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THE LETTERS
OF
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
EDITED WITH BIOGRAPHICAL ADDITIONS
BY
FREDERIC G. KENYON
_WITH PORTRAITS_
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOLUME I.
_THIRD EDITION_
1898
PREFACE
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.
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).[1] To these have been added a number of letters
which have been kindly lent by their possessors for the purpose of the
present volumes.
[Footnote 1: 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.]
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
F.G.K.
_July 1897_.
CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME
CHAPTER I
1806-1835
Birth--Hope End--Early Poems--Sidmouth--'Prometheus'
CHAPTER II
1835-1841
London--Magazine Poems--'The Seraphim and other Poems'--Torquay--Death
of Edward Barrett--Return to London
CHAPTER III
1841-1843
Wimpole Street--'The Greek Christian Poets'--'The English
Poets'--'The New Spirit of the Age'--Miscellaneous Letters
CHAPTER IV
1844-1846
The 'Poems' of 1844--Miss Martineau and Mesmerism--Pro-posed
Journey to Italy
CHAPTER V
1846-1849
Friendship with Robert Browning--Love and Marriage--Paris
and Pisa--Florence--Vallombrosa--Casa Guidi--Italian Politics
in 1848
CHAPTER VI
1849-1851
Birth of a Son--Death of Mrs. Browning, senior--Bagni di
Lucca--New Edition of Poems--Siena--Florentine Life
PORTRAIT OF ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. _Frontispiece_ CASA GUIDI
THE LETTERS
OF
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
CHAPTER I
1806-1835
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.[2] 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.
[Footnote 2: See _Notes and Queries_ for July 20, 1889, supplemented
by a note from Mr. Browning himself in the same paper on August 24.]
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.[3] 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.
[Footnote 3: These estates still remain in the family, and Mr. Charles
Barrett, the eldest surviving brother of Mrs. Browning, now lives
there.]
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.
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.
'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 _thoughts_. 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.
'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.'[4]
[Footnote 4: R.H. Horne, _Letters of E.B. Browning_, i. 158-161.]
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 _piece de resistance_, a number of shorter pieces, several
of which, as she informed Horne,[5] had been written when she was not
more than thirteen.
[Footnote 5: R.H. Horne, _Letters of E.B. Browning_, i. 164.]
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.'[6] 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.
[Footnote 6: _Dict. of Nat. Biography_, vii. 78.]
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.
_To Mrs. Martin_
Hope End: Thursday, [about September 1828].
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 _brisker_ and stronger, and to
be comparatively free from pain. This account is, perhaps, too
favorable,[7] and will appear so to you when you see her, as I am
afraid you will, not looking much better, _much_ more cheerful, than
when you paid us your last visit. But when we are very _willing_ to
hope, we are apt to be too _ready_ to hope: though really, without
being _too_ 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 _witness_ 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.
With our best regards, and sincerest thanks for your kind interest
Believe me, dear Mrs. Martin, most truly yours,
E.B. BARRETT.
[Footnote 7: Mrs. Browning usually spells such words as 'favour,'
'honour,' and the like, without the _u_, after the fashion which one
is accustomed to regard as American.]
_To Miss Commeline_
Hope End: Monday, [October 1828].
My dear Miss Commeline,--Thank you for the sympathy and interest
which you have extended towards us in our heavy affliction. Even _you_
cannot know _all_ that we have lost; but God knows, and it has pleased
Him to take away the blessing that He gave. And all _must_ 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.
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.
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.
_To Mrs. Boyd_
Hope End: Saturday morning, [1828-1832].
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 _me_ 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 _vulgar fractions_ of a cough and cold. I dare say (and Occyta[8]
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!
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.
In reply to your query, I will mention that _the existence_ 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,'
_as proxy_. 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 _miss_ is certainly not as _bad_ as
a _mile_. 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 _re-mention_ it to anybody. The rent is 15L. Mr. Boyd[9] 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.
Believe me, dear Mrs. Boyd, affectionately yours,
E.B. BARRETT.
[Footnote 8: Octavius, her youngest brother.]
[Footnote 9: 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.]
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,[10] 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.
[Footnote 10: Mr. Ingram, in his _Life of E.B. Browning_ ('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.]
_To Mrs. Martin_
[Sidmouth: September 1832.]
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 _all_ 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. _Then_, I well recollect, though I could not then thank you
as I ought, how you _felt for_ us and _with_ us. Do not think I can
ever forget _that time_, or _you_. I had written a note to you, which
the bearer of Bummy's and Arabel's to Colwall[11] 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.
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[12] with us! About half an hour before we set off, papa
found out that he _could not_ 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 _much_
rather stay with _you_.' 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 _us_--never, at
the moment of parting with us. And yet, though he had not power to say
_one word_, he could play at cricket with the boys on the very last
evening.
We slept at the York House in Bath. Bath is a beautiful town _as
a town_, and the country harmonises well with it, without being a
beautiful country. As _mere country_, 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 _Gorgonic_ scenery. The part of Devonshire through
which our journey lay is nothing _very_ 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 _would_ 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 _bowels of the earth_, but suspect she thought we were going
much deeper. Between you and me, she does not seem _delighted_ with
Sidmouth; but her spirits are a great deal better, and in time she
will, I dare say, be better pleased. _We_ 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 _grand_, 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 _felt_ 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. _There_, 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
_Thou_ didst it'? Indeed, dear Mrs. Martin, we must feel every hour,
and we shall feel every year, that what He did is _well done_--and not
only well, but mercifully.
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 _very_ good-natured. We hear
that the place is extremely full and gay; but this is, of course, only
an _on dit_ 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.
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,
Your affectionate and grateful
E.B.B.
[Footnote 11: The Martins' home near Malvern, about a mile from Hope
End.]
[Footnote 12: Her brothers Edward and Septimus.]
_To Mrs. Martin_
[Sidmouth:] Wednesday, September 27, 1832 [postmark].
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 _not_ 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 ...
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. _We_ 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 [_word torn out_]
their walks on my donkey, if we do not go in a boat, which is still
pleasanter. I believe Henrietta walks out about _three_ 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 _us_; 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 _suspicious_
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.
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 _very_ long away, I shall be sorry to hear of your abandoning it.
Do you recollect your promise of coming to see us? _We_ do.
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 _home_! 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.
Dearest Mrs. Martin's affectionate
E.B. BARRETT.
_To Mrs. Martin_
Sidmouth: December 14, 1832.
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 _Archbishop of
Dublin's_[13] 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 _you_, 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.[14] 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
_do_ 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 _insist_ 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
_you_ 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 _Via Sacra_. 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,
Your affectionate
E.B.B.
[Footnote 13: Archbishop Whately.]
[Footnote 14: _The New Monthly Magazine_, at this time edited by
Bulwer, afterwards the first Lord Lytton.]
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.'[15] 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.[16] 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.'[17]
[Footnote 15: _Letters to R.H. Home_, i. 162.]
[Footnote 16: 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.]
[Footnote 17: _Athenaeum_, June 8, 1833.]
_To Mrs. Martin_
Sidmouth: May 27, 1833.
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 _could_ 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[18] 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, _might_ 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 _Mr.
Boyds_, 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
_four_ 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, _do_ procure _that_. 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 _all bounds_. Do write soon, and
tell us everything about Mr. Martin and yourself. And ever believe me,
dearest Mrs. Martin,
Your affectionate
E.B. BARRETT.
[Footnote 18: Alfred, the fifth brother.]
_To Mrs. Martin_
Sidmouth: September 7, 1833.
My dearest Mrs. Martin,--Are you a _little_ angry _again_? 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 _always_ 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 _me_, 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, _he_
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
_they_, 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!' ...
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 _evident_ 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 _like_ your honesty, and love you for being honest, even if
you put on the very blackest of black caps....
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!
May God bless you, dear Mrs. Martin!
Ever believe me, your affectionate
E.B. BARRETT.
_To H.S. Boyd_
Sidmouth: Friday [1834].
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 _why_ 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.
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 _that_. 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.
Perhaps you will wonder why I am not ashamed to write to _you_. 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 _fault_.
You see my scepticism is becoming faster and faster developed.
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 _pons asinorum_ 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 _tertium quid_ between
matter and spirit. Certainly I can't believe that any kind of matter,
primal or ultimate, can be _indivisible_, which it must according to
his view.
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.' ...
Believe me, your affectionate friend,
E.B.B.
_To H.S. Boyd_
Sidmouth: September 14, [1834].
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 _am_ 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 _were_
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 _together_!
Not a word about your book![19] Don't you mean to tell me anything
of it? I saw a review of it--rather a satisfactory one--I think in an
_August_ 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 _half so
much_, had you been here.
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.
The black-edged paper may make you wonder at its cause. Our dear
aunt Mrs. Butler died last month at Dieppe--and died _in Jesus_. Miss
Clarke is going, if she is not gone, to Italy for the winter.
Believe me, affectionately yours,
E.B. BARRETT.
Write to me whenever you _dislike it least_, and tell me what your
plans are. I hear nothing about our leaving Sidmouth.
[Footnote 19: _The Fathers not Papists_, including a reprint of some
translations from the Greek Fathers, which Mr. Boyd had published
previously.]
_To Miss Commeline_
September 22, 1834 [Sidmouth].
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, _much_ obliged to you
for the kind few lines you wrote to me--how long ago! No, do not
remember how long--do not remember _that_ 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--_at last_! 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.'
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 _Devonshire lane_. 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....
Pray believe me, affectionately yours,
E.B. BARRETT.
_To Mrs. Martin_
Sidmouth: Friday, December 19, 1834 [postmark].
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
thankful for the unsatisfactory accounts which for many days
afterwards we received.... I cannot help being anxious and fearful.
You know he is _all_ 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
_walk_ 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 _decider_ on this
point. I have often thought that it is happier _not_ 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 _in detail_. 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 _little_ 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 _do_ believe me always,
Your affectionate
E.B. BARRETT.
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.
_To H.S. Boyd_
Sidmouth: Tuesday [spring 1835].
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.
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 _Doubt_'--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....
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.
Give Annie my kind love. May God preserve both of you!
