loss of your letters; for then, perhaps, and by degrees, +you might leave off thinking of Robert and me, which, rich +as we are in this mortal world, I do assure you we could +neither of us afford.... We have had much quiet enjoyment +here in spite of everything, read some amusing books +(Dumas and Sue—shake your head!), and seen our child +grow fuller of roses and understanding day by day. Before +he was six months old he would stretch out his hands and +his feet too, when bidden to do so, and his little mouth to +kiss you. This is said to be a miracle of forwardness +among the learned. He knows Robert and me quite well +as 'Papa' and 'Mama,' and laughs for joy when he meets +us out of doors. Robert is very fond of him, and threw +me into a fit of hilarity the other day by springing away +from his newspaper in an indignation against me because +he hit his head against the floor rolling over and over. 'Oh, +Ba, I really can't trust you!' Down Robert was on the +carpet in a moment, to protect the precious head. He +takes it to be made of Venetian glass, I am certain. +We may leave this place much sooner than the end of +October, as everything depends upon the coming in of the +cold. It will be the end of October, won't it, before +Gerardine can reach Florence? I wish I knew. We have +made an excursion into the mountains, five miles deep, +with all our household, baby and all, on horseback and +donkeyback, and people open their eyes at our having +performed such an exploit—I and the child. Because it is +five miles straight up the Duomo; you wonder how any +horse could keep its footing, the way is so precipitous, up +the exhausted torrent courses, and with a palm's breadth +between you and the headlong ravines. Such scenery. +Such a congregation of mountains: looking alive in the +stormy light we saw them by. We dined with the goats, +and baby lay on my shawl rolling and laughing. He wasn't +in the least tired, not he! I won't say so much for myself. +The Mr. Stuart who lectured here on Shakespeare (I think +I told you that) couldn't get through a lecture without quoting +you, and wound up by a declaration that no English critic +had done so much for the divine poet as a woman—Mrs. +Jameson. He appears to be a cultivated and refined person, +and especially versed in German criticism, and we mean to +<i>use</i> his society a little when we return to Florence, where +he resides.... What am I to say about Robert's idleness +and mine? I scold him about it in a most anti-conjugal +manner, but, you know, his spirits and nerves have been +shaken of late; we must have patience. As for me, I am +much better, and do something, really, now and then. Wait, +and you shall have us both on you; too soon, perhaps. +May God bless you. How are your friends? Lady Byron, +Madame de Goethe. The dreadful cholera has made us +anxious about England.</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +<p>Mr. Browning adds the following note:</p> +</div> + +<p>Dear Aunt Nina,—Ba will have told you everything, +and how we wish you and Geddie all manner of happiness. +I hope we shall be in Florence when she passes through it. +The place is otherwise distasteful to me, with the creeping +curs and the floggers of the same. But the weather is +breaking up here, and I suppose we ought to go back soon. +Shall you indeed come to Italy next year? That will +indeed be pleasant to expect. We hope to go to England +in the spring. What comes of 'hoping,' however, we [know] +by this time.</p> + +<p>Ever yours affectionately,<br /> +R.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Bagni di Lucca: October 2, 1849.<br /> + +<p>Thank you, my dearest Miss Mitford: It is great +comfort to know that you are better, and that the cholera +does not approach your neighbourhood. My brothers and +sisters have gone to Worthing for a few weeks; and though +my father (dearest Papa!) is not persuadeable, I fear, into +joining them, yet it is something to know that the horrible +pestilence is abating in London. Oh, it has made me so +anxious: I have caught with such a frightened haste at the +newspaper to read the 'returns,' leaving even such subjects +as Rome and the President's letter to quite the last, as if +they were indifferent, or, at most, bits of Mrs. Manning's +murder. By the way and talking of murder, how do you +account for the crown of wickedness which England bears +just now over the heads of the nations, in murders of all +kinds, by poison, by pistol, by knife? In this poor +Tuscany, which has not brains enough to govern itself, as +you observe, and as really I can't deny, there have been +two murders (properly so called) since we came, just three +years ago, one from jealousy and one from revenge +(respectable motives compared to the advantages of the +burying societies!), and the horror on all sides was great, as +if the crime were some rare prodigy, which, indeed, it is in +this country. We have <i>no punishment of death</i> here, +observe! The people are gentle, courteous, refined, and +tenderhearted. What Balzac would call 'femmelette.' All +Tuscany is 'Lucien' himself. The leaning to the artistic +nature without the strength of genius implies demoralisation +in most cases, and it is this which makes your 'good +for nothing poets and poetesses,' about which I love so to +battle with you. Genius, I maintain always, you know, is +a purifying power and goes with high moral capacities. +Well, and so you invite us home to civilisation and 'the +"Times" newspaper.' We <i>mean</i> to go next spring, and shall +certainly do so unless something happen to catch us and +keep us in a net. But always something does happen: and +I have so often built upon seeing England, and been +precipitated from the fourth storey, that I have learnt to +think warily now. I hunger and thirst for the sight of some +faces; must I not long, do you think, to see your face? +And then, I shall be properly proud to show my child to +those who loved me before him. He is beginning to +understand everything—chiefly in Italian, of course, as his +nurse talks in her sleep, I fancy, and can't be silent a +second in the day—and when told to 'dare un bacio a +questo povero Flush,' he mixes his little face with Flush's +ears in a moment.... You would wonder to see Flush +just now. He suffered this summer from the climate +somewhat as usual, though not nearly as much as usual; +and having been insulted oftener than once by a supposition +of 'mange,' Robert wouldn't bear it any longer (he is as +fond of Flush as I am), and, taking a pair of scissors, clipped +him all over into the likeness of a lion, much to his +advantage in both health and appearance. In the winter +he is always quite well; but the heat and the fleas together +are too much in the summer. The affection between baby +and him is not equal, baby's love being far the stronger. +He, on the other hand, looks down upon baby. What bad +news you tell me of our French writers! What! Is it +possible that Dumas even is struck dumb by the revolution? +His first works are so incomparably the worst that I can't +admit your theory of the 'first runnings.' So of Balzac. +So of Sue! George Sand is probably writing 'banners' +for the 'Reds,' which, considering the state of parties +in France, does not really give me a higher opinion of +her intelligence or virtue. Ledru Rollin's<a name="FNanchor_190_190"></a><a href="#Footnote_190_190"><sup>[190]</sup></a> <i>confidante</i> and +councillor can't occupy an honorable position, and I am +sorry, for her sake and ours. When we go to Florence we +must try to get the 'Portraits' and Lamartine's autobiography, +which I still more long to see. So, two women +were in love with him, were they? That must be a comfort +to look back upon, now, when nobody will have him. I +see by extracts from his newspaper in Galignani that he +can't be accused of temporising with the Socialists any +longer, whatever other charge may be brought against him: +and if, as he says, it was he who made the French republic, +he is by no means irreproachable, having made a bad and +false thing. The President's letter about Rome<a name="FNanchor_191_191"></a><a href="#Footnote_191_191"><sup>[191]</sup></a> has +delighted us. A letter worth writing and reading! We +read it first in the Italian papers (long before it was printed +in Paris), and the amusing thing was that where he speaks +of the 'hostile influences' (of the cardinals) they had misprinted +it '<i>orribili</i> influenze,' which must have turned still +colder the blood in the veins of Absolutist readers. The +misprint was not corrected until long after—more than a +week, I think. The Pope is just a pope; and, since you +give George Sand credit for having known it, I am the more +vexed that Blackwood (under 'orribili influenze') did not +publish the poem I wrote two years ago,<a name="FNanchor_192_192"></a><a href="#Footnote_192_192"><sup>[192]</sup></a> in the full glare +and burning of the Pope-enthusiasm, which Robert and I +never caught for a moment. Then, <i>I</i> might have passed a +little for a prophetess as well as George Sand! Only, to +confess a truth, the same poem would have proved how fairly +I was taken in by our Tuscan Grand Duke. Oh, the traitor!</p> + +<p>I saw the 'Ambarvalia'<a name="FNanchor_193_193"></a><a href="#Footnote_193_193"><sup>[193]</sup></a> reviewed somewhere—I fancy +in the 'Spectator '—and was not much struck by the +extracts. They may, however, have been selected without +much discrimination, and probably were. I am very glad +that you like the gipsy carol in dear Mr. Kenyon's volume, +because it is, and was in MS., a great favorite of mine. +There are excellent things otherwise, as must be when he +says them: one of the most radiant of benevolences with +one of the most refined of intellects! How the paper +seems to dwindle as I would fain talk on more. I have +performed a great exploit, ridden on a donkey five miles +deep into the mountains to an almost inaccessible volcanic +ground not far from the stars. Robert on horseback, and +Wilson and the nurse (with baby) on other donkeys; +guides, of course. We set off at eight in the morning and +returned at six P.M., after dining on the mountain pinnacle, +I dreadfully tired, but the child laughing as usual, and +burnt Brick-colour for all bad effect. No horse or ass, +untrained to the mountains, could have kept foot a moment +where we penetrated, and even as it was one could not +help the natural thrill. No road except the bed of exhausted +torrents above and through the chestnut forests, and +precipitous beyond what you would think possible for +ascent or descent. Ravines tearing the ground to pieces +under your feet. The scenery, sublime and wonderful, +satisfied us wholly, however, as we looked round on the +world of innumerable mountains bound faintly with the +grey sea, and not a human habitation. I hope you will go +to London this winter; it will be good for you, it seems to +me. Take care of yourself, my much and ever loved friend! +I love you and think of you indeed. Write of your health, +remembering this,</p> + +<p>And your affectionate,<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>My husband's regards always. You had better, I think, +direct to <i>Florence</i>, as we shall be there in the course of +October.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<p>To Florence, accordingly, they returned in October, and +settled down once more in Casa Guidi for the winter. +Mrs. Browning's principal literary occupation at this time +was the preparation of a new edition of her poems, including +nearly all the contents of the 'Seraphim' volume of 1838, +more or less revised, as well as the 'Poems' of 1844. This +edition, published in 1850, has formed the basis of all subsequent +editions of her poems. Meanwhile her husband was +engaged in the preparation of 'Christmas Eve and Easter +Day,' which was also published in the course of 1850.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: December I, 1849.<br /> + +<p>My ever loved friend, you will have wondered at this +unusual silence; and so will my sisters to whom I wrote +just now, after a pause as little in my custom. It was not +the fault of my head and heart, but of this unruly body, +which has been laid up again in the way of all flesh of +mine....</p> + +<p>I am well again now, only obliged to keep quiet and +give up my grand walking excursions, which poor Robert +used to be so boastful of. If he is vain about anything in +the world, it is about my improved health, and I used to +say to him, 'But you needn't talk so much to people of +how your wife walked here with you and there with you, as +if a wife with a pair of feet was a miracle of nature.' Now +the poor feet have fallen into their old ways again. Ah, +but if God pleases it won't be for long....</p> + +<p>The American authoress, Miss Fuller, with whom we +had had some slight intercourse by letter, and who has been +at Rome during the siege, as a devoted friend of the republicans +and a meritorious attendant on the hospitals, has +taken us by surprise at Florence, retiring from the Roman +field with a husband and child above a year old. Nobody +had even suspected a word of this underplot, and her +American friends stood in mute astonishment before this +apparition of them here. The husband is a Roman marquis, +appearing amiable and gentlemanly, and having fought well, +they say, at the siege, but with no pretension to cope with +his wife on any ground appertaining to the intellect. She +talks, and he listens. I always wonder at that species of +marriage; but people are so different in their matrimonial +ideals that it may answer sometimes. This Mdme. +Ossoli saw George Sand in Paris—was at one of her +soirées—and called her 'a magnificent creature.' The +soirée was 'full of rubbish' in the way of its social composition, +which George Sand likes, <i>nota bene</i>. If Mdme. +Ossoli called it '<i>rubbish</i>' it must have been really +rubbish—not expressing anything conventionally so—she being +one of the out and out <i>Reds</i> and scorners of grades of +society. She said that she did not see Balzac. Balzac +went into the world scarcely at all, frequenting the lowest +cafés, so that it was difficult to track him out. Which +information I receive doubtingly. The rumours about +Balzac with certain parties in Paris are not likely to be +too favorable nor at all reliable, I should fancy; besides, +I never entertain disparaging thoughts of my demi-gods +unless they should be forced upon me by evidence you +must know. I have not made a demi-god of Louis +Napoleon, by the way—no, and I don't mean it. I expect +some better final result than he has just proved himself to +be of the French Revolution, with all its bitter and cruel +consequences hitherto, so I can't quite agree with you. +Only so far, that he has shown himself up to this point to be +an upright man with noble impulses, and that I give him +much of my sympathy and respect in the difficult position +held by him. A man of genius he does not seem to be—and +what, after all, will he manage to do at Rome? I +don't take up the frantic Republican cry in Italy. I know +too well the want of knowledge and the consequent want of i +effective faith and energy among the Italians; but there +is a stain upon France in the present state of the Roman +affair, and I don't shut my eyes to that either. To cast +Rome helpless and bound into the hands of the priests is +dishonor to the actors, however we consider the act; and +for the sake of France, even more than for the sake of Italy, +I yearn to see the act cancelled. Oh, we have had the +sight of Clough and Burbidge, at last. Clough has more +thought, Burbidge more music; but I am disappointed in +the book on the whole. What I like infinitely better is +Clough's 'Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich,' a 'long vacation +pastoral,' written in loose and more-than-need-be unmusical +hexameters, but full of vigour and freshness, and with +passages and indeed whole scenes of great beauty and +eloquence. It seems to have been written before the other +poems. Try to get it, if you have not read it already. I +feel certain you will like it and think all the higher of the +poet. Oh, it strikes both Robert and me as being worth +twenty of the other little book, with its fragmentary, +dislocated, unartistic character. Arnold's volume has two +good poems in it: 'The Sick King of Bokhara' and 'The +Deserted Merman.' I like them both. But none of these +writers are <i>artists</i>, whatever they may be in future days. +Have you read 'Shirley,' and is it as good as 'Jane Eyre'? +We heard not long since that Mr. Chorley had discovered +the author, <i>the</i> 'Currer Bell.' A woman, most certainly. +We hear, too, that three large editions of the 'Princess' are +sold. So much the happier for England and poetry.</p> + +<p>Dearest dear Miss Mitford, mind you write to me, and +don't pay me out in my own silence! <i>You</i> have not been +ill, I hope and trust. Write and tell me every little thing +of yourself—how you are, and whether there is still danger +of your being uprooted from Three Mile Cross. I love +and think of you always. Fancy Flush being taken in the +light of a rival by baby! Oh, baby was quite jealous the +other day, and strugggled and kicked to get to me because +he saw Flush leaning his pretty head on my lap. There's +a great strife for privileges between those two. May God +bless you! My husband's kind regards always, while I +am your most</p> + +<p>Affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: January 9, 1850.<br /> + +<p>Thank you, ever dearest Miss Mitford, for this welcome +letter written on your birthday! May the fear of small-pox +have passed away long before now, and every hope and +satisfaction have strengthened and remained!...</p> + +<p>May God bless you and give you many happy years, +you who can do so much towards the happiness of others. +May I not answer for my own?...</p> + +<p>Little Wiedeman began to crawl on Christmas Day. +Before, he used to roll. We throw things across the floor +and he crawls for them like a little dog, on all fours....</p> + +<p>He has just caught a cold, which I make more fuss +about than I ought, say the wise; but I can't get resigned +to the association of any sort of suffering with his laughing +dimpled little body—it is the blowing about in the wind +of such a heap of roses. So you prefer 'Shirley' to 'Jane +Eyre'! Yet I hear from nobody such an opinion; yet you +are very probably right, for 'Shirley' may suffer from the +natural reaction of the public mind. What you tell me of +Tennyson interests me as everything about him must. I +like to think of him digging gardens—room for cabbage and +all. At the same time, what he says about the public +'<i>hating</i> poetry' is certainly not a word for Tennyson. +Perhaps no true poet, having claims upon attention <i>solely</i> +through his poetry, has attained so certain a success with +such short delay. Instead of being pelted (as nearly every +true poet has been), he stands already on a pedestal, and is +recognised as a master spirit not by a coterie but by the +great public. Three large editions of the 'Princess' have +already been sold. If he isn't satisfied after all, I think +he is wrong. Divine poet as he is, and no laurel being +too leafy for him, yet he must be an unreasonable +man, and not understanding of the growth of the laurel +trees and the nature of a reading public. With regard to +the other garden-digger, dear Mr. Home, I wish as you do +that I could hear something satisfactory of him. I wrote +from Lucca in the summer, and have no answer. The +latest word concerning him is the announcement in the +'Athenaeum' of a third edition of his 'Gregory the Seventh,' +which we were glad to see, but very, very glad we should +be to have news of his prosperity in the flesh as well as in +the <i>litterae scriptae</i>....</p> + +<p>I have not been out of doors these two months, but +people call me 'looking well,' and a newly married niece of +Miss Bayley's, the accomplished Miss Thomson, who has +become the wife of Dr. Emil Braun (the learned German +secretary of the Archaeological Society), and just passed +through Florence on her way to Rome, where they are to +reside, declared that the change she saw in me was +miraculous—'wonderful indeed.' I took her to look at Wiedeman +in his cradle, fast asleep, and she won my heart (over again, +for always she was a favorite of mine) by exclaiming at +his prettiness. Charmed, too, we both were with Dr. +Braun—I mean Robert and I were charmed. He has a mixture +of fervour and simplicity which is still more delightfully +picturesque in his foreign English. Oh, he speaks English +perfectly, only with an obvious accent enough. I am sure +we should be cordial friends, if the lines had fallen to us in +the same pleasant places; but he is fixed at Rome, and we +are half afraid of the enervating effects of the Roman +climate on the constitutions of children. Tell me, do you +hear often from Mr. Chorley? It quite pains us to observe +from his manner of writing the great depression of his +spirits. His mother was ill in the summer, but plainly the +sadness does not arise entirely or chiefly from this cause. +He seems to me over-worked, taxed in the spirit. I advise +nobody to give up work; but that 'Athenaeum' labour is a +sort of treadmill discipline in which there is no progress, +nor triumph, and I do wish he would give that up and +come out to us with a new set of anvils and hammers. +Only, of course, he couldn't do it, even if he would, while +there is illness in his family. May there be a whole sun +of success shining on the new play! Robert is engaged on +a poem,<a name="FNanchor_194_194"></a><a href="#Footnote_194_194"><sup>[194]</sup></a> and I am busy with my edition. So much to +correct, I find, and many poems to add. Plainly 'Jane +Eyre' was by a woman. It used to astound me when +sensible people said otherwise. Write to me, will you? I +long to hear again. Tell me everything of yourself; accept +my husband's true regards, and think of me as your</p> + +<p>Ever affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Miss Browning</i><br /> +Florence: January 29, 1850.