Believe me, your affectionate friend,
E.B. BARRETT.
CHAPTER II
1835-1841
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.
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.
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.
_To H.S. Boyd_
[74 Gloucester Place, London: autumn 1835.]
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 _you_--he must take with
him a few lines from _Porsonia_ _greeting_, 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 _will_
know, if you consider--I cannot open the window and fly.
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 _Romans_; and if you begin _that_, the peroration will be a
very pathetic one, in my being turned out of your doors. Such is my
prophecy.
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, _versus_ 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.
Believe me, dear Mr. Boyd, your affectionate friend,
E.B. BARRETT.
Arabel's and my love to Annie. Won't she come to see us?
_To Mrs. Martin_
74 Gloucester Place, Portman Square, London: Jan. I, 1836.
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
_will_ 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, _you_ will say) said, '_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--_thus_!
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 _feel_ as well as _know_ the truth, that what is sudden
sorrow, to our judgments, is only long-prepared mercy in _His_ will
whose names are _Wisdom_ and _Love_. 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 _His_ 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.
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.
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
_now_. 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.
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 _believe_ 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 _so_, and _now_. I am _satisfied_
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 _you_! 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.
Your affectionate
E.B. BARRETT.
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):
'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.'
The poem with which Miss Barrett thus made her bow to the world of
letters was 'The Romaunt of Margret,'[20] 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,[21] which was printed in the October number of the 'New Monthly.'
[Footnote 20: _Poetical Works_, ii. 3.]
[Footnote 21: _Ib_. i. 277.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
[London:] October 14, Friday [1836].
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.
The [Greek: Achaiides] approach the [Greek: Achaioi][22] 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
_strenuous_ 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.'
You see my critic has condemned me with a very gracious countenance.
Do put on yours,
And believe me, affectionately yours,
E.B. BARRETT.
I forgot to say that you surprised and pleased me at the same time by
your praise of my 'Sea-mew.'[23] Love to Annie. We were glad to hear
that she did not _continue_ unwell, and that you are well again, too.
I hope you have had no return of the rheumatic pain.
[Footnote 22: Miss Barrett's Greek is habitually written without
accents or breathings.]
[Footnote 23: _Poetical Works_, ii. 278.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
[74 Gloucester Place:] Saturday, [October 1836].
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 _silently_ was my hope of
answering them more agreeably to both of us--by talking instead of
writing.
Yes; you have read my mystery.[24]
You paid a tithe to your human nature in reading only _nine-tenths_
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 _very fair_, and
dealt its blow with a shining pointed weapon.
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[25] has never
been touched until the last three days? It was _not_ 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 _free_ to it. And writing poetry
requires a double liberty, and an inclination which comes only of
itself.
But I have begun. I tried the blank metre once, and it _would not
do_, 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 _will_ 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.
Here is a question for you:
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.
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.
Believe me, dear Mr. Boyd, your affectionate friend,
E.B. BARRETT.
[Footnote 24: An allusion to the first line of 'The Poet's Vow.']
[Footnote 25: The 'Seraphim,' published in 1838.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
[74 Gloucester Place:] November 26, 1836 [postmark].
My dear Mr. Boyd,--I have been so busy that I have not been able until
this morning to take breath or _inspiration_ to answer your lyrics.
You shall see me soon, but I am sorry to say it can't be Monday or
Tuesday.
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.
Arabel's and my best love to Annie. And believe me in a great hurry,
for I won't miss this post,
Yours affectionately,
E.B. BARRETT.
Your lyrics found me dull as prose
Among a file of papers
And analysing London fogs
To nothing but the vapours.
They knew their part; but through the fog
Their flaming lightning raising;
They missed my fancy, and instead,
My choler set a-blazing.
Quoth I, 'I need not care a pin
For charge unjust, unsparing;
Yet oh! for ancient bodkin[26] keen,
To punish this _Pindaring_.
'Yet oh! that I, a female Jove,
These fogs sublime might float on,
Where, eagle-like, my dove might show
A very [Greek: _ugron noton_].[27]
'Then lightning should for lightning flash,
Vexation for vexation,
And shades of St. John's Wood should glow
In awful conflagration.'
I spoke; when lo! my birds of peace,
The vengeance disallowing,
Replied, 'Coo, coo!' But _keep in mind_,
That _cooing_ is not _cowing_.[28]
[Footnote 26: The bodkin seems to be a favourite weapon with ancient
dames whose genius was for killing (note by E.B.B.).]
[Footnote 27: A reference to Pindar, _Pyth_.i. 9.]
[Footnote 28: These verses are inclosed with the foregoing letter, as
a retort to Mr. Boyd's parody.]
_To Mrs. Martin_
74 Gloucester Place: December 7, 1836.
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.
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 _is_ 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 _pigs_ in the late storm.
We could almost _see_ 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 _encouraged_ 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, _in case_, as seemed probable, the whole house was on its
way to the ground. Indeed, we should think much of the _mercy_ 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 _you_ 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....
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 _them_ to another, It is better, perhaps, to keep a stricter
_identity_, by calling only our thoughts our own.
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 _that_--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 _in_ 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.
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 _own face_. 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
_prominent_--if you quite understand what I mean by _that_. I do
myself, for I saw at the same time Landor--the brilliant Landor!--and
_felt_ 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 [_words torn out_]
write all day long. And then people ask me what I _mean_ in [_words
torn out_]. 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 _very_ well, notwithstanding the thinness--perhaps, in
some measure, on account of it--and in _eminent_ 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_ 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 _together_, and that, I am sure, they all
feel....
Believe me, dearest Mrs. Martin, your affectionate
E.B.B.
Oh that you would call me Ba![29]
[Footnote 29: Elizabeth Barrett's 'pet name' (see her poem, _Poetical
Works_, 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.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
[74 Gloucester Place:]
Thursday, December 15, 1836 [postmark].
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, _next_ (of course) to the beloved 'De Virginitate' of
Gregory Nazianzen.[30]
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.
Yours affectionately,
E.B. BARRETT.
Is your poem printed yet?
[Footnote 30:Do you mind that deed of Ate
Which you bound me to so fast,--
Reading 'De Virginitate,'
From the first line to the last?
How I said at ending solemn,
As I turned and looked at you,
That Saint Simeon on the column
Had had somewhat less to do?
'Wine of Cyprus' (_Poetical Works_, iii. 139)]
_To H.S. Boyd_
[74 Gloucester Place:] Tuesday [Christmas 1836].
My dear Friend,--I am very much obliged to you for the _two_ 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.
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.[31] A long list of great names, belonging to
_intending_ contributors, appeared in the paper a day or two ago, and
among them was Miss Mitford's.
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, _talking_ of paying our visit to you next Tuesday.
Don't expect us, nevertheless.
Yours affectionately,
E.B. BARRETT.
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 _bodily_ part
of you.
You may wish, in return, for _me_, that I may learn to write rather
more legibly than 'at these presents.'
Our love to Annie.
Won't you send your new poem to Mr. Barker, to the care of Mr. Valpy,
with your Christmas benedictions?
[Footnote 31: As a matter of fact, 'The Seraphim' was not printed in
the _New Monthly_, being probably thought too long.]
_To Mrs. Martin_.
[74 Gloucester Place:] January 23, 1837 [postmark].
My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I am standing in Henrietta's place, she
says--but not, _I_ say, to answer your letter to _her_ yesterday, but
your letter to _me_, some weeks ago--which I meant to answer much
more immediately if the _ignis fatuus_ 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....
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 _reserve_ 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 _truth_ 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 _ambitious_ 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 _see_ 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 _rather_ 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 _poetry_, it seems to me
to want, not beauty, but power, passion, and condensation. This is my
_doxy_ about 'Ion.' Its author[32] made me very proud by sending it to
me, although we do not know him personally. I have _heard_ that he is
a most amiable man (who else could have written 'Ion'?), but that he
was a little _elevated_ by his popularity last year!...
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' _is_
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!
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,'[33] 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 '_of_' 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 _asay_ about nothing ...
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
_as much_. I envy you your before-breakfast activity. I am never a
_complete man_ without my breakfast--it seems to be some integral part
of my soul. _You_ 'read all O'Connell's speeches.' I never read any of
them--unless they take me by surprise. I keep my devotion for _unpaid_
patriots; but Miss Mitford is another devotee of Mr. O'Connell ...
Dearest Mrs. Martin's affectionate
E.B. BARRETT.
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.'
[Footnote 32: Serjeant Talfourd.]
[Footnote 33: _Poetical Works_, ii. 248.]
_To Mrs. Martin_
London: August 16, 1837.
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
_must_ 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 _wrongly_ 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 _may_ take it, and we _may_ 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
_sur le tapis_ 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.
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 _die_, 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!...
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....
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 _until we have another
house_! This is something like 'when Homer and Virgil are forgotten.'
_Speaking of Homer and Virgil_, I have been writing a 'Romance of the
Ganges,'[34] 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 _very_ 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 _mind_, my
_affections_, and that part of either, called my gratitude. BA.
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 _want_ 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.
[Footnote 34: _Poetical Works_, ii. 83.]
_To Miss Commeline_
London: August 19, 1837.
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 _we_, 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
_must_ come to all, there is a light which _may_; 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.
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 _think_ 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.'
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.
But you must not think I am a discontented person and grumble all day
long at being in London. _There are many advantages here_, 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....
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....
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 _them_ 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,
Yours sincerely and affectionately,
E.B. BARRETT.
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.
_To H.S. Boyd_
Monday morning, March 27, 1838 [postmark].
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 _had_ 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_ for
myself, _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 _promised_ 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 _is_ actually, and will be considered by others, more a trial
of strength than either of my preceding ones.
Thank you for the books, and especially for the _editio rarissima_,
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.
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.
Whereupon I revenge myself, you see, by talking all this nonsense upon
paper, and making you the victim.
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
_Chrysostom_ to the second.
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,
Your affectionate friend,
E.B. BARRETT.
I saw Mr. Kenyon yesterday. He has a book just coming out.[35] I
should like you to read it. If you would, you would thank me for
saying so.
[Footnote 35: _Poems, for the most part occasional_, by John Kenyon.]
_To John Kenyon_[36]
[1838.]
Thank you, dearest Mr. Kenyon; and I should (and _shall_) 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 _that_ 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.
Where did you get your Bacchanalian song? Witty, certainly, but
the recollection of the _scores_ 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.
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
_good_ 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?
_That_, at least, is what I meant to say with all these words.
Ever affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
[Footnote 36: 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
_Red-Letter Days of My Life_, vol. i.).]
_To John Kenyon_
Wimpole Street: Sunday evening [1838?].
My dear Mr. Kenyon,--I am _so_ sorry to hear of your going, and I not
able to say 'good-bye' to you, that--I am _not_ writing this note on
that account.
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 _for yourself_,
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 _two_ to be sure of my chances of saving one. Will you? You would
please me very much by doing it; and certainly not _dis_ 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 _E.B.B._?
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 _in earnest_ this time--besides
being, with every wish for your enjoyment of mountains and lakes and
'cherry trees,'
Ever affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
_To H.S. Boyd_
[May 1838.]
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.
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.'
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 _as
soon_ as I have power over one.
With kind regards to Miss Holmes,
Believe me, your affectionate friend,
E.B.B.
_To H.S. Boyd_
50 Wimpole Street; Wednesday [May 1838].
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.
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.
Did you hear of an autograph of Shakespeare's being sold lately for a
very large sum (I _think_ it was above a hundred pounds) on the credit
of its being the only genuine autograph extant? Is yours quite safe?
And are _you_ so, in your opinion of its veritableness?
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,'[37] and the subject not of my own choosing.
I believe that you will certainly have 'The Seraphim' this week. Do
macadamise the frown from your brow in order to receive them.
Give my love to Miss Holmes.
Your affectionate friend,
E.B. BARRETT.
[Footnote 37: _Poetical Works_, ii. 40.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
June 7, 1838 [postmark].
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 _fly_.'
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,[38] 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.
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 _is_, and _will_ be, I am prepared to
hear with a good deal of awe. You will _certainly not approve of the
poem_.
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.
If I should live, I shall write (_I believe_) better poems than 'The
Seraphim;' which belief will help me to survive the condemnation heavy
upon your lips.
Affectionately yours,
E.B. BARRETT.
[Footnote 38: 'The Romaunt of the Page.']
'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.
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'[39] began its review with
the following declaration:
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.
[Footnote 39: July 7, 1838.]
The 'Examiner,'[40] after quoting at length from the preface and 'The
Seraphim,' continued:
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.
[Footnote 40: June 24, 1838.]
The 'Atlas,'[41] 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.'
[Footnote 41: June 23, 1838.]
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'[42] 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:
[Footnote 42: September 1840.]
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 _vitiis imitabile exemplar_.
So much for the reception of 'The Seraphim' volume by the outside
world. The letters show how it appeared to the authoress herself.
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.
'My first acquaintance with Elizabeth Barrett commenced about fifteen
years ago.[43] 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,[44] 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,[45] 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.'[46]
[Footnote 43: This was written about the end of 1851.]
[Footnote 44: 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.']
[Footnote 45: Nineteen years, Miss Mitford having been born in 1787.]
[Footnote 46: _Recollections of a Literary Life_, by Mary Russell
Mitford, p. 155 (1859).]
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.
_To Miss Mitford_
50 Wimpole Street: Thursday [June 1838].
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 _so_ kind of you, in the midst of your multitude of
occupations, to make time (out of love) to send them to us!
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--_his_ merit and not mine.
But don't believe him--no!--don't believe even Mr. Kenyon--whenever
he says that I am _perversely_ 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, _indeed_, 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....
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 _return_; 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.
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.
I feel as if I had not said half, and they have come to ask me if I
have not said _all_! My beloved friend, may you be happy in all ways!
Do write whenever you wish to talk and have no one to talk to nearer
you than I am! _Indeed_, I did not forget Dr. Mitford when I wrote
those words, although they look like it.
Your gratefully affectionate
E.B. BARRETT.
_To H.S. Boyd_
50 Wimpole Street: Wednesday morning [June 1838].
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.
I sent a copy of my book to Nelly Bordman _before_ I read your
suggestion. I knew that her kind feeling for me would interest her in
the sight of it.
Thank you once more, dear Mr. Boyd! May all my critics be gentle after
the pattern of your gentleness!
Believe me, affectionately yours,
E.B. BARRETT.
_To H.S. Boyd_
50 Wimpole Street: June 17 [1838].
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.
As to the 'Athenaeum,' although I am _not_ 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 '_attitudes_,' 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 _that_.
Thank you for the question about my health. I am very tolerably
well--for _me_: 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.
Thank you besides for your criticisms, which I shall hold in memory,
and use whenever I am not particularly _obstinate_, in all my
SUCCEEDING EDITIONS!
You will smile at that, and so do _I._
Arabel is walking in the Zoological Gardens with the Cliffes--but I
think you will see her before long.
Your affectionate friend,
E.B. BARRETT.
Don't let me forget to mention the Essays[47]. 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.'
[Footnote 47: i.e. copies of the _Essay on Mind_.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
50 Wimpole Street: Thursday, June 21 [1838].
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.'
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, '_Indeed_, I hope to see Mr. Boyd to-morrow.'
But _I_ say that I will not keep this answer of mine to run the risk
of another day's contingencies, and that _it_ shall go, whether _she_
does or not.
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 _believe_, 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.
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.
Your affectionate friend, dear Mr. Boyd,
E.B. BARRETT.
I have seen an extract from a private letter of Mr. Chorley, editor
of the 'Athenaeum,'[48] which speaks _huge_ praises of my poems. If he
were to say a tithe of them in print, it would be nine times above my
expectation!
[Footnote 48: This is an error. Mr. Chorley was not editor of the
_Athenaeum_, though he was one of its principal contributors.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
[June 1838.]
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 _them_. Yet I believe I have something to say,
and will find a time to say it in.
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 _pulse_. But I am better on the whole.
Mr. Cross,[49] 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
_should_ 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.
Give my love to Miss Bordman. When is she coming to see me?
The thunder did not do me any harm.
Your affectionate friend, in great haste, although your servant is not
likely to think so, E.B.B.
[Footnote 49: 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.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
[June 1838.]
My dear Friend,--You must let me _feel_ my thanks to you, even when
I do not _say_ 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.
The 'burden pure _have_ been' certainly was a misprint, as certainly
'nor man nor nature satisfy'[50] is ungrammatical. But I am _not_ so
sure about the passage in Isobel:
I am not used to tears at nights Instead of slumber--nor to prayer.
Now I think that the passage may imply a repetition of the words with
which it begins, after 'nor'--thus--'nor _am I used_ 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.[51]
You did not answer one question. Do you consider that '_apolyptic_'
stands without excuse?[52]
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. _You_ would not have
called it reading if you had heard it.
I studied hard by myself afterwards, and the kindness with which
afterwards still you assisted me, if yourself remembers gladly _I_
remember _gratefully_ and gladly.
I have just been told that your servant was desired by you _not to
wait a minute_.
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.
Affectionately yours,
E.B. BARRETT.
I am tolerably well. I have been forced to take digitalis again, which
makes me feel weak; but still I am better, I think.
[Footnote 50: Altered in later editions to 'satisfies.']
[Footnote 51: In later editions 'not' is repeated instead of 'nor,'
which looks like a compromise between her own opinion and Mr. Boyd's.]
[Footnote 52: 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.']
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:--
'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 _condemnation_ for the terrible one--"Damnation!" exclaimed the
bishop. The effect must have been rather startling.'
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.'
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.
_To Mrs. Martin_
Beacon Terrace, Torquay: November 24 [1839].
My dearest Mrs. Martin,--Henrietta _shall not_ 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.
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 _tubercular_ 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 _that_ death!
'_God's Will_' is the only answer to the mystery of the world's
afflictions....
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.
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?
Love your affectionate BA,
--found guilty of egotism and stupidity 'by this sign' and at once!
_To H.S. Boyd_
1 Beacon Terrace, Torquay:
Wednesday, November 27, 1839.
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.
Thank you again and again for your praise of the ballad, which both
delighted and _surprised_ 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_, who am, you know, hardened to sins of carelessness,
simply look _aghast_ 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.
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.
Do you know that George is barrister-at-law of the Inner Temple--_is_?
I have seen him gazetted.
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 _you_--and bring us
together again, if no more in the flesh, yet in the spirit!
Your ever affectionate friend,
E.B. BARRETT.
Do write--when you are able and _least_ disinclined. Do you approve of
Prince Albert or not?[53]
[Footnote 53: The engagement of Prince Albert to Queen Victoria took
place in October 1839.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
Torquay: May 29, 1840.
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 _for ever_ now....
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 _monstrum amandum_, 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 _that_, thinking of course that I knew something
more about you than I do. Yes indeed; you _do_ 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 _you_, 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.
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....
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.
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.
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.
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. I never can forget _you_.
Your affectionate and grateful
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
Arabel desires her love to be offered to you.
_To H.S. Boyd_
1 Beacon Terrace, Torquay: July 8, 1840.
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 '_used_ to care for what is poetical;'
therefore, perhaps you say to yourself sometimes that I _used_ to
care for _you_! I am anxious to vindicate my identity to you, in that
respect above all.
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 _your_ 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....
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.
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.[54] It is a fitter subject for you than for me.
Napoleon is no idol of _mine. 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.
Another poem (which you won't like, I dare say) is called 'The Lay of
the Rose,'[55] 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.
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.
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 _Being_ seems proved to me,
_demonstrated_ 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.
Your affectionate and grateful
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
[Footnote 54: 'Crowned and Buried' _(Poetical Works_, iii. 9).]
[Footnote 55: _Poetical Works_, iii. 152.]
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.
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 _mad_ 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,'[56] 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 'Psyche Apocalypte,' and was to be a drama on the Greek model,
treating of the birth and self-realisation of the soul of man.
[Footnote 56: These versions are not reprinted in her collected
_Poetical Works_, but are to be found in 'Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer
modernised,' (1841).]