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Sarianna,—I have waited to thank you for +your great and ready kindness about the new edition, until +now when it is fairly on its way to England. Thank you, +thank you! I am only afraid, not that you will find anything +too 'learned,' as you suggest, but a good many things too +careless, I was going to say, only Robert, with various deep +sighs for 'his poor Sarianna,' devoted himself during several +days to rearranging my arrangements, and simplifying my +complications. It was the old story of Order and Disorder +over again. He pulled out the knotted silks with an indefatigable +patience, so that really you will owe to <i>him</i> every +moment of ease and facility which may be enjoyable in the +course of the work. I am afraid that at the easiest you +will find it a vexatious business, but I throw everything on +your kindness, and am not distrustful on such a point of +weights and measures.</p> + +<p>Your letter was full of sad news. Robert was deeply +affected at the account of the illness of his cousin—was in +tears before he could end the letter. I do hope that in a +day or two we may hear from you that the happy change +was confirmed as time passed on. I do hope so; it will be +joy, not merely to Robert, but to me, for indeed I never +forget the office which his kindness performed for both of +us at a crisis ripe with all the happiness of my life.</p> + +<p>Then it was sad to hear of your dear father suffering +from lumbago. May the last of it have passed away long +before you get what I am writing! Tell him with my love +that Wiedeman shall hear some day (if we all live) the verses +he wrote to him; and I have it in my head that little +Wiedeman will be very sensitive to verses and kindness +too—he likes to hear anything rhythmical and musical, and he +likes to be petted and kissed—the most affectionate little +creature he is—sitting on my knee, while I give him books +to turn the leaves over (a favorite amusement), every two +minutes he puts up his little rosebud of a mouth to have a +kiss. His cold is quite gone, and he has taken advantage +of the opportunity to grow still fatter; as to his activities, +there's no end to them. His nurse and I agree that he +doesn't remain quiet a moment in the day....<a name="FNanchor_195_195"></a><a href="#Footnote_195_195"><sup>[195]</sup></a></p> + +<p>Now the love of nephews can't bear any more, Sarianna, +can it? Only your father will take my part and say that it +isn't tedious—beyond pardoning.</p> + +<p>May God bless both of you, and enable you to send a +brighter letter next time. Robert will be very anxious.</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate sister<br /> +BA.</p> + +Mention yourself, <i>do</i>.<br /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: February 18, 1850.<br /> + +<p>Ever dearest Miss Mitford, you <i>always</i> give me pleasure, +so for love's sake don't say that you 'seldom give it,' and +such a magical act as conjuring up for me the sight of a +new poem by Alfred Tennyson<a name="FNanchor_196_196"></a><a href="#Footnote_196_196"><sup>[196]</sup></a> is unnecessary to prove +you a right beneficent enchantress. Thank you, thank you. +We are not so unworthy of your redundant kindness as to +abuse it by a word spoken or sign signified. You may +trust us indeed. But now you know how free and sincere +I am always! Now tell me. Apart from the fact of this lyric's +being a fragment of fringe from the great poet's 'singing +clothes' (as Leigh Hunt says somewhere), and apart from a +certain sweetness and rise and fall in the rhythm, do you +really see much for admiration in the poem? Is it <i>new</i> in, +any way? I admire Tennyson with the most worshipping +part of the multitude, as you are aware, but I do <i>not</i> +perceive much in this lyric, which strikes me, and Robert +also (who goes with me throughout), as quite inferior to the +other lyrical snatches in the 'Princess.' By the way, if he +introduces it in the 'Princess,' it will be the only <i>rhymed</i> +verse in the work. Robert thinks that he was thinking of +the Rhine echoes in writing it, and not of any heard in his +Irish travels. I hear that Tennyson has taken rooms above +Mr. Forster's in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and is going to try a +London life. So says Mr. Kenyon.... I am writing with +an easier mind than when I wrote last, for I was for a little +time rendered very unhappy (so unhappy that I couldn't +touch on the subject, which is always the way with me when +pain passes a certain point), by hearing accidentally that +papa was unwell and looking altered. My sister persisted +in replying to my anxieties that they were unfounded, that +I was quite absurd, indeed, in being anxious at all; only +people are not generally reformed from their absurdities +through being scolded for them. Now, however, it +really appears that the evil has passed. He left his doctor +who had given him lowering medicines, and, coincidently +with the leaving, he has recovered looks and health altogether. +Arabel says that I should think he was looking +as well as ever, if I saw him, and that appetite and spirits +are even redundant. Thank God.... To have this good +news has made me very happy, and I overflow to you accordingly. +Oh, there is pain enough from that quarter, without +hearing of his being out of health. I write to him continually +and he does not now return my letters, which is a +melancholy something gained. Now enough of such a +subject.</p> + +<p>I certainly don't think that the qualities, half savage and +half freethinking, expressed in 'Jane Eyre' are likely to suit +a model governess or schoolmistress; and it amuses me to +consider them in that particular relation. Your account +falls like dew upon the parched curiosity of some of our +friends here, to whom (as mere gossip, which did not leave +you responsible) I couldn't resist the temptation of +communicating it. People <i>are</i> so curious—even here among +the Raffaels—about this particular authorship, yet nobody +seems to have read 'Shirley'; we are too slow in getting +new books. First Galignani has to pirate them himself, and +then to hand us over the spoils. By the way, there's to be +an international copyright, isn't there? Something is talked +of it in the 'Athenaeum.' Meanwhile the Americans have +already reprinted my husband's new edition. 'Landthieves, +I mean pirates.' I used to take that for a slip of the pen in +Shakespeare; but it was a slip of the pen into prophecy. +Sorry I am at Mrs. —— falling short of your warm-hearted +ideas about her! Can you understand a woman's +hating a girl because it is not a boy—her first child too? +I understand it so little that scarcely I can believe it. Some +women <i>have</i>, however, undeniably an indifference to children, +just as many men have, though it must be unnatural +and morbid in both sexes. Men often affect it—very foolishly, +if they count upon the scenic effects; affectation never +succeeds well, and this sort of affectation is peculiarly +unbecoming, except in old bachelors, for there is a pathetic +side to the question so viewed. For my part and my +husband's, we may be frank and say that we have caught +up our parental pleasures with a sort of passion. But then, +Wiedeman is such a darling little creature; who <i>could</i> help +loving the child?... Little darling! So much mischief +was not often put before into so small a body. Fancy the +child's upsetting the water jugs till he is drenched (which +charms him), pulling the brooms to pieces, and having +serious designs upon cutting up his frocks with a pair of +scissors. He laughs like an imp when he can succeed in +doing anything wrong. Now, see what you get, in return +for your kindness of 'liking to hear about' him! Almost I +have the grace to be ashamed a little. Just before I had +your letter we sent my new edition to England. I gave +much time to the revision, and did not omit reforming +some of the rhymes, although you must consider that the +irregularity of these in a certain degree rather falls in with +my system than falls out through my carelessness. So +much the worse, you will say, when a person is <i>systematically</i> +bad. The work will include the best poems of the 'Seraphim' +volume, strengthened and improved as far as the circumstances +admitted of. I had not the heart to leave out the +wretched sonnet to yourself, for your dear sake; but I rewrote +the latter half of it (for really it wasn't a sonnet at all, +and 'Una and her lion' are rococo), and so placed it with +my other poems of the same class. There are some new, +verses also.<a name="FNanchor_197_197"></a><a href="#Footnote_197_197"><sup>[197]</sup></a> The Miss Hardings I have seen, and talked +with them of <i>you</i>, a sure way of finding them delightful. +But, my dearest friend, I shall not see any of the Trollope +party—it is not likely. You can scarcely image to yourself +the retired life we live, or how we have retreated from the +kind advances of the English society here. Now people +seem to understand that we are to be left alone; that +nothing is to be made of us. The fact is, we are not like +our child, who kisses everybody who smiles at him! Neither +my health nor our pecuniary circumstances, nor our inclinations +perhaps, would admit of our entering into English +society here, which is kept up much after the old English +models, with a proper disdain for Continental simplicities +of expense. We have just heard from Father Prout, who +often, he says, sees Mr. Horne, 'who is as dreamy as ever.' +So glad I am, for I was beginning to be uneasy about him. +He has not answered my letter from Lucca. The verses +in the 'Athenaeum'<a name="FNanchor_198_198"></a><a href="#Footnote_198_198"><sup>[198]</sup></a> are on Sophia Cottrell's child.</p> + +<p>May God bless you, dearest friend. Speak of <i>yourself</i> +more particularly to your ever affectionate</p> + +<p>E.B.B.</p> + +<p>Robert's kindest regards. Tell us of Mr. Chorley's +play, do.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Florence: February 22, 1850.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Mrs. Martin,—Have you wondered that I +did not write before? It was not that I did not thank +you in my heart for your kind, considerate letter, but I was +unconquerably uncomfortable about papa; and, what with +the weather, which always has me in its power somehow, and +other things, I fell into a dislike of writing, which I hope +you didn't mistake for ingratitude, because it was not in the +least like the same fault. Now the severe weather (such +weather for Italy!) has broken up, and I am relieved in all +ways, having received the most happy satisfactory news +from Wimpole Street, and the assurance from my sisters +that if I were to see papa I should think him looking as well +as ever. He grew impatient with Dr. Elliotson's medicines +which, it appears, were of a very lowering character—suddenly +gave them up, and as suddenly recovered his looks and all the rest, +and everybody at home considers him to be <i>quite well</i>. It +has relieved me of a mountain's weight, and I thank God with great +joy. Oh, you must have understood how natural it was for me to be +unhappy under the other circumstances. But if you thought, dearest +friend, that <i>they</i> were necessary to induce me to write to +him the humblest and most beseeching of letters, you do +not know how I feel his alienation or my own love for him. +I With regard to my brothers, it is quite different, though +even towards <i>them</i> I may faithfully say that my affection +has borne itself higher than my pride. But as to papa, I +have never contended about the right or the wrong, I have +never irritated him by seeming to suppose that his severity +to me has been more than justice. I have confined myself +simply to a supplication for—his forgiveness of what he +called, in his own words, the only fault of my life towards +him, and an expression of the love which even I must feel +I for him, whether he forgives me or not. This has been +done in letter after letter, and they are not sent back—it is +all. In my last letter, I ventured to ask him to let it be an +understood thing that he should before the world, and to +every practical purpose, act out his idea of justice by +excluding me formally, me and mine, from every advantage +he intended his other children—that, having so been +just, he might afford to be merciful by giving me his +forgiveness and affection—all I asked and desired. My +husband and I had talked this over again and again; only +it was a difficult thing to say, you see. At last I took +courage and said it, because, doing it, papa might seem +to himself to reconcile his notion of strict justice, and +whatever remains of pity and tenderness might still be in +his heart towards me, if there are any such. I <i>know</i> he +has strong feelings at bottom—otherwise, should I love him +so?—but he has adopted a bad system, and he (as well as +I) is crushed by it.... If I were to write to you the +political rumours we hear every day, you would scarcely +think our situation improved in safety by the horrible +Austrian army. Florence bristles with cannon on all sides, +and at the first movement we are promised to be bombarded. +On the other hand, if the red republicans get uppermost +there will be a universal massacre; not a priest, according +to their own profession, will be left alive in Italy. The +constitutional party hope they are gaining strength, but the +progress which depends on intellectual growth must necessarily +be slow. That the Papacy has for ever lost its +prestige and power over souls is the only evident truth; +bright and strong enough to cling to. I hear even devout +women say: 'This cursed Pope! it's all his fault.' Protestant +places of worship are thronged with Italian faces, and the +minister of the Scotch church at Leghorn has been +threatened with exclusion from the country if he admits +Tuscans to the church communion. Politically speaking, +much will depend upon France, and I have strong hope for +France, though it is so strictly the fashion to despair of her. +Tell me dear Mr. Martin's impression and your own—everything +is good that comes from you. But most <i>particularly</i>, +tell me how you both are—tell me whether you are strong +again, dearest Mrs. Martin, for indeed I do not like to +hear of your being in the least like an invalid. Do speak +of yourself a little more. Do you know, you are very +unsatisfactory as a letter-writer when you write about +yourself—the reason being that you never do write about +yourself except by the suddenest snatches, when you can't +possibly help the reference....</p> + +<p>Robert sends his true regards with those of your<br /> +Gratefully affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mrs. Jameson</i><br /> +April 2, [1850].<br /> + +<p>You have perhaps thought us ungrateful people, my ever +dear friend, for this long delay in thanking you for your +beautiful and welcome present.<a name="FNanchor_199_199"></a><a href="#Footnote_199_199"><sup>[199]</sup></a> Here is the truth. +Though we had the books from Rome last month, they +were snatched from us by impatient hands before we had +finished the first volume. The books are hungered and +thirsted for in Florence, and, although the English reading +club has them, they can't go fast enough from one to +another. Four of our friends entreated us for the reversion, +and although it really is only just that we should be let +read our own books first, yet Robert's generosity can't resist +the need of this person who is 'going away,' and of that +person who is 'so particularly anxious'—for particular +reasons perhaps—so we renounce the privilege you gave us +(with the pomps of this world) and are still waiting to +finish even the first volume. Our cultivated friends the +Ogilvys, who had the work from us earliest, because they +were going to Naples, were charmed with it. Mr. Kirkup +the artist, who disputes with Mr. Bezzi the glory of finding +Dante's portrait—yes, and breathes fire in the dispute—has +it now. Madame Ossoli, Margaret Fuller, the American +authoress, who brought from the siege of Rome a noble +marquis as her husband, asks for it. And your adorer +Mr. Stuart, who has lectured upon Shakespeare all the +winter, entreats for it. So when we shall be free to enjoy +it thoroughly for ourselves remains doubtful. Robert +promises every day, 'You shall have it next, certainly,' and +I only hope you will put him and me in your next edition +of the martyrs, for such a splendid exercise of the gifts +of self-renunciation. But don't fancy that we have not +been delighted with the sight of the books, with your +kindness, and besides with the impressions gathered from +a rapid examination of the qualities of the work. It +seems to us in every way a valuable and most interesting +work; it must render itself a <i>necessity</i> for art students, +and general readers and seers of pictures like me, who +carry rather sentiment than science into the consideration +of such subjects. We much admire your introduction—excellent +in all ways, besides the grace and eloquence. +Altogether, the work must set you higher with a high class +of the public, and I congratulate you on what is the gain of +all of us. Robert has begun a little pencil list of trifling +criticisms he means to finish. We both cry aloud at what +you say of Guercino's angels, and never would have said if +you had been to Fano and seen his divine picture of the +'Guardian Angel,' which affects me every time I think of it. +Our little Wiedeman had his part of pleasure in the book +by being let look at the engravings. He screamed for joy +at the miracle of so many bird-men, and kissed some of +them very reverentially, which is his usual way of expressing +admiration....</p> + +<p>Whether you will like Robert's new book I don't know, +but I am sure you will admit the originality and power in it. +I wish we had the option of giving it to you, but Chapman +& Hall never seem to think of our giving copies away, +nor leave them at our disposal. There is nothing <i>Italian</i> +in the book; poets are apt to be most present with the +distant. A remark of Wilson's<a name="FNanchor_200_200"></a><a href="#Footnote_200_200"><sup>[200]</sup></a> used to strike me as +eminently true—that the perfectest descriptive poem (descriptive +of rural scenery) would <i>be</i> naturally produced in a +London cellar. I have read 'Shirley' lately; it is not equal +to 'Jane Eyre' in spontaneousness and earnestness. I +found it heavy, I confess, though in the mechanical part of +the writing—the compositional <i>savoir faire</i>—there is an +advance. Robert has exhumed some French books, just +now, from a little circulating library which he had not tried, +and we have been making ourselves uncomfortable over +Balzac's 'Cousin Pons.' But what a wonderful writer he +is! Who else could have taken such a subject, out of the +lowest mud of humanity, and glorified and consecrated it? +He is wonderful—there is not another word for him—profound, +as Nature is. S I complain of Florence for the want of +books. We have to dig and dig before we can get anything +new, and <i>I</i> can read the newspapers only through +Robert's eyes, who only can read them at Vieusseux's in a +room sacred from the foot of woman. And this isn't always +satisfactory to me, as whenever he falls into a state of +disgust with any political <i>régime</i>, he throws the whole +subject over and won't read a word more about it. +Every now and then, for instance, he ignores France +altogether, and I, who am more tolerant and more curious, +find myself suspended over an hiatus <i>(valde deflendus</i>), and +what's to be said and done? M. Thiers' speech—'Thiers +is a rascal; I make a point of not reading one word said +by M. Thiers.' M. Prudhon—'Prudhon is a madman; +who cares for Prudhon?' The President—'The President's +an ass; <i>he</i> is not worth thinking of.' And so we treat of +politics.