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.
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.
_To Mrs. Martin_
December 11, 1840.
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 _all the rest_--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.
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.
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....
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.
May God bless you ever!
Your gratefully attached
BA.
_To Mrs. Martin_
March 29, 1841.
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.
And yet it has not. Dearest Mrs. Martin, it has _not_. 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. _My_ spring _is_ 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 _you_.
Dearest Mrs. Martin, receive my sympathy, _our_ 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!
Ah! but you did not come: I was disappointed!
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 _you_. 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 _could_, 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 _fancy_ 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 _does_, you know)--and a stranger's might be
easier to look at than one long known....
For my own part, my dearest Mrs. Martin, my heart has been lightened
lately by kind, _honest_ 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 _here_. 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!
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.
Ever your affectionate
BA.
_To H.S. Boyd_
August 28, 1841.
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--_more_ 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 _me_. I thank God I am going
home at last.
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 _may_ happen! I _may_ (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 _well_ even
so.
I shall tell them to send you the 'Athenaeum' of last week, where I
have a 'House of Clouds,'[57] 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?
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!
Your ever affectionate friend,
E.B.B.
_To H.S. Boyd_
August 31, 1831 [_sic_].
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 _does_
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.
May God bless you, my dear dear friend! Give my love to dearest Annie!
Perhaps, if I am ever really in Wimpole Street, _safe enough for
Greek_, you will trust the poems to me which you mention. I care as
much for poetry as ever, and could not more.
Your affectionate and grateful
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
[Footnote 57: _Poetical Works_, iii. 186.]
CHAPTER III
1841-1843
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.
_To H.S. Boyd_
50 Wimpole Street: October 2, 1841.
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 _again_: 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 _me_, 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.
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.
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 _second_ 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.
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.
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 _one symptom_
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.
I hope Arabel expressed for me my thankful sense of Mrs. Smith's kind
intention. But, indeed, although I would see _you_, 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 _can't_ 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 _love_ 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?... Believe me your
affectionateE.B.B.
_To H.S. Boyd_
50 Wimpole Street: December 29, 1841.
My dear Friend,--I should not have been half as idle about
transcribing these translations[58] 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 _last_ 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
_unity and completeness_, 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.
Ever affectionately yours,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
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.
[Footnote 58: Translations of three poems of Gregory Nazianzen,
printed in the _Athenaeum_ of January 8, 1842.]
_To Mr. Westwood_[59]
50 Wimpole Street: January 2, 1842.
Miss Barrett, inferring Mr. Westwood from the handwriting, begs his
acceptance of the unworthy little book[60] he does her the honour of
desiring to see.
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 _love_ 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 _truth_
within? Indeed she is thankful for what he said so kindly in his note
to her.
[Footnote 59: 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 _Athenaeum_ at the
time when this correspondence with Miss Barrett commenced.]
[Footnote 60: The _Essay on Mind_.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
50 Wimpole Street: January 6, 1842.
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.
And you _may_ 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 might as well take it_.' Well, you will see what I have
done. Try not to be angry with me. You shall have the 'Athenaeum' as
soon as possible.
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 _excerpta_, 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 _so_?[61] 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! _Will_ 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.
Ever affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
_To H.S. Boyd_
Wednesday, January 13, 1842 (postmark).
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 _rather_ 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.'
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.[62] 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--_fourteen guineas_,
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.
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 _orator_ was marked emphatically, so as to appear
printed in capital letters of emphasis. Do not say 'you _chose_,' 'you
_chose_.' I didn't and don't choose to be obstinate, indeed; but I
can't see the sense of that 'heavenly soul.'
Ever your grateful and affectionate
E.B.B.
I shall have room for praising Gregory in these papers.
[Footnote 61: The series of papers on the Greek Christian Poets
appeared in the _Athenaeum_ for February and March 1842; they are
reprinted in the _Poetical Works_, v. 109-200.]
[Footnote 62: This scheme took shape in the series of papers on the
English Poets which appeared in the _Athenaeum_ in the course of June
and August 1842 (reprinted in _Poetical Works_, v. 201-290).]
_To H.S. Boyd_
February 4, 1842.
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
_stopped_ 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.
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 _busy upon busy_.
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 _three parts_. They will admit, they
tell me, a fourth _if I please_, but evidently they would prefer as
much brevity as I could vouchsafe. Only two poets are in the first
notice, and _twenty_ remain--and neither of the two is Gregory.
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.
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!
May God bless you, dear Mr. Boyd. I don't despair of looking in your
face one day yet before my last.
Ever your affectionate and obliged
E.B.B.
Arabel's love.
_To H.S. Boyd_
March 2, 1842.
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 _that_ 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.'
Of course it gives me very great pleasure to hear you speak so kindly
of my first paper. Some _bona avis_ 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 _fourth_
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 _hortus
siccus_ of poets.
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.
In regard to Gregory and Synesius, you will see presently that I have
not wronged them altogether.
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.
It was very kind in you to pat Flush's[63] 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 _your_ folios--I respect _your_ books,
be sure.) Oh, I dare say, if the truth were known, Flush understands
Greek excellently well.
I hope you are right in thinking that we shall meet again. Once I
wished _not_ to live, but the faculty of life seems to have sprung up
in me again, from under the crushing foot of heavy grief.
Be it all as God wills.
Believe me, your ever affectionate
E.B.B.
[Footnote 63: Miss Barrett's dog, the gift of Miss Mitford. His praise
is sung in her poem, 'To Flush, my Dog' (_Poetical Works_, 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.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
Saturday night, March 5, 1842.
My very dear Friend,--I am quite angry with myself for forgetting your
questions when I answered your letter.
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 _from_ 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.
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.
Now the questions are answered.
Ever your affectionate and grateful friend,
E.B.B.
_To H.S. Boyd_
Thursday, March 10, 1842 [postmark].
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 _am_ 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.
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 _him_ 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 _me_ about 'venturing,' or 'liberty,' or anything of
that kind?
From your affectionate and grateful catechumen,
E.B.B.
_To H.S. Boyd_.
March 29, 1842.
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
_very_ 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[64] 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.
Do you think it was wrong to make _eternity_ 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?
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 'Hexaemeron,' 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.
John Mauropus, of the Three Towns, I owe the knowledge of to _you.
You_ 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.
Believe me, ever your affectionate and grateful
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
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.
Keep the book as long as you please; it is my own.
[Footnote 64: George Burges, the classical scholar. He had in 1832
contributed to the _Gentleman's Magazine_ (under a pseudonym) some
lines purporting to be a newly discovered portion of the _Bacchae_,
but really composed by himself on the basis of a parallel passage
in the _Christus Patiens_. It is apparently to these lines that Miss
Barrett alludes, though the 'discovery' was then nearly ten years
old.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
50 Wimpole Street: April 2, 1842.
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 [_sic_] 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.
The single unfavorable opinion _is_ 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.
Believe me, your ever affectionate
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
_To H.S. Boyd_
May 17, 1842.
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.
You do not like Silentiarius _very much_ (that is _my_ 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.
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 _you_
for them, and _you_ must be good enough to thank _her_. They were of
use, although of a rather sublime indifference for poets generally....
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 _that_. Flushie
means to bark the next time he sees you in revenge for what you say of
him.
Good bye, dear Mr. Boyd; think of me as
Your ever affectionate
E.B.B.
_To H.S. Boyd_
June 3, 1842.
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
_least_. Therefore do not prepare yourself for perhaps the impossible
magnanimity of reading them through.
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!
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.
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 _your daughter_, that I am sorry to think of
the observations it may excite. The whole scheme has appeared to me
from the beginning _most foolish_, 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.
My very dear friend's affectionate and grateful
E.B.B.
If you _do_ read any of the papers, let me know, I beseech you, your
full and free opinion of them.
_To H.S. Boyd_
June 22, 1842.
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 _(that_ 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 _into four_,[65] yet could find
no room in the 'Athenaeum' last week for me, and only _hopes_ 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_ 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.
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.
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 _me_. He used to tremble and bark
at it, but now he is _silently_ jealous, and contents himself with
squeezing close, close to me and kissing me expressively.
My very dear friend's ever gratefully affectionate
E.B.B.
[Footnote 65: Ultimately five.]
_To John Kenyon_
50 Wimpole Street: Sunday night [September 1842].
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 _come_ again when _you_ 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 _when_.' 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.'
Which I do in the most effectual way--in her own words.
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.'
Now I have done with being a messenger of the gods, and verily my
caduceus is trembling in my hand.
O Mr. Kenyon! what have you done? You will know the interpretation of
the reproach, your conscience holding the key of the cypher.
In the meantime I ought to be thanking you for your great kindness
about this divine Tennyson.[66] 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.
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.
Ever affectionately yours,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
You will let me keep your beautiful ballad and the gods[67] a little
longer.
[Footnote 66: This refers to the recent publication of Tennyson's
_Poems_, 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.']
[Footnote 67: No doubt Mr. Kenyon's translation of Schiller's 'Gods
of Greece,' which was the occasion of Miss Barrett's poem 'The Dead
Pan.']
_To H.S. Boyd_
September 14, 1842.
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 _better_ 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.
I suppose, dear Mr. Boyd, you want only to have this review read to
you, and not _written_. 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 _unity_.
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.[68] 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 _his height_, 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.
Ever my very dear friend's affectionate and grateful
E.B.B.
[Footnote 68: _Poems, chiefly of early and late years, including The
Borderers, a Tragedy_ (1842).]
_To Mrs. Martin_
50 Wimpole Street: October 22, 1842.
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 _are_
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.
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?...
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, _stopped quite_ 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 _do_ good instead
of receiving it only.
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![69]
Give my kind love to Mr. Martin--_our_ kind love, indeed, to both of
you--and believe me, my dearest Mrs. Martin,
Your ever affectionate BA.
Is there any hope for us of you before the winter ends? Do consider.
_To H.S. Boyd_
Monday, October 31, 1842.
My very dear Friend,--I have put off from day to day sending you
these volumes, and in the meantime _I have had a letter from the great
poet_! 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.[70]
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
I have seen
A curious child, &c.