</p> + +<p>I wish you would write to us a little oftener (or rather, a +good deal) and tell us much of yourself. It made me very +sorry that you should be suffering in the grief of your +sister—you whose sympathies are so tender and quick! May it +be better with you now! Mention Lady Byron. I shall +be glad to hear that she is stronger notwithstanding this +cruel winter. We have lovely weather here now, and I am +quite well and able to walk out, and little Wiedeman rolls +with Flush on the grass of the Cascine. Dear kind Wilson +is doatingly fond of the child, and sometimes gives it as +her serious opinion that 'there never <i>was</i> such a child +before.' Of course I don't argue the point much. Now, +will you write to us? Speak of your plans particularly when +you do. We have taken this apartment on for another +year from May. May God bless you! Robert unites in +affectionate thanks and thoughts of all kinds, with your</p> + +<p>E.B.B.—rather, BA.</p> + +<p>This letter has waited some days to be sent away, as you +will see by the date.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>At the end of March 1850, the long-deferred marriage of +Mrs. Browning's sister, Henrietta, to Captain Surtees Cook +took place. It is of interest here mainly as illustrating +Mr. Barrett's behaviour to his daughters. An application +for his consent only elicited the pronouncement, 'If +Henrietta marries you, she turns her back on this house +for ever,' and a letter to Henrietta herself reproaching +her with the 'insult' she had offered him in asking his +consent when she had evidently made up her mind to the +conclusion, and declaring that, if she married, her name +should never again be mentioned in his presence. The +marriage having thereupon taken place, his decision was +forthwith put into practice, and a second child was thenceforward +an exile from her father's house.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: [end of] April 1850.<br /> + +<p>You will have seen in the papers, dearest friend, the +marriage of my sister Henrietta, and will have understood +why I was longer silent than usual. Indeed, the event +has much moved me, and so much of the emotion was +painful—painfulness being inseparable from events of the sort +in our family—that I had to make an effort to realise to myself +the reasonable degree of gladness and satisfaction in her release +from a long, anxious, transitional state, and her prospect of +happiness with a man who has loved her constantly and who +is of an upright, honest, reliable, and religious mind. Our +father's objections were to his Tractarian opinions and insufficient +income. I have no sympathy myself with Tractarian +opinions, but I cannot under the circumstances think an +objection of the kind tenable by a third person, and in truth +we all know that if it had not been this objection, it would +have been another—there was no escape any way. An +engagement of five years and an attachment still longer +were to have some results; and I can't regret, or indeed do +otherwise than approve from my heart, what she has done +from hers. Most of her friends and relatives have considered +that there was no choice, and that her step is abundantly +justified. At the same time, I thank God that a letter sent +to me to ask my advice never reached me (the <i>second</i> letter +of my sisters' lost, since I left them), because no advice +<i>ought</i> to be given on any subject of the kind, and because I, +especially, should have shrunk from accepting such a responsibility. +So I only heard of the marriage three days before +it took place—no, four days before—and was upset, as you +may suppose, by the sudden news. Captain Surtees Cook's +sister was one of the bridesmaids, and his brother performed +the ceremony. The <i>means</i> are very small of course—he has +not much, and my sister has nothing—still it seems to me +that they will have enough to live prudently on, and he looks +out for a further appointment. Papa 'will never again let her +name be mentioned in his hearing,' he <i>says</i>, but we must +hope. The dreadful business passed off better on the whole +than poor Arabel expected, and things are going on as +quietly as usual in Wimpole Street now. I feel deeply for +<i>her</i>, who in her pure disinterestedness just pays the price +and suffers the loss. She represents herself, however, to be +relieved at the crisis being passed. I earnestly hope for her +sake that we may be able to get to England this year—a sight +of us will be some comfort. Henrietta is to live at Taunton +for the present, as he has a military situation there, and they +are preparing for a round of visits among their many friends +who are anxious to have them previous to their settling. +All this, you see, will throw me back with papa, even if I +can be supposed to have gained half a step, and I doubt it. +Oh yes, dearest Miss Mitford. I have indeed again and +again thought of your 'Emily,' stripping the situation of +'the favour and prettiness' associated with that heroine. +Wiedeman might compete, though, in darlingness with the +child, as the poem shows him. Still, I can accept no omen. +My heart sinks when I dwell upon peculiarities difficult to +analyse. I love him very deeply. When I write to him, I +lay myself at his feet. Even if I had gained half a step (and +I doubt it, as I said), see how I must be thrown back by the +indisposition to receive others. But I cannot write of this +subject. Let us change it....</p> + +<p>Madame Ossoli sails for America in a few days, with the +hope of returning to Italy, and indeed I cannot believe that +her Roman husband will be easily naturalised among the +Yankees. A very interesting person she is, far better than +her writings—thoughtful, spiritual in her habitual mode of +mind; not only exalted, but <i>exaltée</i> in her opinions, and yet +calm in manner. We shall be sorry to lose her. We have +lost, besides, our friends Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvy, cultivated and +refined people: they occupied the floor above us the last +winter, and at the Baths of Lucca and Florence we have +seen much of them for a year past. She published some +time since a volume of 'Scottish Minstrelsy,' graceful and +flowing, and aspires strenuously towards poetry; a pretty +woman with three pretty children, of quick perceptions and +active intelligence and sensibility. They are upright, +excellent people in various ways, and it is a loss to us that +they should have gone to Naples now. Dearest friend, how +your letter delighted me with its happy account of your +improved strength. Take care of yourself, do, to lose no +ground. The power of walking must refresh your spirits as +well as widen your daily pleasures. I am so glad. Thank +God. We have heard from Mr. Chorley, who seems to +have received very partial gratification in respect to his play +and yet prepares for more plays, more wrestlings in the same +dust. Well, I can't make it out. A man of his sensitiveness +to choose to appeal to the coarsest side of the public—which, +whatever you dramatists may say, you all certainly do—is +incomprehensible to me. Then I cannot help thinking +that he might achieve other sorts of successes more easily +and surely. Your criticism is very just. But <i>I</i> like his +'Music and Manners in Germany' better than anything he +has done. I believe I always <i>did</i> like it best, and since +coming to Florence I have heard cultivated Americans +speak of it with enthusiasm, yes, with enthusiasm. 'Pomfret' +they would scarcely believe to be by the same author. I +agree with you, but it is a pity indeed for him to tie himself +to the wheels of the 'Athenaeum,' to <i>approfondir</i> the ruts; +what other end? And, by the way, the 'Athenaeum,' since +Mr. Dilke left it, has grown duller and duller, colder and +colder, flatter and flatter. Mr. Dilke was not brilliant, but +he was a Brutus in criticism; and though it was his +speciality to condemn his most particular friends to the +hangman, the survivors thought there was something grand +about it on the whole, and nobody could hold him in contempt. +Now it is all different. We have not even 'public +virtue' to fasten our admiration to. You will be sure to +think I am vexed at the article on my husband's new poem.<a name="FNanchor_201_201"></a><a href="#Footnote_201_201"><sup>[201]</sup></a> +Why, certainly I am vexed! Who would <i>not</i> be vexed with +such misunderstanding and mistaking. Dear Mr. Chorley +writes a letter to appreciate most generously: so you see +how little power he has in the paper to insert an opinion, +or stop an injustice. On the same day came out a burning +panegyric of six columns in the 'Examiner,' a curious +cross-fire. If you read the little book (I wish I could send +you a copy, but Chapman & Hall have not offered us +copies, and you will catch sight of it somewhere), I hope +you will like things in it at least. It seems to me full of +power. Two hundred copies went off in the first fortnight, +which is a good beginning in these days. So I am to confess +to a satisfaction in the American piracies. Well, I +confess, then. Only it is rather a complex smile with which +one hears: 'Sir or Madam, we are selling your book at +half price, as well printed as in England.' 'Those apples +we stole from your garden, we sell at a halfpenny, instead +of a penny as you do; they are much appreciated.' Very +gratifying indeed. It's worth while to rob us, that's plain, +and there's something magnificent in supplying a distant +market with apples out of one's garden. Still the smile is +complex in its character, and the morality—simple, that's all I +meant to say. A letter from Henrietta and her husband, +glowing with happiness; it makes <i>me</i> happy. She says, 'I +wonder if I shall be as happy as you, Ba.' God grant it. +It was signified to her that she should at once give up her +engagement of five years, or leave the house. She married +directly. I do not understand how it could be otherwise, +indeed. My brothers have been kind and affectionate, I +am glad to say; in her case, poor dearest papa does injustice +chiefly to his own nature, by these severities, hard as they +seem. Write soon and talk of yourself to</p> + +<p>Ever affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>I am rejoicing in the People's Edition of your work. +'Viva!' (Robert's best regards.)</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Jameson</i><br /> +Florence: May 4, [1850],<br /> + +<p>Dearest Friend,—This little note will be given to you +by the Mr. Stuart of whom I once told you that he was +holding you up to the admiration of all Florence and the +Baths of Lucca as the best English critic of Shakespeare, in +his lectures on the great poet....</p> + +<p>Robert bids me say that he wrote you a constrained +half-dozen lines by Mr. Henry Greenough, who asked for a +letter of introduction to you, while the asker was sitting in +the room, and the form of 'dear Mrs. Jameson' couldn't +well be escaped from. He loves you as well as ever, you +are to understand, through every complication of forms, +and you are to love him, and <i>me</i>, for I come in as a part of +him, if you please. Did you get my thanks for the dear +Petrarch pen (so steeped in double-distilled memories that +it seems scarcely fit to be steeped in ink), and our appreciation +as well as gratitude for the books—which, indeed, +charm us more and more? Robert has been picking up +pictures at a few pauls each, 'hole and corner' pictures +which the 'dealers' had not found out; and the other day +he covered himself with glory by discovering and seizing on +(in a corn shop a mile from Florence) five pictures among +heaps of trash; and one of the best judges in Florence +(Mr. Kirkup) throws out such names for them as Cimabue, +Ghirlandaio, Giottino, a crucifixion painted on a banner, +Giottesque, if not Giotto, but <i>unique</i>, or nearly so, on +account of the linen material, and a little Virgin by a +Byzantine master. The curious thing is that two angel +pictures, for which he had given a scudo last year, prove to +have been each sawn off the sides of the Ghirlandaio, so +called, representing the 'Eterno Padre' clothed in a +mystical garment and encircled by a rainbow, the various +tints of which, together with the scarlet tips of the flying +seraphs' wings, are darted down into the smaller pictures +and complete the evidence, line for line. It has been a +grand altar-piece, cut to bits. Now come and see for +yourself. We can't say decidedly yet whether it will be +possible or impossible for us to go to England this year, +but in any case you must come to see Gerardine and Italy, +and we shall manage to catch you by the skirts then—so do +come. Never mind the rumbling of political thunders, +because, even if a storm breaks, you will slip under cover +in these days easily, whether in France or Italy. I can't +make out, for my part, how anybody can be afraid of such +things.</p> + +<p>Will you be among the likers or dislikers, I wonder +sometimes, of Robert's new book? The <i>faculty</i>, you will +recognise, in all cases; he can do anything he chooses. I +have complained of the <i>asceticism</i> in the second part, but he +said it was 'one side of the question.' Don't think that he +has taken to the cilix—indeed he has not—but it is his way +to <i>see</i> things as passionately as other people <i>feel</i> them....</p> + +<p>Chapman & Hall offer us no copies, or you should +have had one, of course. So Wordsworth is gone—a great +light out of heaven.</p> + +<p>May God bless you, my dear friend!</p> + +<p>Love your affectionate and grateful, for so many<br /> +reasons,<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>The death of Wordsworth on April 23 left the Laureateship +vacant, and though there was probably never any likelihood +of Mrs. Browning's being invited to succeed him, it +is worth noticing that her claims were advocated by so +prominent a paper as the 'Athenaeum,' which not only +urged that the appointment would be eminently suitable +under a female sovereign, but even expressed its opinion +that 'there is no living poet of either sex who can prefer a +higher claim than Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning.' No +doubt there would have been a certain appropriateness in +the post of Laureate to a Queen being held by a poetess, +but the claims of Tennyson to the primacy of English +poetry were rightly regarded as paramount. The fact that +in Robert Browning there was a poet of equal calibre with +Tennyson, though of so different a type, seems to have +occurred to no one.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: June 15, 1850.<br /> + +<p>My ever dear Friend,—How it grieves me that you should +have been so unwell again! From what you say about the +state of the house, I conclude that your health suffers from +that cause precisely; and that when you are warmly and +dryly walled in, you will be less liable to these attacks, +grievous to your friends as to you. Oh, I don't praise +anybody, I assure you, for wishing to entice you to live +near them. We come over the Alps for a sunny climate; +what should we not do for a moral atmosphere like yours? +I dare say you have chosen excellently your new residence, +and I hope you will get over the fuss of it with great +courage, remembering the advantages which it is likely to +secure to you. Tell me as much as you can about it all, +that I may shift the scene in the right grooves, and be able +to imagine you to myself out of Three Mile Cross. You +have the local feeling so eminently that I have long been +resolved on never asking you to migrate. Doves won't +travel with swallows; who should persuade them? This +is no migration—only a shifting from one branch to +another. With Reading on one side of you still, you will +lose nothing, neither sight nor friend. Oh, do write to me +as soon as you can, and say that the deepening summer +has done you good and given you strength; say it, if +possible. I shall be very anxious for the next letter.... +My only objection to Florence is the distance from +London, and the expense of the journey. One's heart is +pulled at through different English ties and can't get the +right rest, and I think we shall move northwards—try +France a little, after a time. The present year has been +full of petty vexation to us about the difficulty of going to +England, and it becomes more and more doubtful whether +we can attain to the means of doing it. There are four of +us and the child, you see, and precisely this year we are +restricted in means, as far as our present knowledge goes; +but I can't say yet, only I do very much fear. Nobody will +believe our promises, I think, any more, and my poor +Arabel will be in despair, and I shall lose the opportunity +of <i>authenticating</i> Wiedeman; for, as Robert says, all our fine +stories about him will go for nothing, and he will be set +down as a sham child. If not sham, how could human +vanity resist the showing him off bodily? That sounds +reasonable....</p> + +<p>Certainly you are disinterested about America, and, of +course, all of us who have hearts and heads must feel the +sympathy of a greater nation to be more precious than a +thick purse. Still, it is not just and dignified, this vantage +ground of American pirates. Liking the ends and +motives, one disapproves the means. Yes, even <i>you</i> do; +and if I were an American I should dissent with still more +emphasis. It should be made a point of honour with the +nation, if there is no point of law against the re publishers. +For my own part, I have every possible reason to thank and +love America; she has been very kind to me, and the visits +we receive here from delightful and cordial persons of that +country have been most gratifying to us. The American +minister at the court of Vienna, with his family, did not +pass through Florence the other day without coming to see +us—General Watson Webbe-with an air of moral as well as +military command in his brow and eyes. He looked, and +talked too, like one of oar dignities of the Old World. The +go-ahead principle didn't seem the least over-strong in +him, nor likely to disturb his official balance. What is to +happen next in France? Do you trust still your President? +He is in a hard position, and, if he leaves the Pope +where he is, in a dishonored one. As for the change in +the electoral law and the increase of income, I see nothing +in either to make an outcry against. There is great injustice +everywhere and a rankling party-spirit, and to speak +the truth and act it appears still more difficult than usual. +I was sorry, do you know, to hear of dear Mr. Horne's +attempt at Shylock; he is fit for higher things. Did I tell +you how we received and admired his Judas Iscariot? +Yes, surely I did. He says that Louis Blanc is a friend of +his and much with him, speaking with enthusiasm. I +should be more sorry at his being involved with the +Socialists than with Shylock—still more sorry; for I love +liberty so intensely that I hate Socialism. I hold it to be +the most desecrating and dishonouring to humanity of all +creeds. I would rather (for <i>me</i>) live under the absolutism +of Nicholas of Russia than in a Fourier machine, with my +individuality sucked out of me by a social air-pump. Oh, +if you happen to write again to Mrs. Deane, thank her +much for her kind anxiety; but, indeed, if I had lost my +darling I should not write verses about it.<a name="FNanchor_202_202"></a><a href="#Footnote_202_202"><sup>[202]</sup></a> As for the +Laureateship, it won't be given to <i>me</i>, be sure, +though the suggestion has gone the round of the English +newspapers—'Galignani' and all—and notwithstanding that most +kind and flattering recommendation of the 'Athenaeum,' for which +I am sure we should be grateful to Mr. Chorley. I think +Leigh Hunt should have the Laureateship. He has condescended +to wish for it, and has 'worn his singing clothes' +longer than most of his contemporaries, deserving the price +of long as well as noble service. Whoever has it will be, +of course, exempted from Court lays; and the distinction of +the title and pension should remain for Spenser's sake, if +not for Wordsworth's. We are very anxious to know about +Tennyson's new work, 'In Memoriam.' Do tell us about +it. You are aware that it was written years ago, and relates +to a son of Mr. Hallam, who was Tennyson's intimate +friend and the betrothed of his sister. I have heard, +through someone who had seen the MS., that it is full of +beauty and pathos.... Dearest, ever dear Miss Mitford, +speak particularly of your health. May God bless you, +prays</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> + +<p>Robert's kindest regards.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: July 8, 1850.<br /> + +<p>My dearest Miss Mitford,—I this moment have your +note; and as a packet of ours is going to England, I snatch +up a pen to do what I can with it in the brief moments +between this and post time. I don't wait till it shall be +possible to write at length, because I have something +immediate to say to you. Your letter is delightful, yet it is +not for <i>that</i> that I rush so upon answering it. Nor even is +it for the excellent news of your consenting, for dear Mr. +Chorley's sake, to give us some more of your 'papers,'<a name="FNanchor_203_203"></a><a href="#Footnote_203_203"><sup>[203]</sup></a> +though 'blessed be the hour, and month, and year' when +he set about editing the 'Ladies' Companion' and persuading +you to do such a thing. No, what I want to say is +strictly personal to me. You are the kindest, warmest-hearted, +most affectionate of critics, and precisely as such it +is that you have thrown me into a paroxysm of terror. My +dearest friend, <i>for the love of me</i>—I don't argue the point +with you—but I beseech you humbly,—kissing the hem of +your garment, and by all sacred and tender recollections of +sympathy between you and me, <i>don't</i> breathe a word about +any juvenile performance of mine—<i>don't</i>, if you have any +love left for me. Dear friend, 'disinter' anybody or anything +you please, but don't disinter <i>me</i>, unless you mean the +ghost of my vexation to vex you ever after. 