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 _second_ 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,
Your ever affectionate
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
[Footnote 69: It was this picture that called forth the sonnet, 'On
a Portrait of Wordsworth by B.R. Haydon' (_Poetical Works_, iii. 62),
alluded to in the next letter.]
[Footnote 70: 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.
'Rydal Mount: Oct. 26, '42.
'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.
'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.
"A vision free
And noble, Haydon, hath thine art released."
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:
"By a vision free
And noble, Haydon, is thine art released."
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.
'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.
'With every good wish, I remain, dear Miss Barrett, your much obliged
'WM. WORDSWORTH.'
[Postmark: Ambleside, Oct. 28, 1842.]
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
'A noble vision free
Our Haydon's hand has flung out from the mist.
_To H.S. Boyd_
December 4, 1842.
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 _won't_ be praised for being liberal in
Calvinism and love of Byron. _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, '_You_, 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_ to be praised now for being 'liberal' in admitting the merit
of his poetry! _I_!
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 _say_ 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 _Him_ there can be no after nor before.
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[71] be 'fore-know' or
'publicly _favor_,' 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 _Jews and Gentiles_. 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 _do_ 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, _then_ you would
turn me and Flush out of the room and so finish the controversy
victoriously.
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 _name_ 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 _prayer_. 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!
Ever your affectionate and grateful
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
Tell me how you like the sonnet; but you won't (I prophesy) like it.
Keep the 'Athenaeum.'
[Footnote 71: The Greek [Greek: progignoskein], used in Romans viii.
29.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
December 24, 1842.
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....
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.
Ever your affectionate and grateful
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
_To H.S. Boyd_
January 5, 1842 [1843].
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.
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
_lay figure_ 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.'
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 _only_ charm of all the poems. There is a sound
of wild vague music in a monotone--nothing is articulate, nothing
_individual_, 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....
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.
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, _my_ truth, the
truth of my belief and opinions.
I do not defend much in the 'Idiot Boy.' Wordsworth is a great poet,
but he does not always write equally.
And that reminds me of a distinction you suggest between Ossian and
Homer. _I_ fashion it in this way: Homer sometimes nods, but Ossian
_makes his readers nod_.
Ever your affectionate
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
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 _not elegant_. 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.
Arabel's love.
_To H.S. Boyd_
[About the end of January 1843.]
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?
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,' _Editor's Table_, 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.
Dearest Mr. Boyd, since you admit that I am not prejudiced about
Ossian, I take courage to tell you what I am thinking of.
_I am thinking_ (this is said in a whisper, and in confidence--of two
kinds), _I am thinking that you don't admire him quite as much as you
did three weeks ago_.
Ever most affectionately yours,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
Arabel not being here, I send her love without asking for it.
_To Mrs. Martin_
January 30, 1843.
My dearest Mrs. Martin,--Thank you for your letter and for dear Mr.
Martin's thought of writing one! Ah! _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....
Our '_event_' 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 _how_ 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_, 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 _very warm indeed_,
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.
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 _are_ 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 _you_?
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.
Dearest Mrs. Martin, your affectionate BA.
_To James Martin_
February 6, 1843.
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.
Yet I won't let you fancy me of such an irrational state of simplicity
as not to be fully aware that _you_, with your 'nature of the fields
and forests,' look down disdainfully and with an inward heat of
glorying, upon _me_ 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 _nature_, and how we in the town
(which 'God made' just as He made your hedges) have _our_ 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.
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.[72] 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 _me_!
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, _not_ 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 Condamne.'
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 _will_ build it--until she gets home
again.
How kind of you and of her to have poor old Mrs. Barker at Colwall!
Do believe me, both of you, with love from all of _us_,
Very affectionately yours,
BA.
[Footnote 72: See 'Hector in the Garden' (_Poetical Works_, iii. 37).]
_To H.S. Boyd_
February 21, 1843.
Thank you, my very dear friend, I am as well as the east wind will
suffer me to be; and _that_, 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. _You and summer are not
out of the question yet_. 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,'[73] and about nothing at all in particular.
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. _You_ 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.
I venture another prophecy upon the shoulders of the ast, though my
hand shakes so that nobody will read it.
_You can't abide my 'Cry of the Human,' and four sonnets_. They have
none of them found favor in your eyes.
In or out of favor,
Ever your affectionate E.B.B.
Do you think that next summer you _might, could_, or _would_ 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 _hypothesis_.
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!
[Footnote 73: _Poetical Works_, iii. 105.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
April 19, 1843.
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 _you_ to
turn round and be guilty of high treason to our Greeks. I cry '_Ai_!
_ai_!' 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. _Sic transit_! Homer like the darkened half of the moon
in eclipse! You have spoilt for me now the finest image in your
Ossian-Macpherson.
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.
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.
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 _want_
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.
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,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
Why should I be angry with Flush? _He_ does not believe in Ossian. Oh,
I assure you he doesn't.
The following letter was called forth by a criticism of Mr. Kenyon's
on Miss Barrett's poem, _The Dead Pan_, which he had seen in
manuscript; but it also meets some criticisms which others had made
upon her last volume (see above, p. 65).
_To John Kenyan_
Wimpole Street: March 25, 1843.
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.
My dear cousin, if you had not reminded me of Wordsworth's
exclamation--
I would rather be
A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn--
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_ would rather be a pagan whose religion
was actual, earnest, continual--for week days, work days, and song
days--than I would be a _Christian_ 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_--to approach the point in question--if _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 _there_ 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 _Burns_ 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 _that_ 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 _ought_ to make amends.
My conviction is that the _poetry of Christianity_ 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.
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!
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 _my principle_ I must
contend, for it is a poetical principle _and more_, 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.
[_Incomplete_.]
_To John Kenyon_
Tuesday [about March 1843].
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,[74] 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 _conscience_ 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 _design_, 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 _you_ by
doing so; I make a compromise with myself, and _do not throw them
out, and do not print the poem_. Now say nothing against this, my dear
cousin, because I am obstinate, as you know, as you have good evidence
for knowing. I _will not_ 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 _me_!) shall have revised our judgments
in relation to it.
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.
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, _not to say
one such word. Be kind, and let me follow my own way silently_. 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.
I shall take your advice about the preface in every respect, and
thanks for the letter and Taylor's memoirs.
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.
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.
Ever gratefully and affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
[Footnote 74: 'The Dead Pan' (_Poetical Works_, iii. 280).]
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 _denouement_ is already known
to them.
_To Cornelius Mathews_
50 Wimpole Street: April 28, 1843.
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.[75] 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 _meum_ and _tuum_ 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 '_scandal_' (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 '_flash_ 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.
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 _true_, 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,
Sincerely and thankfully yours,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
_(Endorsed in another hand)_
E.B. Barrett, London, received May 12, 1843,
4 poems, previously furnished to _Graham's Magazine_, $50.
[Footnote 75: The _Athenaeum_ 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.]
_To John Kenyan_
May 1, 1843
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
_refrain_.
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, _mightn't_ we say--'the thunder was silent'?
'_thunder_' involving the idea of noise, as much as 'railing children'
do. Consider this--I give it up to you.[76]
I am ashamed to have kept Carlyle so long, but I quite failed in
trying to read him at my "usual pace--he _won't_ 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....
Thank you for the address.
Ever affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
I observe that the _most questionable rhymes_ are not objected to by
Mr. Merivale; also--but this letter is too long already.
[Footnote 76: Mr. Kenyon's view evidently prevailed, for stanza 19 now
has 'scornful children.']
_To Mrs. Martin_
May 3, 1843.
My dearest Mrs. Martin,--If _you_ promised (which you did), _I_ ought
to have promised--and therefore we may ask each other's pardon....
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 _do_ realise themselves!
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
_scenery of Bath_, 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....
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!
This is a long letter--and you are tired, I feel by instinct!
May God bless you, my dearest Mrs. Martin. Give my love to Mr. Martin,
and think of me as
Your very affectionate,
BA.
Henry and Daisy have been to see the _lying in state_, as lying stark
and dead is called whimsically, of the Duke of Sussex. It was a fine
sight, they say.
_To H.S. Boyd_
May 9, 1843 [postmark].
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_ 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 _whole_
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.'
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.
One of your best puns, if not the best,
Hatching succession apostolical,
With other falsehoods diabolical,
lies in an octosyllabic couplet; and what business has _that_ in your
heroic libel?
The 'pearl' of maidens sends her love to you.
Your very affectionate
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
_To H.S. Boyd_
May 14, 1843.
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 _that_ 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 _that_ single circumstance
determines the class of verse--that they are in fact octosyllabic
verses with triple rhymes?
Hatching succession apostolical,
With other falsehoods diabolical.
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:
Worth makes the man, and want of it the f_e_llow,
The rest is nought but leather and prun_e_lla.
Again, if there is a double rhyme to an octosyllabic verse, there
are always _nine_ syllables in that verse, the final accent and rhyme
falling on the eighth syllable, thus:
Compound for sins that we're incl_i_ned to,
By damning those we have no m_i_nd to.
('Hudibras.')
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:
Then in their robes the penit_e_ntials
Are straight presented with cred_e_ntials.
Remember how in arms and p_o_litics,
We still have worsted all your h_o_ly tricks.
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:
Hatching at ease succession apostolical,
With many other falsehoods diabolical.
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 _influences_, if I were
guilty of this mistake, or of a thousand mistakes, Wordsworth would
not be guilty _in_ me. I think of him now, exactly as I thought of him
during the first years of my friendship for you, only with _an equal_
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!
Perhaps I was wrong in saying '_a pun._' 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.
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.
Your ever affectionate
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
_To H.S. Boyd_
May 18, 1843.
My very dear Friend,--Yes, you have surprised me!
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.
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 _so_ 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 _thought_ of it from feeling too much.
_But_ 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 _one_) are mourning over its appearance; sighing
inwardly, 'Wordsworth is old.'
One thing is clear to me, however, and over _that_ 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_, 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.
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.
Your ever affectionate
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT,
Oh, yes, it delights me that you should be nearer. Of course you know
that Wordsworth is Laureate.[77]
[Footnote 77: Wordsworth was nominated Poet Laureate after the death
of Southey in March 1843.]