'Blessed be +she who spares these stones.' All the saints know that I +have enough to answer for since I came to my mature +mind, and that I had difficulty enough in making most of +the 'Seraphim' volume presentable a little in my new +edition, because it was too ostensible before the public to +be caught back; but if the sins of my rawest juvenility are +to be thrust upon me—and sins are extant of even twelve +or thirteen, or earlier, and I was in print once when I was +ten, I think—what is to become of me? I shall groan as +loud as Christian did. Dearest Miss Mitford, now forgive +this ingratitude which is gratitude all the time. I love you +and thank you; but, right or wrong, mind what I say, and +let me love and thank you still more. When you see my +new edition you will see that everything worth a straw I +ever wrote is there, and if there were strength in conjuration +I would conjure you to pass an act of oblivion on +the stubble that remains—if anything does remain, indeed. +Now, more than enough of this. For the rest, I am +delighted. I am even so generous as not to be jealous of +Mr. Chorley for prevailing with you when nobody else +could. I had given it up long ago; I never thought you +would stir a pen again. By what charm did he prevail? +Your series of papers will be delightful, I do not doubt; +though I never could see anything in some of your heroes, +American or Irish. Longfellow is a poet; I don't refer to +<i>him</i>. Still, whatever you say will be worth hearing, and the +<i>guide</i> through 'Pompeii' will be better than many of the +ruins. 'The Pleader's Guide' I never heard of before. +Praed has written some sweet and tender things. Then I +shall like to hear you on Beaumont and Fletcher, and +Andrew Marvell.</p> + +<p>I have seen nothing of Tennyson's new poem. Do you +know if the echo-song is the most popular of his verses? +It is only another proof to my mind of the no-worth of +popularity. That song would be eminently sweet for a +common writer, but Tennyson has done better, surely; his +eminences are to be seen above. As for the laurel, in a +sense he is worthier of it than Leigh Hunt; only Tennyson +can wait, that is the single difference.</p> + +<p>So anxious I am about your house. Your health seems +to me mainly to depend on your moving, and I do urge +your moving; if not there, elsewhere. May God bless you, +ever dear friend!</p> + +<p>I dare say you will think I have given too much importance +to the rococo verses you had the goodness to speak +of; but I have a horror of being disinterred, there's the +truth! Leave the violets to grow over me. Because that +wretched school-exercise of a version of the 'Prometheus' +had been named by two or three people, wasn't I at the +pains of making a new translation before I left England, so +to erase a sort of half-visible and half invisible 'Blot on the +Scutcheon'? After such an expenditure of lemon-juice, +you will not wonder that I should trouble you with all this +talk about nothing....</p> + +<p>I am so delighted that you are to lift up your voice +again, and so grateful to Mr. Chorley.</p> + +<p>Ah yes, if we go to Paris we shall draw you. Mr. +Chorley shan't have all the triumphs to himself.</p> + +<p>Not a word more, says Robert, or the post will be +missed. God bless you! Do take care of yourself, and +<i>don't</i> stay in that damp house. And do make allowances +for love.</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>How glad I shall be if it is true that Tennyson is +married! I believe in the happiness of marriage, for men +especially.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> +<p>Through the greater part of the summer of 1850 the +Brownings held fast in Florence, and it was not until September, +when Mrs. Browning was recovering from a rather +sharp attack of illness, that they took a short holiday, going +for a few weeks to Siena, a place which they were again to +visit some years later, during the last two summers of Mrs. +Browning's life. The letter announcing their arrival is the +first in the present collection addressed to Miss Isa +Blagden. Miss Blagden was a resident in Florence for +many years, and was a prominent member of English +society there. Her friendship, not only with Mrs. Browning, +but with her husband, was of a very intimate character, and +was continued after Mrs. Browning's death until the end of +her own life in 1872.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss I. Blagden</i><br /> +Siena: September [1850].<br /> + +<p>Here I am keeping my promise, my dear Miss Blagden. +We arrived quite safely, and I was not too tired to sleep at +night, though tired of course, and the baby was a miracle +of goodness all the way, only inclining once to a <i>rabbia</i> +through not being able to get at the electric telegraph, but in +ecstasies otherwise at everything new. We had to stay at the +inn all night. We heard of a multitude of villas, none of +which could be caught in time for the daylight. On Sunday, +however, just as we were beginning to give it up, in Robert +came with good news, and we were settled in half an hour +afterwards here, a small house of some seven rooms, two +miles from Siena, and situated delightfully in its own grounds +of vineyard and olive ground, not to boast too much of a +pretty little square flower-garden. The grapes hang in +garlands (too tantalising to Wiedeman) about the walls and +before them, and, through and over, we have magnificent +views of a noble sweep of country, undulating hills and +various verdure, and, on one side, the great Maremma +extending to the foot of the Roman mountains. Our villa +is on a hill called 'poggio dei venti,' and the winds give us +a turn accordingly at every window. It is delightfully cool, +and I have not been able to bear my window open at night +since our arrival; also we get good milk and bread and eggs +and wine, and are not much at a loss for anything. Think +of my forgetting to tell you (Robert would not forgive me +for that) how we have a <i>specola</i> or sort of belvedere at the +top of the house, which he delights in, and which I shall +enjoy presently, when I have recovered my taste for climbing +staircases. He carried me up once, but the being carried +down was so much like being carried down the flue of a +chimney, that I waive the whole privilege for the future. +What is better, to my mind, is the expected fact of being +able to get books at Siena—<i>nearly</i> as well as at Brecker's, +really; though Dumas fils seems to fill up many of the +interstices where you think you have found something. +<i>Three</i> pauls a month, the subscription is; and for seven, +we get a 'Galignani,' or are promised to get it. We pay for +our villa ten scudi the month, so that altogether it is not +ruinous. The air is as fresh as English air, without English +dampness and transition; yes, and we have English lanes +with bowery tops of trees, and brambles and blackberries, +and not a wall anywhere, except the walls of our villa.</p> + +<p>For my part, I am recovering strength, I hope and believe. +Certainly I can move about from one room to another, +without reeling much: but I still look so ghastly, as to 'back +recoil,' perfectly knowing 'Why,' from everything in the +shape of a looking glass. Robert has found an armchair for +me at Siena. To say the truth, my time for enjoying this +country life, except the enchanting silence and the look from +the window, has not come yet: I must wait for a little more +strength. Wiedeman's cheeks are beginning to redden +already, and he delights in the pigeons and the pig and the +donkey and a great yellow dog and everything else now; +only he would change all your trees (except the apple trees), +he says, for the Austrian band at any moment. He is rather +a town baby....</p> + +<p>Our drawback is, dear Miss Blagden, that we have not +room to take you in. So sorry we both are indeed. Write +and tell me whether you have decided about Vallombrosa. +I hope we shall see much of you still at Florence, if not +here. We could give you everything here except a bed.</p> + +<p>Robert's kindest regards with those of</p> +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.</p> + +<p>My love to Miss Agassiz, whenever you see her.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Siena: September 24, 1850.<br /> + +<p>To think that it is more than two months since I wrote +last to you, my beloved friend, makes the said two months +seem even longer to me than otherwise they would necessarily +be—a slow, heavy two months in every case, 'with all the +weights of care and death hung at them.' Your letter reached +me when I was confined to my bed, and could scarcely read +it, for all the strength at my heart.... As soon as I could be +moved, and before I could walk from one room to another, +Dr. Harding insisted on the necessity of change of air (for +my part, I seemed to myself more fit to change the world +than the air), and Robert carried me into the railroad like a +baby, and off we came here to Siena. We took a villa a +mile and <i>a</i> half from the town, a villa situated on a windy +hill (called 'poggio al vento'), with magnificent views from +all the windows, and set in the midst of its own vineyard +and olive ground, apple trees and peach trees, not to speak +of a little square flower-garden, for which we pay <i>eleven +shillings one penny farthing the week</i>; and at the end of +these three weeks, our medical comforter's prophecy, to +which I listened so incredulously, is fulfilled, and I am able +to walk a mile, and am really as well as ever in all essential +respects.... Our poor little darling, too (see what disasters!), +was ill four-and-twenty hours from a species of sunstroke, +and frightened us with a heavy hot head and glassy staring +eyes, lying in a half-stupor. Terrible, the silence that fell +suddenly upon the house, without the small pattering feet +and the singing voice. But God spared us; he grew quite +well directly and sang louder than ever. Since we came +here his cheeks have turned into roses....</p> + +<p>What still further depressed me during our latter days at +Florence was the dreadful event in America—the loss of our +poor friend Madame Ossoli,<a name="FNanchor_204_204"></a><a href="#Footnote_204_204"><sup>[204]</sup></a> affecting in itself, and also +through association with that past, when the arrowhead of +anguish was broken too deeply into my life ever to be quite +drawn out. Robert wanted to keep the news from me till I +was stronger, but we live too <i>close</i> for him to keep anything +from me, and then I should have known it from the first +letter or visitor, so there was no use trying. The poor +Ossolis spent part of their last evening in Italy with us, he +and she and their child, and we had a note from her off +Gibraltar, speaking of the captain's death from smallpox. +Afterwards it appears that her child caught the disease and +lay for days between life and death; <i>recovered</i>, and then +came the final agony. 'Deep called unto deep,' indeed. +Now she is where there is no more grief and 'no more sea;' +and none of the restless in this world, none of the ship-wrecked +in heart ever seemed to me to want peace more +than she did. We saw much of her last winter; and over a +great gulf of differing opinion we both felt drawn strongly to +her. High and pure aspiration she had—yes, and a tender +woman's heart—and we honoured the truth and courage in +her, rare in woman or man. The work she was preparing +upon Italy would probably have been more equal to her +faculty than anything previously produced by her pen (her +other writings being curiously inferior to the impressions +her conversation gave you); indeed, she told me it was the +only production to which she had given time and labour. +But, if rescued, the manuscript would be nothing but the raw +material. I believe nothing was finished; nor, if finished, +could the work have been otherwise than deeply coloured +by those blood colours of Socialistic views, which would +have drawn the wolves on her, with a still more howling +enmity, both in England and America. Therefore it was +better for her to go. Only God and a few friends can be +expected to distinguish between the pure personality of a +woman and her professed opinions. She was chiefly known +in America, I believe, by oral lectures and a connection +with the newspaper press, neither of them happy means of +publicity. Was she happy in anything, I wonder? She told +me that she never was. May God have made her happy in +her death!</p> + +<p>Such gloom she had in leaving Italy! So full she was +of sad presentiment! Do you know she gave a <i>Bible</i> as a +parting gift from her child to ours, writing in it '<i>In memory +of</i> Angelo Eugene Ossoli'—a strange, prophetical expression? +That last evening a prophecy was talked of jestingly—an +old prophecy made to poor Marquis Ossoli, 'that he should +shun the sea, for that it would be fatal to him.' I remember +how she turned to me smiling and said, 'Our ship is called +the "Elizabeth," and I accept the omen.'</p> + +<p>Now I am making you almost dull perhaps, and myself +certainly duller. Rather let me tell you, dearest Miss +Mitford, how delightedly I look forward to reading whatever +you have written or shall write. You write 'as well as +twenty years ago'! Why, I should think so, indeed. Don't +I know what your letters are? Haven't I had faith in you +always? Haven't I, in fact, teased you half to death in +proof of it? I, who was a sort of Brutus, and oughtn't to +have done it, you hinted. Moreover, Robert is a great +admirer of yours, as I must have told you before, and has +the pretension (unjustly though, as I tell <i>him</i>) to place you +still higher among writers than I do, so that we are two +in expectancy here. May Mr. Chorley's periodical live a +thousand years!</p> + +<p>As my 'Seagull' won't, but you will find it in my new +edition, and the 'Doves' and everything else worth a straw +of my writing. Here's a fact which you must try to settle +with your theories of simplicity and popularity: <i>None of these +simple poems of mine have been favorites with general readers</i>. +The unintelligible ones are always preferred, I observe, by +extracters, compilers, and ladies and gentlemen who write to +tell me that I'm a muse. The very Corn Law Leaguers in +the North used to leave your 'Seagulls' to fly where they +could, and clap hands over mysteries of iniquity. Dearest +Miss Mitford—for the rest, don't mistake what I write to you +sometimes—don't fancy that I undervalue simplicity and +think nothing of legitimate fame—I only mean to say that +the vogue which begins with the masses generally comes to +nought (Béranger is an exceptional case, from the <i>form</i> of +his poems, obviously), while the appreciation beginning with +the few always ends with the masses. Wasn't Wordsworth, +for instance, both simple and unpopular, when he was most +divine? To go to the great from the small, when I complain +of the lamentable weakness of much in my 'Seraphim' +volume, I don't complain of the 'Seagull' and 'Doves' and +the simple verses, but exactly of the more ambitious ones. +I have had to rewrite pages upon pages of that volume. +Oh, such feeble rhymes, and turns of thought—such a dingy +mistiness! Even Robert couldn't say a word for much of +it. I took great pains with the whole, and made considerable +portions new, only your favourites were not touched—not +a word touched, I think, in the 'Seagull,' and scarcely +a word in the 'Doves.' You won't complain of me a great +deal, I do hope and trust. Also I put back your 'little +words' into the 'House of Clouds.' The two volumes are +to come out, it appears, at the end of October; not before, +because Mr. Chapman wished to inaugurate them for his +new house in Piccadilly. There are some new poems, and +one rather long ballad written at request of anti-slavery +friends in America.<a name="FNanchor_205_205"></a><a href="#Footnote_205_205"><sup>[205]</sup></a> I arranged that it should come next +to the 'Cry of the Children,' to appear impartial as to +national grievances....</p> + +<p>Oh—Balzac—what a loss! One of the greatest and +(most) original writers of the age gone from us! To hear +this news made Robert and me very melancholy. Indeed, +there seems to be fatality just now with the writers of +France. Soulié, Bernard, gone too; George Sand translating +Mazzini; Sue in a socialistical state of decadence—what +he means by writing such trash as the 'Péchés' I really +can't make out; only Alexandre Dumas keeping his head +up gallantly, and he seems to me to write better than ever. +Here is a new book, just published, by Jules Sandeau, called +'Sacs et Parchemins'! Have you seen it? It miraculously +comes to us from the little Siena library.</p> + +<p>We stay in this villa till our month is out, and then we +go for a week into Siena that I may be nearer the churches +and pictures, and see something of the cathedral and +Sodomas. We calculated that it was cheaper to move our +quarters than to have a carriage to and fro, and then Dr. +Harding recommended repeated change of air for me, and +he has proved his ability so much (so kindly too!) that we +are bound to act on his opinions as closely as we can. +Perhaps we may even go to Volterra afterwards, if the +<i>finances</i> will allow of it. If we do, it may be for another +week at farthest, and then we return to Florence. You had +better direct there as usual. And do write and tell me +much of yourself, and set <i>me</i> down in your thoughts as +quite well, and ever yours in warm and grateful affection.</p> + +<p>E.B.B.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: November 13, 1850 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>I <i>meant</i> to cross your second letter, and so, my very +dear friend, you are a second time a prophetess as to my +intentions, while I am still more grateful than I could have +been with the literal fulfilment. Delightful it is to hear +from you—do always write when you can. And though +this second letter speaks of your having been unwell, still +I shall continue to flatter myself that upon the whole 'the +better part prevails,' and that if the rains don't wash you +away this winter, I may have leave to think of you as +strengthening and to strengthen still. Meanwhile you +certainly, as you say, have roots to your feet. Never was +anyone so pure as you from the drop of gypsey blood which +tingles in my veins and my husband's, and gives us every +now and then a fever for roaming, strong enough to carry +us to Mount Caucasus if it were not for the healthy state of +depletion observable in the purse. I get fond of places, so +does he. We both of us grew rather pathetical on leaving +our Sienese villa, and shrank from parting with the pig. +But setting out on one's travels has a great charm; oh, I +should like to be able to pay our way down the Nile, and +into Greece, and into Germany, and into Spain! Every +now and then we take out the road-books, calculate the +expenses, and groan in the spirit when it's proved for the +hundredth time that we can't do it. One must have a home, +you see, to keep one's books in and one's spring-sofas in; +but the charm of a home is a home <i>to come back to</i>. Do +you understand? No, not you! You have as much +comprehension of the pleasure of 'that sort of thing' as +in the peculiar taste of the three ladies who hung themselves +in a French balloon the other day, operatically <i>nude</i>, +in order, I conjecture, to the ultimate perfection of French +delicacy in morals and manners....