_To John Kenyan_
May 19, 1843,
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 _that_ in my London room, and am overwhelmed with my own
glory.
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.
_Now_, I forgive Mr. Merivale for his hard thoughts of my easy rhymes.
But all this pleasure, my dear Mr. Kenyon, I owe to _you_, and shall
remember that I do.
Ever affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
_To Mrs. Martin_
May 26, 1843.
... 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 _wishdom_, 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.
In the window is fixed a deep box full of soil, where are _springing
up_ 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.
Have you read 'The Neighbours,' Mary Howitt's translation of Frederica
Bremer's Swedish? Yes, perhaps. Have you read 'The Home,'[1] fresh
from the same springs? _Do_, 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 _me_, 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....
Ever your affectionate
BA.
_To John Kenyan_
50 Wimpole Street:
Wednesday, or is it Thursday? [summer 1843].
My dear Cousin,--... I send you my friend Mr. Horne's new epic,[78]
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.
[Footnote 78: _Orion_, the early editions of which were sold at a
farthing, in accordance with a fancy of the author. Miss Barrett
reviewed it in the _Athenaum_ (July 1843).]
_To John Kenyan_
June 30, 1843.
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 _you_ must
admire it and _we_ be proud of it--_that_ remains certain at last.
Poor Mr. Haydon! I am so sorry for his reverse in the cartoons.[79] It
is a thunderbolt to him. I wonder, in the pauses of my regret, whether
Mr. Selous is _your_ 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.
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.
Ever affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
I send the copy of 'Orion' for _yourself_, which you asked for. It is
in the fourth edition.
[Footnote 79: 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.]
_To Mrs. Martin_
July 8, 1843.
Thank you, my dearest Mrs. Martin, for your kind sign of interest in
the questioning note, although I will not praise the _stenography_ 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 _the
chair_, 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!...
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 _in long_), I could
write a dissertation, which I will spare you, 'about it and about it.'
...
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 aerial 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!
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 _you_, but that it will be _so_ good for
_us_.
My ivy is growing, and I have _green blinds_, against which there is
an outcry. They say that I do it out of envy, and for the equalisation
of complexions.
Ever your affectionate,
BA.
_To Mr. Westwood_
50 Wimpole Street: August 1843.
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 _cat_, 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.
You will see by the length of the 'Legend'[80] which I send to you (in
its only printed form) _why_ 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,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
[Footnote 80: _The Lay of the Brown Rosary_.]
_To Mr. Westwood_
50 Wimpole Street: September 2, 1843.
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.
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.
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.
Dear Mr. Westwood, I remain sincerely yours,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
_To Mrs. Martin_
September 4, 1843. Finished September 5.
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....
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 _they were going_, and then it was a
hard, terrible struggle with me to be calm and see them go. But _that_
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
_my star_. They went away in great spirits, Stormie 'quite elated,' to
use his own words, and then at the end of the six weeks they _must_ 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.
Dearest Mrs. Martin, I am doing something more than writing you a
letter, I think.
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!
Dearest Mrs. Martin's affectionate
BA.
I am very well for _me_, and was out in the chair yesterday.
_To H.S. Boyd_
September 8, 1843.
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 _irritable_; or 'offended,' which means _sulky_; your ideal of
me having, in fact, 'its finger in its eye' all day long.
I, on the contrary, humbled as I was by your hard criticism of my soft
rhymes about Flush,[81] 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'[82] 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'[83] 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!
With regard to the 'House of Clouds'[84] 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 _your_ judgment of _her_ accuracy in judging.
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.
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.
Where is Annie? If I send my love to her, will it ever be found again?
May God bless you both!
Dearest Mr. Boyd's affectionate and grateful
E.B.B.
[Footnote 81: 'To Flush, my dog' (_Poetical Works_, iii. 19).]
[Footnote 82: Published in _Blackwood's Magazine_ for August 1843, and
called forth by Mr. Horne's report as assistant commissioner on the
employment of children in mines and manufactories.]
[Footnote 83: Evidently a slip of the pen for 'Children.']
[Footnote 84: _Poetical Works_, iii. 186. Mr. Boyd's opinion of it may
be learnt from Miss Barrett's letter to Horne, dated August 31, 1843
(_Letters to R.H. Horne_, 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 _impaired my
faculties_.']
_To H.S. Boyd_
Monday, September 19, 1843.
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. _Confiteor tibi_, 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.
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.
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.
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 _now_, you see. Well, to go back to the
explanations I promised to give you, I must tell you that Arabel
_perfectly forgot_ 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_, 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 _endure_ 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--_that_
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 _me_. So blame _me_, and by no
means another poet, and I will humbly confess that I deserve to be
blamed in some _measure_. 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.
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 _less_, 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.
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, _currente calamo_.
I have just finished a poem of some eight hundred lines, called
'The Vision of Poets,'[85] philosophical, allegorical--anything but
popular. It is in stanzas, every one an octosyllabic triplet, which
you will think odd, and I have not _sanguinity_ enough to defend.
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,
Affectionately and gratefully yours,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
My love to dear Annie.
[Footnote 85: _Poetical Works_, i. 223.]
_To Mr. Westwood_
October 1843.
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.
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,[86] which very
deeply affected me.
Take away the last stanzas, which should be applied more definitely
to the _body_, 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.
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. _Then_ 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
_dreamed_, 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, _is_ as far as we can
stretch out our hands.
[Footnote 86: The lines 'To J.S.,' which begin:
'The wind that beats the mountain blows
More softly round the open wold.'
_To Mr. Westwood_
50 Wimpole Street: December 26, 1843.
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.'
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 _even_ 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 _more
knowledge_, as a stronger apprehension, by the faith and affections,
of what we already know.
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....[87]
It is such a lovely _May_ day, that I am afraid of breaking the spell
by writing down Christmas wishes.
Very faithfully yours,
ELIZABETH BARRETT.
[Footnote 87: About the same date she writes to Home (_Letters to R.H.
Horne_, 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.']
_To Mr. Westwood_
50 Wimpole Street: December 31, 1843.
If you do find the paper I was invited to write upon Wordsworth[88],
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 _will_ be a blind admirer of Wordsworth's. I
_will_ shut my eyes and be blind. Better so, than see too well for the
thankfulness which is his due from me....
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,'[89] 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.
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....
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....
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.
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....
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.
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.
May God bless you, &c. &c.
ELIZABETH BARRETT.
[Footnote 88: In the _Athenaeum_.]
[Footnote 89: 'Crowned and Buried' (_Poetical Works_, iii. 9).]
_To Mr. Westwood_
[Undated.]
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!
_This_ is a fact. And to this extent has the art, once called divine,
been desecrated among the educated classes of our country.
Very sincerely yours,
ELIZABETH BARRETT.
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.[90] 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.
[Footnote 90: Her contributions to the essays on Tennyson and Carlyle
have recently been printed in Messrs. Nichols and Wise's _Literary
Anecdotes of the Nineteenth Century_, i. 33, ii. 105.]
CHAPTER IV
1844-46
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.
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:
'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.'[91]
[Footnote 91: _Letters to R.H. Home_, ii. 146.]
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.
_To Mrs. Martin_
January 8, 1844.
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.
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 _these_ have a double association....
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 _spending_ 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.
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.
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.
But shall you not be coming--setting out--very soon, before I can
write again?
Your affectionate
BA.
_To John Kenyan_
[?January 1844.]
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.
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 '_only fault_,' 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.
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.
Very truly yours,
E. BARRETT.
Saturday.
_To John Kenyon_
Saturday night [about March 1844].
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.
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.[92]
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--_that_ is another question; but I shall not fail,
to begin with, and _that_ I owe to _you_, 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.
May God bless you, my dear cousin.
Affectionately yours always,
E.B.B.
[Footnote 92: 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.]
This note is not to be answered.
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.
_To John Kenyan_
March 21, 1844.
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_, 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!
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.
And Southey's letters! I did quite delight in _them_! They are more
_personal_ than any I ever saw of his; and have more warm every-day
life in them.
The particular Paul Pry in question (to come down to _my_ 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,[93] 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.
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 _such_ 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.
The 'Palm Leaves'[94] 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!
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.
Ever affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
[Footnote 93: In the 'Drama of Exile,' near the beginning (_Poetical
Works_, i. 7).]
[Footnote 94: By Monckton Milnes, afterwards Lord Houghton.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
March 22, 1844.
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. _Hence these_ faults--not quite
tears--in spite of my penitence and the quotation.
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[95]),
consists of some nineteen hundred or two thousand lines, and I call it
'Masque of _Exile_' 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 _for you_, 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 _against_ 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 _two volumes of poems_ 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.
There now! I have told you all this, knowing your kindness, and that
you will care to hear of it.
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.
But I don't mean to fall into another scrape to-day by writing too
much. May God bless you, my very dear friend!
I am ever your affectionate
E.B.B.
[Footnote 95: There was, however, a still later last, when it became
the 'Drama of Exile.']
_To H.S. Boyd_
April I, 1844.
My very dear Friend,--Your kind letter I was delighted to receive. You
mistake a good deal the capacities in judgment of 'the man.'[96] The
'man' is highly refined in his tastes, and leaning to the classical
(I was going to say to _your_ 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
'_Barrettian_.' But these things render his favourable inclination
towards my 'Drama of Exile' still more encouraging (as you will see)
to my hopes for it.
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 _that_ 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.
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
Your affectionate
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
[Footnote 96: John Kenyon: see the last letter.]
_To Mr. Westwood_
April 16, 1844.
... 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_, who am reproached with
trans-trans-transcendentalisms, and not without reason, or with
insufficient reason.
Oh, and I should say also that Mr. Home, in his kindness, has enlarged
considerably in his annotations and reflections on me personally.[97]
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.'
ELIZABETH BARRETT.
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.
[Footnote 97: In _The New Spirit of the Age_.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
June 18, 1844.
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.
Indeed, there _never was_, 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.
Never was such wine! The very taste of ideal nectar, only stiller,
from keeping. If the bubbles of eternity were on it, _we_ should run
away, perhaps, like Flush.