</p> + +<p>I long to see your papers, and dare say they are charming. +At the same time, just because they are sure to be +charming (and notwithstanding their kindness to me, notwithstanding +that I live in a glass house myself, warmed by +such rare stoves!) I am a little in fear that your generosity +and excess of kindness may run the risk of lowering the +ideal of poetry in England by lifting above the mark the +names of some poetasters. Do you know, you take up +your heart sometimes by mistake, to admire with, when you +ought to use it only to love with? and this is apt to be +dangerous, with your reputation and authority in matters of +literature. See how impertinent I am! But we should all +take care to teach the world that poetry is a divine thing, +should we not? that is, not mere verse-making, though the +verses be pretty in their way. Rather perish every verse <i>I</i> +ever wrote, for one, than help to drag down an inch that +standard of poetry which, for the sake of humanity as well +as literature, should be kept high. As for simplicity and +clearness, did I ever deny that they were excellent qualities? +Never, surely. Only, they will not <i>make</i> poetry; and +absolutely vain they are, and indeed all other qualities, +without the essential thing, the genius, the inspiration, the +insight—let us call it what we please—without which +the most accomplished verse-writers had far better write +prose, for their own sakes as for the world's—don't you +think so? Which I say, because I sighed aloud over many +names in your list, and now have taken pertly to write out +the sigh at length. Too charmingly you are sure to have +written—and see the danger! But Miss Fanshawe is well +worth your writing of (let me say that I am sensible warmly of +that) as one of the most witty of our wits in verse, men or +women. I have only seen manuscript copies of some of her +verses, and that years ago, but they struck me very much; +and really I do not remember another female wit worthy to +sit beside her, even in French literature. Motherwell is a +true poet. But oh, I don't believe in your John Clares, +Thomas Davises, Whittiers, Hallocks—and still less in other +names which it would be invidious to name again. How +pert I am! But you give me leave to be pert, and you +know the meaning of it all, after all. Your editor quarrelled +a little with me once, and I with him, about the 'poetesses +of the united empire,' in whom I couldn't or wouldn't find +a poet, though there are extant two volumes of them, and +Lady Winchilsea at the head. I hold that the writer of +the ballad of 'Robin Gray' was our first poetess rightly so +called, before Joanna Baillie.</p> + +<p>Mr. Lever is in Florence, I believe, now, and was at the +Baths of Lucca in the summer. We never see him; it is +curious. He made his way to us with the sunniest of +faces and cordialest of manners at Lucca; and I, who am +much taken by manner, was quite pleased with him, and +wondered how it was that I didn't like his books. Well, +he only wanted to see that we had the right number of eyes +and no odd fingers. Robert, in return for his visit, called +on him three times, I think, and I left my card on Mrs. +Lever. But he never came again—he had seen enough of +us, he could put down in his private diary that we had +neither claw nor tail; and there an end, properly enough. +In fact, he lives a different life from ours: he in the ballroom +and we in the cave, nothing could be more different; +and perhaps there are not many subjects of common +interest between us. I have seen extracts in the 'Examiner' +from Tennyson's 'In Memoriam' which seemed to me +exquisitely beautiful and pathetical. Oh, there's a poet, +talking of poets. Have you read Wordsworth's last work—the +legacy? With regard to the elder Miss Jewsbury, do +you know, I take Mr. Chorley's part against you, because, +although I know her only by her writings, the writings seem +to me to imply a certain vigour and originality of mind, by +no means ordinary. For instance, the fragments of her +letters in his 'Memorials of Mrs. Hemans' are much +superior to any other letters almost in the volume—certainly +to Mrs. Hemans's own. Isn't this so? And so you talk, +you in England, of Prince Albert's 'folly,' do you really? +Well, among the odd things we lean to in Italy is to +an actual belief in the greatness and importance of the +future exhibition. We have actually imagined it to be a +noble idea, and you take me by surprise in speaking of the +general distaste to it in England. Is it really possible? +For the agriculturists, I am less surprised at coldness on +their part; but do you fancy that the manufacturers and free-traders +are cold too? Is Mr. Chorley against it equally? +Yes, I am glad to hear of Mrs. Butler's success—or Fanny +Kemble's, ought I to say? Our little Wiedeman, who +can't speak a word yet, waxes hotter in his ecclesiastical +and musical passion. Think of that baby (just cutting his +eyeteeth) screaming in the streets till he is taken into the +churches, kneeling on his knees to the first sound of music, +and folding his hands and turning up his eyes in a sort of +ecstatical state. One scarcely knows how to deal with the +sort of thing: it is too soon for religious controversy. He +crosses himself, I assure you. Robert says it is as well to +have the eyeteeth and the Puseyistical crisis over together. +The child is a very curious imaginative child, but too excitable +for his age, that's all I complain of ... God bless you, my +much loved friend. Write to</p> + +<p>Your ever affectionate<br /> +E.B.B.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<p>What books by Soulié have appeared since his death? +Do you remember? I have just got 'Les Enfants de +l'Amour,' by Sue. I suppose he will prove in it the illegitimacy +of legitimacy, and <i>vice versâ</i>. Sue is in decided decadence, +for the rest, since he has taken to illustrating Socialism!</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss I. Blagden</i><br /> +[Florence:] Sunday morning [about 1850].<br /> + +<p>My dear Miss Blagden,—In spite of all your <i>drawing</i> +kindness, we find it impossible to go to you on Monday. +We are expecting friends from Rome who will remain only +a few days, perhaps, in Florence. Now it seems to me that +you very often pass our door. Do you not too often leave +the trace of your goodness with me? And would it not be +better of you still, if you would at once make use of us and +give us pleasure by pausing here, you and Miss Agassiz, to +rest and refresh yourselves with tea, coffee, or whatever else +you may choose? We shall be delighted to see you always, +and don't fancy that I say so out of form or 'tinkling +cymbalism.'</p> + +<p>Thank you for your intention about the 'Leader.' Robert +and I shall like much to see anything of John Mill's on the +subject of Socialism or any other. By the 'British Review,' +do you mean the <i>North British</i>? I read a clever article in +that review some months ago on the German Socialists, ably +embracing in its analysis the fraternity in France, and attributed, +I have since heard, to Dr. Hanna, the son-in-law and +biographer of Chalmers. Christian Socialists are by no means +a new sect, the Moravians representing the theory with as +little offence and absurdity as may be. What is it, after all, +but an out-of-door extension of the monastic system? The +religious principle, more or less apprehended, may bind men +together so, absorbing their individualities, and presenting +an aim <i>beyond the world</i>; but upon merely human and +earthly principles no such system can stand, I feel persuaded, +and I thank God for it. If Fourierism could be realised +(which it surely cannot) out of a dream, the destinies of +our race would shrivel up under the unnatural heat, and +human nature would, in my mind, be desecrated and +dishonored—because I do not believe in purification without +suffering, in progress without struggle, in virtue without +temptation. Least of all do I consider happiness the end +of man's life. We look to higher things, have nobler ambitions.</p> + +<p>Also, in every advancement of the world hitherto, the +individual has led the masses. Thus, to elicit individuality +has been the object of the best political institutions and +governments. Now, in these new theories, the individual +is ground down into the multitude, and society must be +'moving all together if it moves at all'—restricting the very +possibility of progress by the use of the lights of genius. +Genius is <i>always individual</i>.</p> + +<p>Here's a scribble upon grave matters! I ought to +be acknowledging instead your scrupulous honesty, as +illustrated by five-franc pieces and Tuscan florins. Make +us as useful as you can do, for the future; and please us by +coming often. I am afraid your German Baroness could +not make an arrangement with you, as you do not mention +her. Give our best regards to Miss Agassiz, and accept +them yourself, dear Miss Blagden, from</p> + +<p>Your affectionate<br /> +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.</p> +<br /><br /> + + +<i>To Mr. Westwood</i><br /> +Florence: Thursday, December 12, 1850.<br /> + +<p>My dear Mr. Westwood,—Your book has not reached +us yet, and so if I waited for that, to write, I might wait +longer still. But I don't wait for that, because you bade +me not to do so, and besides we have only this moment +finished reading 'In Memoriam,' and it was a sort of +miracle with us that we got it so soon....</p> + +<p><i>December</i> 13.—The above sentences were written yesterday, +and hardly had they been written when your third +letter came with its enclosure. How very kind you are to +me, and how am I to thank you enough! If you had not +sent me the 'Athenaeum' article I never should have seen +it probably, for my husband only saw it in the reading +room, where women don't penetrate (because in Italy we +can't read, you see), and where the periodicals are kept so +strictly, like Hesperian apples, by the dragons of the place, +that none can be stolen away even for half an hour. So +he could only wish me to catch sight of that article—and +you are good enough to send it and oblige us both +exceedingly. For which kindness thank you, thank you! +The favor shown to me in it is extreme, and I am as +grateful as I ought to be. Shall I ask the 'Note and +Query' magazine why the 'Athenaeum' does show me so +much favor, while, as in a late instance, so little justice is +shown to my husband? It's a problem, like another. As +for poetry, I hope to do better things in it yet, though I <i>have</i> +a child to 'stand in my sunshine,' as you suppose he must; +but he only makes the sunbeams brighter with his glistening +curls, little darling—and who can complain of that? You +can't think what a good, sweet, curious, imagining child he +is. Half the day I do nothing but admire him—there's the +truth. He doesn't talk yet much, but he gesticulates with +extraordinary force of symbol, and makes surprising revelations +to us every half-hour or so. Meanwhile Flush loses +nothing, I assure you. On the contrary, he is hugged and +kissed (rather too hard sometimes), and never is permitted +to be found fault with by anybody under the new <i>régime</i>. +If Flush is scolded, Baby cries as matter of course, and he +would do admirably for a 'whipping-boy' if that excellent +institution were to be revived by Young England and the +Tractarians for the benefit of our deteriorated generations. +I was ill towards the end of last summer, and we had to go +to Siena for the sake of getting strength again, and there we +lived in a villa among a sea of little hills, and wrapt up in +vineyards and olive yards, enjoying everything. Much the +worst of Italy is, the drawback about books. Somebody +said the other day that we 'sate here like posterity'—reading +books with the gloss off them. But our case in reality is +far more dreary, seeing that Prince Posterity will have +glossy books of his own. How exquisite 'In Memoriam' +is, how earnest and true; after all, the gloss never can +wear off books like that.</p> + +<p>And as to your book, it will come, it will come, and +meantime I may assure you that posterity is very impatient +for it. The Italian poem will be read with the interest +which is natural. You know it's a more than doubtful +point whether Shakespeare ever saw Italy out of a vision, +yet he and a crowd of inferior writers have written about +Venice and vineyards as if born to the manner of them. +We hear of Carlyle travelling in France and Germany—but +I must leave room for the words you ask for from a certain +hand below.</p> + +<p>Ever dear Mr. Westwood's obliged and faithful</p> + +<p>E.B.B.</p> + +<p>And the 'certain hand' will write its best (and far +better than any poor 'Pippa Passes') in recording a feeling +which does not pass at all, that of gratitude for all such +generous sympathy as dear Mr. Westwood's for E.B.B. +and (in his proper degree) R. BROWNING.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Mitford</i><br /> +Florence: December 13, 1850.<br /> + +<p><i>Did</i> I write a scolding letter, dearest Miss Mitford? So +much the better, when people deserve to be scolded. The +worst is, however, that it sometimes does them no sort of +good, and that they will sit on among the ruins of Carthage, +let ever so many messages come from Italy. My only +hope now is, that you will have a mild winter in England, +as we seem likely to have it here; and that in the spring, +by the help of some divine interposition of friends supernaturally +endowed (after the manner of Mr. Chorley), you +may be made to go away into a house with fast walls and +chimneys. Certainly, if you could be made to <i>write</i>, +anything else is possible. That's my comfort. And the +other's my hope, as I said; and so between hope and consolation +I needn't scold any more. Let me tell you what I +have heard of Mrs. Gaskell, for fear I should forget it later. +She is connected by marriage with Mrs. A.T. Thompson, +and from a friend of Mrs. Thompson's it came to me, and +really seems to exonerate Chapman & Hall from the +charge advanced against them. 'Mary Barton' was shown +in manuscript to Mrs. Thompson, and failed to please her; +and, in deference to her judgment, certain alterations were +made. Subsequently it was offered to all or nearly all the +publishers in London and rejected. Chapman & Hall +accepted and gave a hundred pounds, as you heard, for the +copyright of the work; and though the success did not, +perhaps (that is quite possible), induce any liberality with +regard to copies, they gave <i>another hundred pounds</i> upon +printing the second edition, and it was not in the bond to +do so. I am told that the liberality of the proceeding was +appreciated by the author and her friends accordingly—and +there's the end of my story. Two hundred pounds is a good +price—isn't it?—for a novel, as times go. Miss Lynn had +only a hundred and fifty for her Egyptian novel, or perhaps +for the Greek one. Taking the long run of poetry (if it runs +at all), I am half given to think that it pays better than the +novel does, in spite of everything. Not that we speak out +of golden experience; alas, no! We have had not a sou +from our books for a year past, the booksellers being bound +of course to cover their own expenses first. Then this +Christmas account has not yet reached us. But the former +editions paid us regularly so much a year, and so will the +present ones, I hope. Only I was not thinking of <i>them</i>, in +preferring what may strike you as an extravagant paradox, +but of Tennyson's returns from Moxon last year, which I +understand amounted to five hundred pounds. To be sure, +'In Memoriam' was a new success, which should not +prevent our considering the fact of a regular income proceeding +from the previous books. A novel flashes up for a +season and does not often outlast it. For 'Mary Barton' I +am a little, little disappointed, do you know. I have just +done reading it. There is power and truth—she can shake +and she can pierce—but I wish half the book away, it is so +tedious every now and then; and besides I want more +beauty, more air from the universal world—these classbooks +must always be defective as works of art. How +could I help being disappointed a little when Mrs. Jameson +told me that 'since the "Bride of Lammermoor," nothing +had appeared equal to "Mary Barton"?' Then the style +of the book is slovenly, and given to a kind of phraseology +which would be vulgar even as colloquial English. Oh, it +is a powerful book in many ways. You are not to set me +down as hypercritical. Probably the author will, write +herself clear of many of her faults: she has strength enough. +As to 'In Memoriam,' I have seen it, I have read it—dear +Mr. Kenyon had the goodness to send it to me by an +American traveller—and now I really do disagree with you, +for the book has gone to my heart and soul; I think it full +of deep pathos and beauty. All I wish away is the +marriage hymn at the end, and <i>that</i> for every reason I wish +away—it's a discord in the music. The monotony is a +part of the position—(the sea is monotonous, and so is lasting +grief.) Your complaint is against fate and humanity rather +than against the poet Tennyson. Who that has suffered +has not felt wave after wave break dully against one rock, +till brain and heart, with all their radiances, seemed lost in +a single shadow? So the effect of the book is artistic, I +think, and indeed I do not wonder at the opinion which +has reached us from various quarters that Tennyson stands +higher through having written it. You see, what he appeared +to want, according to the view of many, was an earnest +personality and direct purpose. In this last book, though +of course there is not room in it for that exercise of creative +faculty which elsewhere established his fame, he appeals +heart to heart, directly as from his own to the universal +heart, and we all feel him nearer to us—<i>I</i> do—and so do +others. Have you read a poem called 'the Roman' which +was praised highly in the 'Athenaeum,' but did not seem +to Robert to justify the praise in the passages extracted? +written by somebody with certainly a <i>nom de guerre</i>—Sidney +Yendys. Observe, <i>Yendys</i> is <i>Sidney</i> reversed. Have you +heard anything about it, or seen? The 'Athenaeum' has +been gracious to me beyond gratitude almost; nothing +could by possibility be kinder. A friend of mine sent me the +article from Brussels—a Mr. Westwood, who writes poems +himself; yes, and poetical poems too, written with an odorous, +fresh sense of poetry about them. He has not original +power, more's the pity: but he has stayed near the rose in +the 'sweet breath and buddings of the spring,' and although +that won't make anyone live beyond spring-weather, it is the +expression of a sensitive and aspirant nature; and the man is +interesting and amiable—an old correspondent of mine, and +kind to me always. From the little I know of Mr. Bennett, +I should say that Mr. Westwood stood much higher in the +matter of gifts, though I fear that neither of them will make +way in that particular department of literature selected by +them for action. Oh, my dearest friend, you may talk +about coteries, but the English society at Florence (from +what I hear of the hum of it at a distance) is worse than +any coterie-society in the world. A coterie, if I understand +the thing, is informed by a unity of sentiment, or faith, or +prejudice; but this society here is not informed at all. +People come together to gamble or dance, and if there's an +end, why so much the better; but there's <i>not</i> an end in +most cases, by any manner of means, and against every sort +of innocence. Mind, I imply nothing about Mr. Lever, +who lives irreproachably with his wife and family, rides out +with his children in a troop of horses to the Cascine, and +yet is as social a person as his joyous temperament leads +him to be. But we live in a cave, and peradventure he is +afraid of the damp of us—who knows? We know very few +residents in Florence, and these, with chance visitors, chiefly +Americans, are all that keep us from solitude; every now +and then in the evening somebody drops in to tea. Would, +indeed, you were near! but should I be satisfied with you +'once a week,' do you fancy. Ah, you would soon love +Robert. You couldn't help it, I am sure. I should be +soon turned down to an underplace, and, under the +circumstances, would not struggle. Do you remember once +telling me that 'all men are tyrants'?—as sweeping an +opinion as the Apostle's, that 'all men are liars.' Well, if +you knew Robert you would make an exception certainly. +Talking of the artistical English here, somebody told me +the other day of a young Cambridge or Oxford man who +deducted from his researches in Rome and Florence that +'Michael Angelo was a wag.' Another, after walking +through the Florentine galleries, exclaimed to a friend of +mine, 'I have seen nothing here equal to those magnificent +pictures in Paris by Paul de Kock.' My friend humbly +suggested that he might mean Paul de la Roche. But see +what English you send us for the most part. We have had +one very interesting visitor lately, the grandson of Goethe. +He did us the honour, he said, of spending two days in +Florence on our account, he especially wishing to see +Robert on account of some sympathy of view about 'Paracelsus.' +There can scarcely be a more interesting young +man—quite young he seems, and full of aspiration of the +purest kind towards the good and true and beautiful, and +not towards the poor laurel crowns attainable from any +possible public. I don't know when I have been so +charmed by a visitor, and indeed Robert and I paid him +the highest compliment we could, by wishing, one to +another, that our little Wiedeman might be like him some +day. I quite agree with you about the church of your +Henry. It surprises me that a child of seven years should +find pleasure even once a day in the long English service—too +long, according to my doxy, for matured years. As to +fanaticism, it depends on a defect of intellect rather than on +an excess of the adoring faculty. The latter cannot, I +think, be too fully developed. How I shall like you to +see our Wiedeman! He is a radiant little creature, really, +yet he won't talk; he does nothing but gesticulate, only +making his will and pleasure wonderfully clear and +supreme, I assure you. He's a tyrant, ready made for your +theory. If your book is 'better than I expect,' what will it +be? God bless you! Be well, and love me, and write to +me, for I am your ever affectionate</p> + +<p>BA.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Mrs. Martin</i><br /> +Florence: January 30, 1851.<br /> + +<p>Here I am at last, dearest friend. But you forget how +you told me, when you wrote your 'long letter,' that you +were going away into chaos somewhere, and that your +address couldn't be known yet. It was this which made +me delay the answer to that welcome letter—and to begin +to 'put off' is fatal, as perhaps you know. Now forgive me, +and I will behave better in future, indeed....</p> + +<p>I am quite well, and looking well, they say; but the +frightful illness of the autumn left me paler and thinner +long after the perfect recovery. The physician told Robert +afterwards that few women would have recovered at all; +and when I left Siena I was as able to walk, and as well in +every respect as ever, notwithstanding everything—think, +for instance, of my walking to St. Miniato, here in +Florence! You remember, perhaps, what that pull is. I +dare say you heard from Henrietta how we enjoyed our +rustication at Siena. It is pleasant even to look back on +it. We were obliged to look narrowly at the economies, +more narrowly than usual; but the cheapness of the place +suited the occasion, and the little villa, like a mere tent +among the vines, charmed us, though the doors didn't shut, +and though (on account of the smallness) Robert and I had +to whisper all our talk whenever Wiedeman was asleep. Oh, +I wish you were in Italy. I wish you had come here this +winter which has been so mild, and which, with ordinary +prudence, would certainly have suited dear Mr. Martin.... +I tried to dissuade the Peytons from making the +experiment, through the fear of its not answering.... We +can't get them into society, you see, because we are out of +it, having struggled to keep out of it with hands and feet, +and partially having succeeded, knowing scarcely anybody +except bringers of letters of introduction, and those chiefly +Americans and not residents in Florence. The other day, +however, Mrs. Trollope and her daughter-in-law called on +us, and it is settled that we are to know them; though +Robert had made a sort of vow never to sit in the same +room with the author of certain books directed against +liberal institutions and Victor Hugo's poetry. I had a +longer battle to fight, on the matter of this vow, than any +since my marriage, and had some scruples at last of taking +advantage of the pure goodness which induced him to yield +to my wishes; but I <i>did</i>, because I hate to seem ungracious +and unkind to people; and human beings, besides, are +better than their books, than their principles, and even than +their everyday actions, sometimes. I am always crying out: +'Blessed be the inconsistency of men.' Then I thought it +probable that, the first shock of the cold water being over, +he would like the proposed new acquaintances very much—and +so it turns out. She was very agreeable, and kind, and +good-natured, and talked much about <i>you</i>, which was a +charm of itself; and we mean to be quite friends, and to +lend each other books, and to forget one another's offences, +in print or otherwise. Also, she admits us on her private +days; for she has public days (dreadful to relate!), and is +in the full flood and flow of Florentine society. Do write +to me, will you? or else I shall set you down as vexed with +me. The state of politics here is dismal. Newspapers put +down; Protestant places of worship shut up. It is so bad +that it must soon be better. What are you both thinking of +the 'Papal aggression'?<a name="FNanchor_206_206"></a><a href="#Footnote_206_206"><sup>[206]</sup></a> 'Are you frightened? Are you +frenzied? For my part I can't get up much steam about +it. The 'Great Insult' was simply a great mistake, the +consequence (natural enough) of the Tractarian idiocies as +enacted in Italy.</p> + +<p>God bless both of you, dearest and always remembered +friends! Robert's best regards, he says.</p> + +<p>Your affectionate<br /> +BA.</p> + +<p>Tell me your thoughts about France. I am so anxious +about the crisis there.<a name="FNanchor_207_207"></a><a href="#Footnote_207_207"><sup>[207]</sup></a> We have had a very interesting visit lately from the grandson of Goethe.</p> +<br /><br /> + +<i>To Miss Browning</i><br /> +Florence: April 23, 1851 [postmark].<br /> + +<p>My dearest Sarianna,—I do hope that Robert takes his +share of the blame in using and abusing you as we have +done. It was altogether too bad—shameful—to send that +last MS. for you to copy out; and I did, indeed, make a +little outcry about it, only he insisted on having it so. Was +it very wrong, I wonder? Your kindness and affectionateness +I never doubt of; but if you are not quite strong just +now, you might be teased, in spite of your heart, by all that +copying work—not pleasant at any time. Well, believe that +I thank you, at least gratefully, for what you have done. +So quickly too! The advertisement at the end of the week +proves how you must have worked for me. Thank you, +dear Sarianna.</p> + +<p>Robert will have told you our schemes, and how we are +going to work, and are to love you <i>near</i> for the future, I +hope. You, who are wise, will approve of us, I think, for +keeping on our Florentine apartment, so as to run no more +risk than is necessary in making the Paris experiment. We +shall let the old dear rooms, and make money by them, and +keep them to fall back upon, in case we fail at Paris. 'But +we'll not fail.' Well, I hope not, though I am very brittle +still and susceptible to climate. Dearest Sarianna, it will do +you infinite good to come over to us every now and then—you +want change, absolute change of scene and air and +climate, I am confident; and you never will be right till +you have had it. We talk, Robert and I, of carrying you +back with us to Rome next year as an English trophy. +Meanwhile you will see Wiedeman, you and dear Mr. +Browning. Don't expect to see a baby of Anak, that's all. +Robert is always measuring him on the door, and reporting +such wonderful growth (some inch a week, I think), that if +you receive his reports you will cry out on beholding the +child. At least, you'll say: 'How little he must have been +to be no larger now.' You'll fancy he must have begun +from a mustard-seed! The fact is, he is small, only full of +life and joy to the brim. I am not afraid of your not +loving him, nor of his not loving you. He has a loving +little heart, I assure you. If anyone pricks a finger with +a needle he begins to cry—he can't bear to see the least +living thing hurt. And when he loves, it is well. Robert +says I must finish, so here ends dearest Sarianna's</p> + +<p>Ever affectionate sister<br /> +BA.</p> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>END OF THE FIRST VOLUME</h2> +<br /> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<br /> +<br /> +<h2>SMITH, ELDER, & CO.'S NEW BOOKS.</h2> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<br /><br /> + +<p><b><font size="4">DEEDS THAT WON THE EMPIRE.</font></b> By the Rev. W.H. F<font size="2">ITCHETT</font>,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">THIRD EDITION. With 11 Plans and 16 Portraits. Crown 8vo. 6s.</span></p> + +<p><b><font size="4">INDIAN FRONTIER POLICY.</font></b> An Historical Sketch. By General<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Sir JOHN ADYE, G.C.B., R.A. With Map. 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Crown 8vo, 6s.</span></p> + +<p>'Undeniably clever, well-informed, brightly written, and in many ways +interesting.'<br /> +TIMES</p> + +<p><b><font size="4">COLLECTED CONTRIBUTIONS ON DIGESTION AND DIET</font>.</b><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">With an Appendix on the Opium Habit in India. By Sir W<font size="2">ILLIAM</font> R<font size="2">OBERTS</font>,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">M.D., F.R.S. Second Edition. Crown Svo. 5s.</span></p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<h4>London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO.; 15 Waterloo Place.</h4> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<br /> + +<p>FOOTNOTES:</p> + +<a name="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1">[1]</a><div class="note"><p> Mrs. Sutherland-Orr had access to these letters for +her biography of Robert Browning, and quotes several passages from +them. With this exception, none of the letters have been published +previously; and the published letters of Miss Barrett to Mr. R.H. +Horne have not been drawn upon, except for biographical information.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2">[2]</a><div class="note"><p> See <i>Notes and Queries</i> for July 20, 1889, +supplemented by a note from Mr. Browning himself in the same +paper on August 24.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3">[3]</a><div class="note"><p> These estates still remain in the family, and Mr. +Charles Barrett, the eldest surviving brother of Mrs. Browning, +now lives there.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4">[4]</a><div class="note"><p> R.H. Horne, <i>Letters of E.B. Browning</i>, +i. 158-161.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5">[5]</a><div class="note"><p> R.H. Horne, <i>Letters of E.B. Browning</i>, i. 164.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6">[6]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Dict. of Nat. Biography</i>, vii. 78.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7">[7]</a><div class="note"><p> Mrs. Browning usually spells such words as 'favour,' +'honour,' and the like, without the <i>u</i>, after the fashion +which one is accustomed to regard as American.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8">[8]</a><div class="note"><p> Octavius, her youngest brother.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9">[9]</a><div class="note"><p> Hugh Stuart Boyd, the blind scholar whose friendship with +Elizabeth Barrett is commemorated in her poem, 'Wine of Cyprus,' and +in three sonnets expressly addressed to him. He was at this time +living at Great Malvern, where Miss Barrett frequently visited him, +reading and discussing Greek literature with him, especially the works +of the Greek Christian Fathers. But to call him her tutor, as has +more than once been done, is a mistake: see Miss Barrett's letter to; +him of March 3, 1845. Her knowledge of Greek was due to her +volunteering to share her brother Edward's work under his tutor, +Mr. MacSwiney.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10">[10]</a><div class="note"><p> Mr. Ingram, in his <i>Life of E.B. Browning</i> ('Eminent +Women' Series) connects this fact with the abolition of colonial +slavery, and a consequent decrease in Mr. Barrett's income; but since +the abolition only took place in 1833, while Hope End was given up in +the preceding year, this conclusion does not appear to be certain.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11">[11]</a><div class="note"><p> The Martins' home near Malvern, about a mile from Hope End.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12">[12]</a><div class="note"><p> Her brothers Edward and Septimus.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13">[13]</a><div class="note"><p> Archbishop Whately.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14">[14]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>The New Monthly Magazine</i>, at this time edited by +Bulwer, afterwards the first Lord Lytton.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15">[15]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Letters to R.H. Home</i>, i. 162.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16">[16]</a><div class="note"><p> It need hardly be said that the literary resurrectionist +has been too much for her, and the version of 1833 has recently been +reprinted. Of this reprint the best that can be said is that it +provides an occasion for an essay by Mrs. Meynell.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17">[17]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Athenaeum</i>, June 8, 1833.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18">[18]</a><div class="note"><p> Alfred, the fifth brother.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19">[19]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>The Fathers not Papists</i>, including a reprint +of some translations from the Greek Fathers, which Mr. Boyd had +published previously.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20">[20]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poetical Works</i>, ii. 3.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21">[21]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Ib</i>. i. 277.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22">[22]</a><div class="note"><p> Miss Barrett's Greek is habitually written without accents or +breathings.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23">[23]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poetical Works</i>, ii. 278.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24">[24]</a><div class="note"><p> An allusion to the first line of 'The Poet's Vow.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25">[25]</a><div class="note"><p> The 'Seraphim,' published in 1838.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_26_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_26">[26]</a><div class="note"><p> The bodkin seems to be a favourite weapon with ancient dames +whose genius was for killing (note by E.B.B.).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_27_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_27">[27]</a><div class="note"><p> A reference to Pindar, <i>Pyth</i>.i. 9.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_28_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_28">[28]</a><div class="note"><p> These verses are inclosed with the foregoing letter, as a +retort to Mr. Boyd's parody.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_29_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_29_29">[29]</a><div class="note"><p> Elizabeth Barrett's 'pet name' (see her poem, <i>Poetical +Works</i>, ii. 249), given to her as a child by her brother Edward, +and used by her family and friends, and by herself in her letters to +them, throughout her life.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_30_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_30_30">[30]</a><div class="note"><p><br /> +Do you mind that deed of Até<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which you bound me to so fast,—</span><br /> +Reading 'De Virginitate,'<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From the first line to the last?</span><br /> +How I said at ending solemn,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As I turned and looked at you,</span><br /> +That Saint Simeon on the column<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Had had somewhat less to do?</span><br /> +</p><p> +'Wine of Cyprus' (<i>Poetical Works</i>, iii. 139)</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_31_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_31_31">[31]</a><div class="note"><p> As a matter of fact, 'The Seraphim' was not printed +in the <i>New Monthly</i>, being probably thought too long.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_32_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_32_32">[32]</a><div class="note"><p> Serjeant Talfourd.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_33_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33_33">[33]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poetical Works</i>, ii. 248.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_34_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_34_34">[34]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poetical Works</i>, ii. 83.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_35_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35_35">[35]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poems, for the most part occasional</i>, by John Kenyon.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_36_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_36_36">[36]</a><div class="note"><p> John Kenyon (1784-1856) was born in Jamaica, the son of a +wealthy West Indian landowner, but came to England while quite a +boy, and was a conspicuous figure in literary society during the second +quarter of the century. He published some volumes of minor verse, +but is best known for his friendships with many literary men and +women, and for his boundless generosity and kindliness to all with +whom he was brought into contact. Crabb Robinson described him as +a man 'whose life is spent in making people happy.' He was a distant +cousin of Miss Barrett, and a friend of Robert Browning, who dedicated +to him his volume of 'Dramatic Romances,' besides writing and sending +to him 'Andrea del Sarto' as a substitute for a print of the painter's +portrait which he had been unable to find. The best account of +Kenyon is to be found in Mrs. Crosse's 'John Kenyon and his Friends' +(in <i>Red-Letter Days of My Life</i>, vol. i.).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_37_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_37_37">[37]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poetical Works</i>, ii. 40.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_38_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor_38_38">[38]</a><div class="note"><p> 'The Romaunt of the Page.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_39_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor_39_39">[39]</a><div class="note"><p> July 7, 1838.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_40_40"></a><a href="#FNanchor_40_40">[40]</a><div class="note"><p> June 24, 1838.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_41_41"></a><a href="#FNanchor_41_41">[41]</a><div class="note"><p> June 23, 1838.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_42_42"></a><a href="#FNanchor_42_42">[42]</a><div class="note"><p> September 1840.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_43_43"></a><a href="#FNanchor_43_43">[43]</a><div class="note"><p> This was written about the end of 1851.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_44_44"></a><a href="#FNanchor_44_44">[44]</a><div class="note"><p> Probably John Kenyon, whom Miss Mitford elsewhere calls +'the pleasantest man in London;' he, on his side, said of Miss Mitford +that 'she was better and stronger than any of her books.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_45_45"></a><a href="#FNanchor_45_45">[45]</a><div class="note"><p> Nineteen years, Miss Mitford having been born in 1787.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_46_46"></a><a href="#FNanchor_46_46">[46]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Recollections of a Literary Life</i>, by Mary Russell +Mitford, p. 155 (1859).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_47_47"></a><a href="#FNanchor_47_47">[47]</a><div class="note"><p> i.e. copies of the <i>Essay on Mind</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_48_48"></a><a href="#FNanchor_48_48">[48]</a><div class="note"><p> This is an error. Mr. Chorley was not editor of the +<i>Athenaeum</i>, though he was one of its principal contributors.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_49_49"></a><a href="#FNanchor_49_49">[49]</a><div class="note"><p> Andrew Crosse, the electrician, who had recently +published his observations of a remarkable development of insect +life in connection with certain electrical experiments—a discovery +which caused much controversy at the time, on account of its supposed +bearings on the origin of life and the doctrine of creation.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_50_50"></a><a href="#FNanchor_50_50">[50]</a><div class="note"><p> Altered in later editions to 'satisfies.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_51_51"></a><a href="#FNanchor_51_51">[51]</a><div class="note"><p> In later editions 'not' is repeated instead of 'nor,' which +looks like a compromise between her own opinion and Mr. Boyd's.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_52_52"></a><a href="#FNanchor_52_52">[52]</a><div class="note"><p> The poem entitled 'Sounds,' in the volume of 1838, contained +the line 'As erst in Patmos apolyptic John,' presumably for 'apocalyptic.' +This being naturally held to be 'without excuse,' the line was +altered in subsequent editions to 'As the seer-saint of Patmos, +loving John.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_53_53"></a><a href="#FNanchor_53_53">[53]</a><div class="note"><p> The engagement of Prince Albert to Queen Victoria +took place in October 1839.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_54_54"></a><a href="#FNanchor_54_54">[54]</a><div class="note"><p> 'Crowned and Buried' <i>(Poetical Works</i>, iii. 9).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_55_55"></a><a href="#FNanchor_55_55">[55]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poetical Works</i>, iii. 152.