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.
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
Ever affectionate
E.B. BARRETT.
_To Mr. Westwood_
June 28, 1844.
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 _at heart_, 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 _felo de se_, 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_ 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.
_To H.S. Boyd_
50 Wimpole Street:
Wednesday, August I, 1844 [postmark].
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,[98] 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, _one hundred and forty lines last Saturday!_[99] 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
_private reading_ 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
_then_! 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 _then_--what _shall_
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
_reach_, whether in thought or language. But then, to _you_ it may
appear quite otherwise, and I shall be very melancholy if it does.
Only you must tell me the _precise truth_; and I trust to you that you
will let me have it in its integrity.
All the life and strength which are in me, seem to have passed into my
poetry. It is my _pou sto_--not to move the world; but to live on in.
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.
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 _me_
for!
Dearest Mr. Boyd's affectionate
E.B.B.
P.S.--_Nota bene_--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 _conviction_, 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.
[Footnote 98: Evidently a reference to the name of some wine (perhaps
Montepulciano) sent her by Mr. Boyd. See the end of the letter.]
[Footnote 99: 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.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
August 6, 1844.
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 _did_ receive; and was
grateful to you with the whole force of the aroma of it. And now I
will tell you an anecdote.
In the excess of my filial tenderness, I poured out a glass for papa,
and offered it to him with my right hand.
'_What is this_?' said he.
'_Taste it_,' said I as laconically, but with more emphasis.
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.
'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.'
I explained with the proper degree of dignity that 'it was Greek wine,
Cyprus wine, and of very great value.'
He retorted with acrimony, that 'it might be Greek, twice over; but
that it was exceedingly beastly.'
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.'
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.
I shall have pleasure in doing what you ask me to do--that is,
I _will_--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 _you_. 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 _ever_ read them through, it will be
a sufficient compliment, and indeed I do not expect that you _ever
will_.
May God bless you, dearest Mr. Boyd.
I remain,
Your affectionate and grateful
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
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,'[100] 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,'[101] 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'[102] 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'[103] 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.[104]
[Footnote 100: August 24, 1844.]
[Footnote 101: October 5, 1844.]
[Footnote 102: September 31, 1844.]
[Footnote 103: November 1844.]
[Footnote 104: See letter of January 3, 1845.]
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.
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,[105]
with reference to this very subject: '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 _worked_ at poetry; it has not been with me reverie, but art.'
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 _silence_ and _islands_, _vision_ and _procession_,
_panther_ and _saunter_, 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 _given_ and _heaven_; and the roll of those who have _not_
done so must be small indeed.
[Footnote 105: _Letters to R.H. Horne_, ii. 119.]
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.
_To H.S. Boyd_
Tuesday, August 13, 1844 [postmark].
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.
And now I must explain to you that most of the 'incorrectnesses' you
speak of may be 'incorrectnesses,' but are not _negligences_. 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 _not comic_. 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 _you_
tell me, _you_ who object to the use of a different _vowel_ in a
double rhyme, _why_ 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 _believe_
that the spirit of the English language is also.
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 _a point for consideration_ 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.
I thank you earnestly for your candour hitherto, and I beseech you to
be candid to the end.
It is tawny as Rhea's lion.
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.
With regard to blank verse, the great Fletcher admits sometimes
seventeen syllables into his lines.
I hope Miss Heard received her copy, and that you will not think me
arrogant in writing freely to you.
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.
Always your affectionate and grateful
ELIBET.
_To H.S. Boyd_
Wednesday, August 14, 1844 [postmark].
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.
But you are always given to surprise me with abundant kindness--with
supererogatory kindness. I believe in _that_, certainly.
I am very very glad that you think me stronger and more perspicuous.
For the perspicuity, I have struggled hard....
Your affectionate and grateful
ELZBETH.
_To Mr. Westwood_
50 Wimpole Street: August 22, 1844.
... Thank you for your welcome letter, so kind in its candour, _I_
angry that you should prefer 'The Seraphim'! Angry? No _indeed,
indeed_, 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'--_my own_ 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 _more_ 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 _them_.
_To John Kenyan_
Wednesday morning [August 1844].
I return Mr. Chorley's[106] 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, _do_ observe that I have not
reputation enough to suggest a curiosity about _my legends_. 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
_do_ 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 _you_)
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.
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.
And also agree with me in reverencing that wonderful genius _Keats_,
who, rising as a grand exception from among the vulgar herd of
juvenile versifiers, was an individual _man_ from the beginning, and
spoke with his own voice, though surrounded by the yet unfamiliar
murmur of antique echoes.[107] Leigh Hunt calls him 'the young poet'
very rightly. Most affectionately and gratefully yours,
E.B.B.
Do thank Mr. Chorley for me, will you?
[Footnote 106: Henry Fothergill Chorley (1808-1872) was one of the
principal members of the staff of the _Athenaeum_, especially in
literary and musical matters. Dr. Garnett (in the _Dictionary of
National Biography_) says of him, shortly after his first joining the
staff in 1833, that 'his articles largely contributed to maintain the
reputation the _Athenaeum_ 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.]
[Footnote 107: Compare Aurora Leigh's asseveration:
'By Keats' soul, the man who never stepped
In gradual progress like another man,
But, turning grandly on his central self,
Ensphered himself in twenty perfect years
And died, _not_ young.'
('Aurora Leigh,' book i.; _Poetical Works_, vi. 38.)]
_To Mrs. Martin_
Thursday, August 1844.
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 _they have gone_, 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
_pleasure_, 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....
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 _failure of Wordsworth_, 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.' ...
Although you did not find a letter from me on your return to Colwall,
I do hope that you found _me_--viz. my book, which Mr. Burden took
charge of, and promised to deliver or see delivered. When you have
read it, _do_ 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.' ...
Your ever affectionate
BA.
_To Mr. Westwood_
August 31, 1844.
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'[108]), 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.
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.
But then, that is not depreciatory of his power and eloquence--surely
not.
E.B.
[Footnote 108: _Poetical Works_, iii. 172.]
_To Mr. Chorley_
50 Wimpole Street: Monday.
[About the end of August 1844.]
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.[109] 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.
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'[110] 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.
Altogether I am justified, while I thank you as a stranger, to say one
more word as a friend, and _that_ shall be the best word--'_May God
bless you_!' The trials with which He tries us all are different, but
our faces may be turned towards the end in cheerfulness, for '_to_ the
end He has loved us.' I remain,
Very faithfully, your obliged
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
You may trust me with the secret of your kindness to me. It shall not
go farther.
[Footnote 109: A summary of its contents is given in the next letter
but one.]
[Footnote 110: _Music and Manners in France and Germany: a Series of
Travelling Sketches of Art and Society_, published by Mr. Chorley in
1841.]
_To H.S. Boyd_
Monday, September 1, 1844.
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.
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.
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 _not_ to speak
of it, and I took an engagement to him _not_ 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.
May God bless you, my very dear friend. I drink thoughts of you in
Cyprus every day.
Your ever affectionate
ELIBET.
There is no review in the 'Examiner' yet, nor any continuation in the
'Athenaeum.'[111]
[Footnote 111: The _Athenaeum_ 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.]
_To Mrs. Martin_
September 10, 1844.
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 _kindness_ 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.
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 _novel_. 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 _living
books_, 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.
I am glad that you like 'The Lost Bower.' The scene of that poem is
the wood above the garden at Hope End.
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 _thought I
should_. In fact, _I am surprised to feel so little anxiety_. Still,
when they are at home again, I shall be happier than I am now, _that_
I feel strongly besides.
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,[112] 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....
With our united love to both of you,
Ever, dearest Mrs. Martin, most affectionately yours,
BA.
[Footnote 112: The reversal by the House of Lords of his conviction in
Ireland for conspiracy, which the English Court of Queen's Bench had
confirmed.]
_To Mrs. Martin_
Wednesday [about September 1844].
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 _originality_'--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 _require_ 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 _does_ 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
_mesmerism_. 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, _in spite of papa_. Then I have had very kind letters from
Mrs. Jameson, the 'Ennuyee'[113] 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 _both_ truth and praise from
you, and surely quite enough, and _more_ than enough, as many would
think, of the latter.
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....
Your affectionate and ever obliged
BA.
[Footnote 113: Mrs. Jameson's earliest book, and one which achieved
considerable popularity, was her _Diary of an Ennuyee_.]
_To Cornelius Mathews_
London, 50 Wimpole Street: October 1, 1844.
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 _you_ 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 _most_, ever as now, of your kindness;
and _truth_ 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.
Most faithfully yours,
E.B.B.
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 _mesmerism_.
_To H.S. Boyd_
October 4, 1844.
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.
Oh, and I think I told you, when giving you the history of 'Lady
Geraldine's Courtship,' that I wrote the _thirteen_ last pages of it
in one day. I ought to have said _nineteen_ 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 _sui generis_ drama.' On
which Mr. Kenyon observes that I am 'ruined for life, and shall be
sure never to take pains with any poem again.'
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.
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 _can_ be a mere Grub Street writer? It is not that he is only or
chiefly admired by the _profanum vulgus_, 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?...
Believe me, yourself, your affectionate and grateful
ELIBET B.B.
How kind you are, far too kind, about the Cyprus wine; I thank you
very much.
_To Mrs. Martin_
October 5, 1844.
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.
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.' _What do miracles mean_? 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.
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 _ought_. 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.[114]
Douglas Jerrold is the editor, I fancy, and he has a troop of 'wits,'
such as Planche, Titmarsh, and the author of 'Little Peddlington,' to
support him....
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,
Your very affectionate
BA.
_To John Kenyon_
Tuesday, October 8, 1844.
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 (_via_ 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 _you_ were so kind as to
be glad of being associated with me by Mr. Forster's reference, _I_
was so _human_ as to be very very glad of being associated with _you_
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 _pause_, 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 _way_, noble and passionate and _full_ as the poem
is in other ways. But there is no story, no _manners_, 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 _Hayley_ clearly apprehends the species of poem
in his 'Triumphs of Temper' and 'Triumphs of Music,' and so did Miss
Seward, who called it the '_poetical novel_.' 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?