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_56_56"></a><a href="#FNanchor_56_56">[56]</a><div class="note"><p> These versions are not reprinted in her collected +<i>Poetical Works</i>, but are to be found in 'Poems of Geoffrey +Chaucer modernised,' (1841).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_57_57"></a><a href="#FNanchor_57_57">[57]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poetical Works</i>, iii. 186.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_58_58"></a><a href="#FNanchor_58_58">[58]</a><div class="note"><p> Translations of three poems of Gregory Nazianzen, +printed in the <i>Athenaeum</i> of January 8, 1842.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_59_59"></a><a href="#FNanchor_59_59">[59]</a><div class="note"><p> Mr. Thomas Westwood was the author of a volume of 'Poems,' +published in 1840, 'Beads from a Rosary' (1843), 'The Burden of the +Bell' (1850), and other volumes of verse. Several of his compositions +were appearing occasionally in the <i>Athenaeum</i> at the time when this +correspondence with Miss Barrett commenced.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_60_60"></a><a href="#FNanchor_60_60">[60]</a><div class="note"><p> The <i>Essay on Mind</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_61_61"></a><a href="#FNanchor_61_61">[61]</a><div class="note"><p> The series of papers on the Greek Christian Poets appeared in +the <i>Athenaeum</i> for February and March 1842; they are reprinted in +the <i>Poetical Works</i>, v. 109-200.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_62_62"></a><a href="#FNanchor_62_62">[62]</a><div class="note"><p> This scheme took shape in the series of papers on the English +Poets which appeared in the <i>Athenaeum</i> in the course of June and +August 1842 (reprinted in <i>Poetical Works</i>, v. 201-290).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_63_63"></a><a href="#FNanchor_63_63">[63]</a><div class="note"><p> Miss Barrett's dog, the gift of Miss Mitford. His praise +is sung in her poem, 'To Flush, my Dog' (<i>Poetical Works</i>, iii. +19), and in many of the following letters. He accompanied his mistress +to Italy, lived to a good old age, and now lies buried in the vaults +of Casa Guidi.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_64_64"></a><a href="#FNanchor_64_64">[64]</a><div class="note"><p> George Burges, the classical scholar. He had in 1832 +contributed to the <i>Gentleman's Magazine</i> (under a pseudonym) +some lines purporting to be a newly discovered portion of the +<i>Bacchae</i>, but really composed by himself on the basis of a +parallel passage in the <i>Christus Patiens</i>. It is apparently +to these lines that Miss Barrett alludes, though the 'discovery' was +then nearly ten years old.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_65_65"></a><a href="#FNanchor_65_65">[65]</a><div class="note"><p> Ultimately five.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_66_66"></a><a href="#FNanchor_66_66">[66]</a><div class="note"><p> This refers to the recent publication of Tennyson's +<i>Poems</i>, in two volumes, the first containing a re-issue of +poems previously published, while the second was wholly new, and +included such poems as the 'Morte d'Arthur,' 'Ulysses,' and 'Locksley +Hall.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_67_67"></a><a href="#FNanchor_67_67">[67]</a><div class="note"><p> No doubt Mr. Kenyon's translation of Schiller's 'Gods +of Greece,' which was the occasion of Miss Barrett's poem 'The Dead Pan.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_68_68"></a><a href="#FNanchor_68_68">[68]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poems, chiefly of early and late years, including The +Borderers, a Tragedy</i> (1842).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_69_69"></a><a href="#FNanchor_69_69">[69]</a><div class="note"><p> It was this picture that called forth the sonnet, 'On a +Portrait of Wordsworth by B.R. Haydon' (<i>Poetical Works</i>, iii. +62), alluded to in the next letter.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_70_70"></a><a href="#FNanchor_70_70">[70]</a><div class="note"><p> The following is the letter from Wordsworth which gave such +pleasure to Miss Barrett, and which she treasured among her papers for +the rest of her life. Two slips of the pen have been corrected between +brackets. +</p><p> +'Rydal Mount: Oct. 26, '42. +</p><p> +'Dear Miss Barrett,—Through our common friend Mr. Haydon I +have received a sonnet which his portrait of me suggested. I should +have thanked you sooner for that effusion of a feeling towards myself, +with which I am much gratified, but I have been absent from home +and much occupied. +</p><p> +'The conception of your sonnet is in full accordance with the +painter's intended work, and the expression vigorous; yet the word +"ebb," though I do not myself object to it, nor wish to have it altered, +will I fear prove obscure to nine readers out of ten. +</p><p> +</p><p><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"A vision free</span><br /> +And noble, Haydon, hath thine art released."<br /> +</p><p> +Owing to the want of inflections in our language the construction here is +obscure. Would it not be a little [better] thus? I was going to write a +small change in the order of the words, but I find it would not remove +the objection. The verse, as I take it, would be somewhat clearer thus, +if you would tolerate the redundant syllable: +</p><p> +</p><p><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"By a vision free</span><br /> +And noble, Haydon, is thine art released."<br /> +</p><p> +I had the gratification of receiving, a good while ago, two copies of a +volume of your writing, which I have read with much pleasure, and +beg that the thanks which I charged a friend to offer may be repeated +[to] you. +</p><p> +'It grieved me much to hear from Mr. Kenyon that your health is +so much deranged. But for that cause I should have presumed to call +upon you when I was in London last spring. +</p><p> +'With every good wish, I remain, dear Miss Barrett, your much +obliged +</p><p> +'WM. WORDSWORTH.' +</p><p> +(Postmark: Ambleside, Oct. 28, 1842.) +</p><p> +It may be added that although Miss Barrett altered the passage +criticised by the great poet, she did not accept his amendment. It +now runs +</p><p> +</p><p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'A noble vision free</span><br /> +Our Haydon's hand has flung out from the mist.</p></div><br /> + +<a name="Footnote_71_71"></a><a href="#FNanchor_71_71">[71]</a><div class="note"><p> The Greek προγιγνώσκειν [progignôskein], used in Romans viii. 29.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_72_72"></a><a href="#FNanchor_72_72">[72]</a><div class="note"><p> See 'Hector in the Garden' (<i>Poetical Works</i>, iii. 37).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_73_73"></a><a href="#FNanchor_73_73">[73]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poetical Works</i>, iii. 105.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_74_74"></a><a href="#FNanchor_74_74">[74]</a><div class="note"><p> 'The Dead Pan' (<i>Poetical Works</i>, iii. 280).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_75_75"></a><a href="#FNanchor_75_75">[75]</a><div class="note"><p> The <i>Athenaeum</i> of April 22 contained a review of +Browning's 'Dramatic Lyrics,' charging him with taking pleasure in being +enigmatical, and declaring this to be a sign of weakness, not strength. +It spoke of many of the pieces composing the volume as being rather +fragments and sketches than having any right to independent existence.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_76_76"></a><a href="#FNanchor_76_76">[76]</a><div class="note"><p> Mr. Kenyon's view evidently prevailed, for stanza 19 now has +'scornful children.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_77_77"></a><a href="#FNanchor_77_77">[77]</a><div class="note"><p> Wordsworth was nominated Poet Laureate after the death of +Southey in March 1843.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_78_78"></a><a href="#FNanchor_78_78">[78]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Orion</i>, the early editions of which were sold +at a farthing, in accordance with a fancy of the author. Miss Barrett +reviewed it in the <i>Athenaum</i> (July 1843).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_79_79"></a><a href="#FNanchor_79_79">[79]</a><div class="note"><p> This refers to the competition for the cartoons to +be painted in the Houses of Parliament, in which Haydon was +unsuccessful. The disappointment was the greater, inasmuch as the +scheme for decorating the building with historical pictures was +mainly due to his initiative.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_80_80"></a><a href="#FNanchor_80_80">[80]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>The Lay of the Brown Rosary</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_81_81"></a><a href="#FNanchor_81_81">[81]</a><div class="note"><p> 'To Flush, my dog' (<i>Poetical Works</i>, iii. 19).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_82_82"></a><a href="#FNanchor_82_82">[82]</a><div class="note"><p> Published in <i>Blackwood's Magazine</i> for August 1843, +and called forth by Mr. Horne's report as assistant commissioner on +the employment of children in mines and manufactories.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_83_83"></a><a href="#FNanchor_83_83">[83]</a><div class="note"><p> Evidently a slip of the pen for 'Children.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_84_84"></a><a href="#FNanchor_84_84">[84]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poetical Works</i>, iii. 186. Mr. Boyd's opinion of it +may be learnt from Miss Barrett's letter to Horne, dated August 31, +1843 (<i>Letters to R.H. Horne</i>, i. 84): 'Mr. Boyd told me that he +had read my papers on the Greek Fathers with the more satisfaction +because he had inferred from my "House of Clouds" that illness +had <i>impaired my faculties</i>.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_85_85"></a><a href="#FNanchor_85_85">[85]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poetical Works</i>, i. 223.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_86_86"></a><a href="#FNanchor_86_86">[86]</a><div class="note"><p> The lines 'To J.S.,' which begin: +</p><p> +</p><p><br /> +'The wind that beats the mountain blows<br /> +More softly round the open wold.'</p></div><br /> + +<a name="Footnote_87_87"></a><a href="#FNanchor_87_87">[87]</a><div class="note"><p> About the same date she writes to Home (<i>Letters +to R.H. Horne</i>, i. 86): 'I am very glad to hear that nothing +really very bad is the matter with Tennyson. If anything were to +happen to Tennyson, the world should go into mourning.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_88_88"></a><a href="#FNanchor_88_88">[88]</a><div class="note"><p> In the <i>Athenaeum</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_89_89"></a><a href="#FNanchor_89_89">[89]</a><div class="note"><p> 'Crowned and Buried' (<i>Poetical Works</i>, iii. 9).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_90_90"></a><a href="#FNanchor_90_90">[90]</a><div class="note"><p> Her contributions to the essays on Tennyson and Carlyle have +recently been printed in Messrs. Nichols and Wise's <i>Literary Anecdotes +of the Nineteenth Century</i>, i. 33, ii. 105.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_91_91"></a><a href="#FNanchor_91_91">[91]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Letters to R.H. Home</i>, ii. 146.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_92_92"></a><a href="#FNanchor_92_92">[92]</a><div class="note"><p> Referring to Mr. Kenyon's encouraging comments on +the 'Drama of Exile,' which he had seen in manuscript at a time +when Miss Barrett was very despondent about it.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_93_93"></a><a href="#FNanchor_93_93">[93]</a><div class="note"><p> In the 'Drama of Exile,' near the beginning +(<i>Poetical Works</i>, i. 7).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_94_94"></a><a href="#FNanchor_94_94">[94]</a><div class="note"><p> By Monckton Milnes, afterwards Lord Houghton.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_95_95"></a><a href="#FNanchor_95_95">[95]</a><div class="note"><p> There was, however, a still later last, when it became +the 'Drama of Exile.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_96_96"></a><a href="#FNanchor_96_96">[96]</a><div class="note"><p> John Kenyon: see the last letter.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_97_97"></a><a href="#FNanchor_97_97">[97]</a><div class="note"><p> In <i>The New Spirit of the Age</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_98_98"></a><a href="#FNanchor_98_98">[98]</a><div class="note"><p> Evidently a reference to the name of some wine +(perhaps Montepulciano) sent her by Mr. Boyd. See the end of +the letter.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_99_99"></a><a href="#FNanchor_99_99">[99]</a><div class="note"><p> It will be observed that this is not quite the same +as the current legend, which asserts that the whole poem (of 412 +lines) was composed in twelve hours.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_100_100"></a><a href="#FNanchor_100_100">[100]</a><div class="note"><p> August 24, 1844.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_101_101"></a><a href="#FNanchor_101_101">[101]</a><div class="note"><p> October 5, 1844.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_102_102"></a><a href="#FNanchor_102_102">[102]</a><div class="note"><p> September 31, 1844.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_103_103"></a><a href="#FNanchor_103_103">[103]</a><div class="note"><p> November 1844.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_104_104"></a><a href="#FNanchor_104_104">[104]</a><div class="note"><p> See letter of January 3, 1845.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_105_105"></a><a href="#FNanchor_105_105">[105]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Letters to R.H. Horne</i>, ii. 119.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_106_106"></a><a href="#FNanchor_106_106">[106]</a><div class="note"><p> Henry Fothergill Chorley (1808-1872) was one of +the principal members of the staff of the <i>Athenaeum</i>, +especially in literary and musical matters. Dr. Garnett (in the +<i>Dictionary of National Biography</i>) says of him, shortly after +his first joining the staff in 1833, that 'his articles largely +contributed to maintain the reputation the <i>Athenaeum</i> had +already acquired for impartiality at a time when puffery was more +rampant than ever before or since, and when the only other London +literary journal of any pretension was notoriously venal.' He also +wrote several novels and dramas, which met with but little popular +success.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_107_107"></a><a href="#FNanchor_107_107">[107]</a><div class="note"><p> Compare Aurora Leigh's asseveration: +</p><p> +</p><p><br /> +'By Keats' soul, the man who never stepped<br /> +In gradual progress like another man,<br /> +But, turning grandly on his central self,<br /> +Ensphered himself in twenty perfect years<br /> +And died, <i>not</i> young.'<br /> +</p><p> +('Aurora Leigh,' book i.; <i>Poetical Works</i>, vi. 38.)</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_108_108"></a><a href="#FNanchor_108_108">[108]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poetical Works</i>, iii. 172.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_109_109"></a><a href="#FNanchor_109_109">[109]</a><div class="note"><p> A summary of its contents is given in the next letter +but one.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_110_110"></a><a href="#FNanchor_110_110">[110]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Music and Manners in France and Germany: a +Series of Travelling Sketches of Art and Society</i>, published +by Mr. Chorley in 1841.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_111_111"></a><a href="#FNanchor_111_111">[111]</a><div class="note"><p> The <i>Athenaeum</i> had reserved the two longer poems, +the 'Drama of Exile' and the 'Vision of Poets,' for possible notice +in a second article, which, however, never appeared.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_112_112"></a><a href="#FNanchor_112_112">[112]</a><div class="note"><p> The reversal by the House of Lords of his conviction in +Ireland for conspiracy, which the English Court of Queen's Bench had +confirmed.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_113_113"></a><a href="#FNanchor_113_113">[113]</a><div class="note"><p> Mrs. Jameson's earliest book, and one which achieved +considerable popularity, was her <i>Diary of an Ennuyée</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_114_114"></a><a href="#FNanchor_114_114">[114]</a><div class="note"><p> It will be remembered that 'Punch' had only been in +existence for three years at this time, which will account for +this apparently superfluous advice.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_115_115"></a><a href="#FNanchor_115_115">[115]</a><div class="note"><p> In <i>Blackwood</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_116_116"></a><a href="#FNanchor_116_116">[116]</a><div class="note"><p> Newman did not actually enter the Church of Rome +until nearly a year later, in October 1845.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_117_117"></a><a href="#FNanchor_117_117">[117]</a><div class="note"><p> Miss Martineau, besides having been cured by mesmerism +herself, was blest with a housemaid who had visions under the same +influence, concerning which Miss Martineau subsequently wrote at +great length in the <i>Athenaeum</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_118_118"></a><a href="#FNanchor_118_118">[118]</a><div class="note"><p> The <i>Athenaum</i> of November 23 contained the +first of a series of articles by Miss Martineau, giving her experiences +of mesmerism.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_119_119"></a><a href="#FNanchor_119_119">[119]</a><div class="note"><p> A great robbery from Rogers' bank on November 23, +1844, in which the thieves carried off 40,000£ worth of notes, +besides specie and securities.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_120_120"></a><a href="#FNanchor_120_120">[120]</a><div class="note"><p> Strathfieldsaye, the Duke of Wellington's house.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_121_121"></a><a href="#FNanchor_121_121">[121]</a><div class="note"><p> William Barnes, the Dorsetshire poet, the first part +of whose <i>Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect</i> appeared +in 1844.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_122_122"></a><a href="#FNanchor_122_122">[122]</a><div class="note"><p> Probably Miss Anne Seward, a minor poetess who enjoyed +considerable popularity at the end of the eighteenth century. Her +elegies on Captain Cook and Major André went through several editions, +as did her <i>Louisa</i>, a poetical novel, a class of composition in +which she was the predecessor of Mrs. Browning herself. Her collected +poetical works were edited after her death by Sir Walter Scott (1810).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_123_123"></a><a href="#FNanchor_123_123">[123]</a><div class="note"><p> The real name of George Sand.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_124_124"></a><a href="#FNanchor_124_124">[124]</a><div class="note"><p> By Hans Andersen; an English translation by Mary Howitt was +published in 1845.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_125_125"></a><a href="#FNanchor_125_125">[125]</a><div class="note"><p> Duchesses in the French court had the privilege of seating +themselves on a <i>tabouret</i> or stool while the King took his meals; +hence the <i>droit du tabouret</i> comes to mean the rank of a duchess.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_126_126"></a><a href="#FNanchor_126_126">[126]</a><div class="note"><p> The mention of her brothers being at Alexandria is +sufficient to show that 1845 must be the true date.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_127_127"></a><a href="#FNanchor_127_127">[127]</a><div class="note"><p> A copy of the 1838 volume for which Mrs. Martin had asked.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_128_128"></a><a href="#FNanchor_128_128">[128]</a><div class="note"><p> Evidently a slip of the pen for Douglas Jerrold, whose +'Shilling Magazine' began to come out in 1845.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_129_129"></a><a href="#FNanchor_129_129">[129]</a><div class="note"><p> By Porson, on the authenticity of I John v. 7.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_130_130"></a><a href="#FNanchor_130_130">[130]</a><div class="note"><p> A monster bell for York Minster, then being exhibited +at the Baker Street Bazaar. Mr. Boyd was an enthusiast on bells and bell +ringing.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_131_131"></a><a href="#FNanchor_131_131">[131]</a><div class="note"><p> No doubt <i>The Swiss Family Robinson</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_132_132"></a><a href="#FNanchor_132_132">[132]</a><div class="note"><p> These versions were not published in Mrs. Browning's +lifetime, but were included in the posthumous <i>Last Poems</i> (1862). +They now appear in the <i>Poetical Works</i>, v. 72-83.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_133_133"></a><a href="#FNanchor_133_133">[133]</a><div class="note"><p> Referring to the Pythagorean doctrine of the sanctity of +beans.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_134_134"></a><a href="#FNanchor_134_134">[134]</a><div class="note"><p> Hood died on May 3, 1845; while on his deathbed +he received from Sir Robert Peel the notification that he had +conferred on him a pension of 100£ a year, with remainder to his +wife.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_135_135"></a><a href="#FNanchor_135_135">[135]</a><div class="note"><p> One of the visions of Miss Martineau's 'apocalyptic +housemaid' related to the wreck of a vessel in which the Tynemouth +people were much interested. Unfortunately it appeared that news of +the wreck had reached the town shortly before her vision, and that +she had been out of doors immediately before submitting to the +mesmeric trance.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_136_136"></a><a href="#FNanchor_136_136">[136]</a><div class="note"><p> Afterwards Mdme. Emil Braun; see the letter of +January 9, 1850. At this time she was engaged in editing an album +or anthology, to which she had asked Miss Barrett to contribute some +classical translations.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_137_137"></a><a href="#FNanchor_137_137">[137]</a><div class="note"><p> A novel by Mr. Chorley, a copy of which he had presented to +Miss Barrett.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_138_138"></a><a href="#FNanchor_138_138">[138]</a><div class="note"><p> The first number of the <i>Daily News</i> appeared on +January 2l, 1846, under the editorship of Charles Dickens.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_139_139"></a><a href="#FNanchor_139_139">[139]</a><div class="note"><p> The well-known lines beginning, 'There is delight in +singing.' They appeared in the <i>Morning Chronicle</i> for November +22, 1845.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_140_140"></a><a href="#FNanchor_140_140">[140]</a><div class="note"><p> +</p><p> +</p><p><br /> +Beloved, them hast brought me many flowers<br /> +Plucked in the garden, all the summer through,<br /> +And winter, and it seemed as if they grew<br /> +In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.<br /> +</p><p> +<i>Sonnets from the Portuguese</i>, xliv.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_141_141"></a><a href="#FNanchor_141_141">[141]</a><div class="note"><p> He committed suicide on June 22, under the influence of the +disappointment caused by the indifference of the public to his pictures, +the final instance of which was its flocking to see General Tom Thumb +and neglecting Haydon's large pictures of 'Aristides' and 'Nero,' which +were being exhibited in an adjoining room of the Egyptian Hall.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_142_142"></a><a href="#FNanchor_142_142">[142]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Poetical Works</i>, iv. 20-32.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_143_143"></a><a href="#FNanchor_143_143">[143]</a><div class="note"><p> Mrs. Sutherland Orr says that the marriage took place in +St. Pancras Church; but this is a mistake, as the parish register of +St. Marylebone proves.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_144_144"></a><a href="#FNanchor_144_144">[144]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Memoirs of Anna Jameson</i>, by G. Macpherson, p. 218.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_145_145"></a><a href="#FNanchor_145_145">[145]</a><div class="note"><p> Afterwards Mrs. Macpherson, and Mrs. Jameson's biographer.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_146_146"></a><a href="#FNanchor_146_146">[146]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Memoirs</i>, p. 231.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_147_147"></a><a href="#FNanchor_147_147">[147]</a><div class="note"><p> The date at the head of the letter is October 2, but +that is certainly a slip of the pen, since at that date, as the +following letter to Miss Mitford shows, they had not reached Pisa. +See also the reference to 'six weeks of marriage' on p. 295. The Pisa +postmark appears to be October 20 (or later), and the English postmark +is November 5.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_148_148"></a><a href="#FNanchor_148_148">[148]</a><div class="note"><p> The original is torn here.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_149_149"></a><a href="#FNanchor_149_149">[149]</a><div class="note"><p> This letter is of earlier date than the last, having been +written <i>en route</i> between Orleans and Lyons; but it has seemed +better to place the more detailed narrative first.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_150_150"></a><a href="#FNanchor_150_150">[150]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Blackwood's Magazine</i> for October 1846 contained +the following poems by Mrs. Browning, some phrases in which might +certainly be open to comment if they were supposed to have been +deliberately chosen for publication at this particular time: +'A Woman's Shortcomings,' 'A Man's Requirements,' 'Maude's Spinning,' +'A Dead Rose,' 'Change on Change,' 'A Reed,' and 'Hector in the +Garden.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_151_151"></a><a href="#FNanchor_151_151">[151]</a><div class="note"><p> Better known as Fanny Kemble.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_152_152"></a><a href="#FNanchor_152_152">[152]</a><div class="note"><p> Miss Gerardine Bate, Mrs. Jameson's niece.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_153_153"></a><a href="#FNanchor_153_153">[153]</a><div class="note"><p> This surname is a mistake on Mrs. Browning's part; see her +letter of October 1, 1849.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_154_154"></a><a href="#FNanchor_154_154">[154]</a><div class="note"><p> See <i>Lady Geraldine's Courtship</i>, stanza xli.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_155_155"></a><a href="#FNanchor_155_155">[155]</a><div class="note"><p> 'The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point' <i>(Poetical +Works</i>, ii. 192). It was first printed in a collection called +<i>The Liberty Bell</i>, for sale at the Boston National Anti-slavery +Bazaar of 1848. It was separately printed in England in 1849 as a +small pamphlet, which is now a rare bibliographical curiosity.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_156_156"></a><a href="#FNanchor_156_156">[156]</a><div class="note"><p> '<i>Critical Kit-Kats</i>,' by E. Gosse, p. 2 (1896).</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_157_157"></a><a href="#FNanchor_157_157">[157]</a><div class="note"><p> A list of the works composing Balzac's <i>Comédie +Humaine</i> is attached to this letter for Miss Mitford's benefit.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_158_158"></a><a href="#FNanchor_158_158">[158]</a><div class="note"><p> Miss E.F. Haworth (several letters to whom are given farther +on) was an old friend of Robert Browning's, and published a volume +of verse in 1847, to which this passage seems to allude.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_159_159"></a><a href="#FNanchor_159_159">[159]</a><div class="note"><p> It will be remembered that Mr. Boyd took a great interest +in bells and bell ringing. The passage omitted below contains an +extract from Murray's <i>Handbook</i> with reference to the bells +of Pisa.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_160_160"></a><a href="#FNanchor_160_160">[160]</a><div class="note"><p> This bell was tolled on the occasion of an execution.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_161_161"></a><a href="#FNanchor_161_161">[161]</a><div class="note"><p> The American sculptor.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_162_162"></a><a href="#FNanchor_162_162">[162]</a><div class="note"><p> Miss Henrietta Barrett was engaged to Captain Surtees +Cook, an engagement of which her brothers, as well as her father, +disapproved, partly on the ground of insufficiency of income. +Ultimately the difficulty was solved in the same way as in the case +of Mrs. Browning.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_163_163"></a><a href="#FNanchor_163_163">[163]</a><div class="note"><p> Mr. Horne was just engaged to be married.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_164_164"></a><a href="#FNanchor_164_164">[164]</a><div class="note"><p> Tennyson's <i>Princess</i> had just been published.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_165_165"></a><a href="#FNanchor_165_165">[165]</a><div class="note"><p> +</p><p> +</p><p><br /> +'This country saving is a glorious thing:<br /> +And if a common man achieved it? well.<br /> +Say, a rich man did? excellent. A king?<br /> +That grows sublime. A priest? Improbable.<br /> +A pope? Ah, there we stop, and cannot bring<br /> +Our faith up to the leap, with history's bell<br /> +</p><p><br /> +So heavy round the neck of it—albeit<br /> +We fain would grant the possibility<br /> +For thy sake, Pio Nono!'<br /> +</p><p> +<i>Casa Guidi Windows</i>, part i.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_166_166"></a><a href="#FNanchor_166_166">[166]</a><div class="note"><p> The grant of a National Guard was made by the Grand +Duke of Tuscany on September 4, 1847, in defiance of the threat of +Austria to occupy any Italian state in which such a concession was +made to popular aspirations.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_167_167"></a><a href="#FNanchor_167_167">[167]</a><div class="note"><p> In Tennyson's <i>Princess</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_168_168"></a><a href="#FNanchor_168_168">[168]</a><div class="note"><p> A picture of the same scene in verse will be found in +<i>Casa Guidi Windows</i>, part i.: +</p><p> +</p><p><br /> +'Shall I say<br /> +What made my heart beat with exulting love<br /> +A few weeks back,' &c.</p></div><br /> + +<a name="Footnote_169_169"></a><a href="#FNanchor_169_169">[169]</a><div class="note"><p> Chloroform, then beginning to come into use.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_170_170"></a><a href="#FNanchor_170_170">[170]</a><div class="note"><p> Miss Bate's <i>fiancé</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_171_171"></a><a href="#FNanchor_171_171">[171]</a><div class="note"><p> Novels by George Sand.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_172_172"></a><a href="#FNanchor_172_172">[172]</a><div class="note"><p> See Browning's <i>The Statue and the Bust</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_173_173"></a><a href="#FNanchor_173_173">[173]</a><div class="note"><p> 'the stone Called Dante's—a plain flat stone scarce +discerned From others in the pavement—whereupon He used to bring +his quiet chair out, turned To Brunelleschi's church, and pour alone +the lava of his spirit when it burned.' <i>Casa Guidi Windows</i>, +part i.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_174_174"></a><a href="#FNanchor_174_174">[174]</a><div class="note"><p> This edition, published in 1849 in two volumes +contained only <i>Paracelsus</i> and the plays and poems of the +<i>Bells and Pomegranates</i> series.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_175_175"></a><a href="#FNanchor_175_175">[175]</a><div class="note"><p> Apparently it had been proposed to omit <i>Luria</i> +from the new edition; but, if so, the intention was not carried out.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_176_176"></a><a href="#FNanchor_176_176">[176]</a><div class="note"><p> It will interest many readers to know that Casa Guidi +is now the property of Mr. R. Barrett Browning.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_177_177"></a><a href="#FNanchor_177_177">[177]</a><div class="note"><p> Mr. Boyd died on May 10, 1848.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_178_178"></a><a href="#FNanchor_178_178">[178]</a><div class="note"><p> Otherwise known as Robert Mannyng, or Robert de Brunne, +author of the <i>Handlyng Synne</i> and a <i>Chronicle of England</i>. +He flourished about 1288-1338.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_179_179"></a><a href="#FNanchor_179_179">[179]</a><div class="note"><p> The insurrection of Lombardy against Austrian rule +had taken place in March, and was immediately followed by war +between Sardinia and Austria, in which the Italians gained some +initial successes. Fighting continued through the summer, and was +temporarily closed by an armistice in August.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_180_180"></a><a href="#FNanchor_180_180">[180]</a><div class="note"><p><br /> +'Guercino drew this angel I saw teach<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(Alfred, dear friend!) that little child to pray</span><br /> +Holding his little hands up, each to each<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pressed gently, with his own head turned away,</span><br /> +Over the earth where so much lay before him<br /> +Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And he was left at Fano by the beach.</span><br /> +</p><p><br /> +'We were at Fano, and three times we went<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To sit and see him in his chapel there,</span><br /> +And drink his beauty to our soul's content<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My angel with me too.'</span></p></div><br /> + +<a name="Footnote_181_181"></a><a href="#FNanchor_181_181">[181]</a><div class="note"><p> The first two volumes of <i>Modern Painters</i> bore no +author's name, but were described as being 'by a graduate of Oxford.' +At a later date Mrs. Browning made Mr. Ruskin's acquaintance, as some +subsequent letters testify.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_182_182"></a><a href="#FNanchor_182_182">[182]</a><div class="note"><p> At this time President of the Council, +after suppressing the Communist rising of June 1848.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_183_183"></a><a href="#FNanchor_183_183">[183]</a><div class="note"><p> Abd-el-Kader surrendered to the French in Algeria early +in 1848, under an express promise that he should be sent either to +Alexandria or to St. Jean d'Acre; in spite of which he was sent to +France and kept there as a prisoner for several years.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_184_184"></a><a href="#FNanchor_184_184">[184]</a><div class="note"><p> Louis Napoleon was elected President of the French +Republic by a popular vote on December 10.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_185_185"></a><a href="#FNanchor_185_185">[185]</a><div class="note"><p> Count Pellegrino Rossi, chief minister to the Pope, +was assassinated in Rome, at the entrance of the Chamber of Deputies, on +November 15, 1848. Ten days later the Pope fled to Gaeta, and his +experiments in 'reform' came to a final end.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_186_186"></a><a href="#FNanchor_186_186">[186]</a><div class="note"><p> The Pope, having declared war against Austria before his +flight, had invited French support, with the concurrence of his +people; being expelled from Rome, he invited (and obtained) French +help to restore him, in spite of the desperate opposition of his +people.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_187_187"></a><a href="#FNanchor_187_187">[187]</a><div class="note"><p> Wiedeman was the maiden name of Mr. Browning's mother, +her father having been a German who settled in Scotland and married +a Scotch wife.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_188_188"></a><a href="#FNanchor_188_188">[188]</a><div class="note"><p> A revolution, fomented chiefly by the Leghornese, +expelled the Grand Duke in March 1849; about seven weeks later +a counter-revolution, chiefly by the peasantry, recalled him.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_189_189"></a><a href="#FNanchor_189_189">[189]</a><div class="note"><p> Chief administrator of the Republic of Tuscany +during the short absence of the Grand Duke Leopold.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_190_190"></a><a href="#FNanchor_190_190">[190]</a><div class="note"><p> Minister of the Interior in the Republic of 1848, and +one of the most prominent f the advanced Republican leaders.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_191_191"></a><a href="#FNanchor_191_191">[191]</a><div class="note"><p> A letter, addressed to a private friend but intended +to be made public, denouncing the reactionary and oppressive +administration of the restored Pope.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_192_192"></a><a href="#FNanchor_192_192">[192]</a><div class="note"><p> Probably the first part of <i>Casa Guidi Windows</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_193_193"></a><a href="#FNanchor_193_193">[193]</a><div class="note"><p> By A.H. Clough and T. Burbidge.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_194_194"></a><a href="#FNanchor_194_194">[194]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Christmas Eve and Easter Day</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_195_195"></a><a href="#FNanchor_195_195">[195]</a><div class="note"><p> A long description of the baby's meals and +daily programme follows, the substance of which can probably +be imagined by connoisseurs in the subject.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_196_196"></a><a href="#FNanchor_196_196">[196]</a><div class="note"><p> Apparently the <i>Echo-song</i> which now precedes canto +iv. of the <i>Princess</i>, though one is surprised at the opinion +here expressed of it. It will be remembered that this and the other +lyrical interludes did not appear in the original edition of the +<i>Princess</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_197_197"></a><a href="#FNanchor_197_197">[197]</a><div class="note"><p> Notably the <i>Sonnets from the Portuguese</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_198_198"></a><a href="#FNanchor_198_198">[198]</a><div class="note"><p> 'A Child's Death at Florence,' which appeared in the +<i>Athenaeum</i> of December 22, 1849.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_199_199"></a><a href="#FNanchor_199_199">[199]</a><div class="note"><p> Mrs. Jameson's <i>Legends of the Monastic Orders</i>, +which had just been published.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_200_200"></a><a href="#FNanchor_200_200">[200]</a><div class="note"><p> Presumably <i>not</i> Mrs. Browning's maid, but 'Christopher +North.'</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_201_201"></a><a href="#FNanchor_201_201">[201]</a><div class="note"><p> The <i>Athenaeum</i> review of <i>Christmas Eve and +Easter Day</i>, while recognising the beauty of many passages in +the two poems, criticised strongly the discussion of theological +subjects in 'doggrel verse;' and its analysis of the theology would +hardly be satisfactory to the author.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_202_202"></a><a href="#FNanchor_202_202">[202]</a><div class="note"><p> Referring to the lines entitled <i>A Child's Grave at +Florence</i>, which had apparently been misunderstood as implying +the death of Mrs. Browning's own child.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_203_203"></a><a href="#FNanchor_203_203">[203]</a><div class="note"><p> These are the papers subsequently published under the title +<i>Recollections of a Literary Life</i>. Among them was an article on the +Brownings, giving biographical detail with respect to Mrs. Browning's +early life, especially as to the loss of her brother, which caused extreme +pain to her sensitive nature, as a later letter testifies.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_204_204"></a><a href="#FNanchor_204_204">[204]</a><div class="note"><p> Drowned with her husband on their way to America.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_205_205"></a><a href="#FNanchor_205_205">[205]</a><div class="note"><p> <i>The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point</i>.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_206_206"></a><a href="#FNanchor_206_206">[206]</a><div class="note"><p> The Papal Bull appointing Roman Catholic bishops +throughout England was issued on September 24, 1850, and England +was now in the throes of the anti-papal excitement produced by it.</p></div> + +<a name="Footnote_207_207"></a><a href="#FNanchor_207_207">[207]</a><div class="note"><p> "Where Louis Napoleon was engaged in his series of +encroachments on the power of the Assembly and intrigues for the +imperial throne."</p></div> + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Letters of Elizabeth Barrett +Browning (1 of 2), by Frederic G. 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