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....
Ever most affectionately and gratefully yours,
E.B.B.
[Footnote 114: 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.]
_To Mrs. Martin_
October 15, 1844.
... 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 '_symptoms_ 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
_as facts_ on all sides of us. Mr. Kenyon's is the best distinction,
and the immense quantity of _humbug_ which embroiders the truth
over and over, and round and round, makes it needful: 'I believe in
mesmerism, but not in _mesmerists_.'
We have had no other letter from our Egyptians, but can wait a little
longer without losing our patience.
The blind rises in favour, and the ivy would not fall, if it would but
live. Alas! I am going to try _guano_ 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.
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 _borne_ 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.
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.
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 _a man_, in the largest
and noblest sense. May God bless you, both of you! I think of you,
dearest Mrs. Martin, much, and remain
Your very affectionate
BA.
_To John Kenyon_
Saturday, October 29, 1844.
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.
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!
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_ 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 ...
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 _meo more_; 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 _then_ they must
have _ten_ 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.'
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 _horror_, which you do not express, or feel
probably.
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.
My brothers arrived in great spirits at Malta, after a _three weeks'
voyage_ from Gibraltar; and must now be in Egypt, I think and trust.
May God bless you, my dear cousin.
Most affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
_To John Kenyan_
50 Wimpole Street: November 5, 1844.
Well, but am I really so bad? ' _Et tu_!' Can _you_ 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 _our_ 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 _you_ 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[115] 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 _your kindness_, 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 _elation_ is too strong or
rather too _long_ for me....
Can it be true that Mr. Newman has at last joined the Church of
Rome?[116] 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 _point of sight_ 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.... [_Unsigned_]
[Footnote 115: In _Blackwood_.]
[Footnote 116: Newman did not actually enter the Church of Rome until
nearly a year later, in October 1845.]
_To John Kenyan_
50 Wimpole Street: November 8, 1844.
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 _both_ saw
that he couldn't have written the paper in question; we _both_ 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 _story_
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_ mistake?' So, you see, some
people in the world did actually understand what I meant. I am eager
to prove that possibility sometimes.
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?
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.
Why shouldn't Miss Martineau's apocalyptic housemaid[117] 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-etre,' to which 'without revelation' the human argument is
reduced, covers dog-nature with the sweep of its fringes.
Did you ever read Bulwer's 'Eva, or the Unhappy Marriage'? _That_ 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?...
Your ever affectionate
E.B.B.
[Footnote 117: 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 _Athenaeum_.]
_To Cornelius Mathews_
50 Wimpole Street: November 14, 1844.
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, _sub silentio_. 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 _waiting_, and it
is better to let you know that I am not forgetting instead.
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 _oyez_ very plain and articulate.
He won't say again that he never heard of it--be sure of _that_. Well,
and then Mr. Browning is not in England either, so that whatever you
send for _him_ 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 _talks_ of going to
France, which is an extreme case for _her_. Do you never feel inclined
to flash across the Atlantic to us, or can you really remain still in
one place?
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 _the sense
of your kindness_. 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_ (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
_appearance_ of my impotency under a general aspect.
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 _things are_. 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.
May God bless you. Do let me hear from you soon, and believe me ever
your friend,
E.B. BARRETT.
_To Mrs. Martin_
November 16, 1844.
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.
Do write to me soon. I hear that everybody should read Dr. Arnold's
'Life.' Do you know also 'E[=o]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 Fe 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.
I am ever your affectionate
BA.
_To Mrs. Martin_
50 Wimpole Street:
Tuesday, November 26, 1844 [postmark].
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 _rapidly_ 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 _both trust_ and _hope_
in Dr. Bright, of whom I heard the very highest praises the other
day....
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 _do_ want you to be interested in, is in Miss Martineau's
mesmeric experience,[118] 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
_horror_. 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 _without the flattery_. 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 _anything_ in it, there was _so much_,
it became scarcely possible to limit consequences, and the subject
grew awful to contemplate.' ...
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 _afraid_ to inquire. It is good news altogether. The 'Westminster
Review' won't be out till next month.
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....
May God bless you both.
Most affectionately yours,
BA.
[Footnote 118: The _Athenaum_ of November 23 contained the first of
a series of articles by Miss Martineau, giving her experiences of
mesmerism.]
_To James Martin_
December 10, 1844.
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 _you_ instead
of to dearest Mrs. Martin in consequence of your letter--your letter
makes _that_ difference. I should have written to Dover in any
case....
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....
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 _more credulous_. 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.
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.
Miss Mitford writes to me: 'Be sure it is _all true_. 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 _seance_, to be able to _see behind her_.
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.
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.
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.
I remain, myself,
Affectionately yours,
BA.
_To Mrs. Martin_
Wednesday [December 1844].
My dearest Mrs. Martin,--Hardly had my letter gone to you yesterday,
when your kind present and not _et_ 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 _her_.
But the 'great idea' 'a 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, _now_,
of putting on my stockings....
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....
Did I tell you, or Mr. Martin, that Rogers the poet, at eighty-three
or four years of age, bore the bank robbery[119] 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
_first_ went to see Wordsworth at the Lakes.
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. _But_,' 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 _that_
man is _Rogers_.' 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.
May God bless you both!
Your most affectionate
BA.
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[120] (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.'
[Footnote 119: A great robbery from Rogers' bank on November 23,
1844, in which the thieves carried off 40,000L worth of notes, besides
specie and securities.]
[Footnote 120: Strathfieldsaye, the Duke of Wellington's house.]
_To John Kenyan_
Wednesday morning [about December 1844].
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 _hear_ me
without inconvenience. Which is for _you_ to consider, and not
for _me_. And indeed the fog, in addition to the cold, makes it
inexpedient for anyone to leave the house except upon business and
compulsion.
Oh no--we need not mind any scorn which assails Tennyson and _us_
together. There is a dishonor that does honor--and 'this is of it.' I
never heard of Barnes.[121]
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,
_do you know, I should be very much pleased_? You remember that I am a
sort of (magna) chartist--only going a little farther!
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.
Ever most affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
I inclose Mr. Chorley's note which you left behind you, but which
I did not see until just now. _You_ know that I am not ashamed of
'_progress_.' On the contrary, my only hope is in it. But the question
is not _there_, nor, I think, for the public, except in cases of ripe,
established reputations, as I said before.
[Footnote 121: William Barnes, the Dorsetshire poet, the first part of
whose _Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect_ appeared in 1844.]
_To Mr. Westwood_
(On returning some illustrations of Spenser by Mr. Woods)
December 11, 1844.
... 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.
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!
_To H.S. Boyd_
Monday, December 24, 1844 [postmark].
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 _me_ with more
reason....
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 _publicity_,
and ventured it all for the sake of what she considered the truth--she
was sustained, she said, by the recollection of Godiva.
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.
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.
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 _themselves_, 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.
ELIBET.
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 Ennuyee' (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.
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.
_To Mrs. Jameson_
[End of December 1844.]
... 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 _is_ 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 _don't_ laugh), that I hold her to have been hardly
used in the late controversy. And, if you don't laugh at _that_, 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 _are_ 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, _and is she ever unjust_? I
ask you. _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 _that_
a 'peradventure' worth considering? I am sure that you have no _right_
to be uneasy in any case.
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 _impression_ 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.
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!
_To Mr. Chorley_
50 Wimpole Street: January 3, 1845.
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.
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
_eye_, 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 _but_ for her letters and her wit?
Not a poetess, surely! unless we accept for poetry her graceful _vers
de societe_.
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.
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....
I remain, very truly yours,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
_To Mr. Chorley_
50 Wimpole Street: January 7, 1845.
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.
Moreover, I know nothing of your 'sweet mistress Anne.'[122] 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.
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
_Joannan aera_.
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
_poet_ 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!
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 (_anch' io_) 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.
But you shall not think me exclusive. Of poor L.E.L., for instance,
I could write with _more_ 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.
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 _genius_, which dear
Mr. Kenyon calls my 'immoral sympathy with power;' and if Madame
Dudevant[123] 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--_you_, who are occupied
beyond measure, and _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.
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
Truly and faithfully yours,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
[Footnote 122: 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 Andre went through several editions,
as did her _Louisa_, 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).]
[Footnote 123: The real name of George Sand.]
_To Mr. Chorley_
[_The beginning of this letter is lost_]
[1845]
... to the awful consideration of the possibility of my reading
a novel or caring for the story of it (_proh pudor!_), 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, _as_ 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 '_Ci-git_ 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 reading of romances ever new, [Greek: _eis tous aionas_.]
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.
This is a long preface to coming to speak of the 'Improvisatore.'[124]
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.
And for the _rococo_, 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,'[125] 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 _beauty in detail_, which we all should do if our senses were
better educated.
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!
And do _you_ know that dear Miss Mitford spent this day week with me,
notwithstanding the rain?
Very truly yours,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
I have forgotten what I particularly wished to say--viz. that I never
thought of _expecting_ 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.
The east wind seems to be blowing all my letters about to-day;
the _t's_ and _e's_ wave like willows. Now if crooked _e's_ mean a
'greenshade' (not taken rurally), what awful significance can have the
whole crooked alphabet?
[Footnote 124: By Hans Andersen; an English translation by Mary Howitt
was published in 1845.]
[Footnote 125: Duchesses in the French court had the privilege of
seating themselves on a _tabouret_ or stool while the King took his
meals; hence the _droit du tabouret_ comes to mean the rank of a
duchess.]
_To Mrs. Martin_
Saturday, January 1844 [should be 1845].[126]
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 _seance_ in five foreign languages, viz. Latin, Greek,
French, Italian, and German. When the mesmeriser touches the organ of
_imitation_ 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 _language_ is touched, she simply
answers in English what is said.
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.
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.
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.
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.
[_The rest of this letter is missing_.]
[Footnote 126: The mention of her brothers being at Alexandria is
sufficient to show that 1845 must be the true date.]
_To Mrs. Martin_
Saturday, January 1845.
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.
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 _you_, 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'[127] at last, by this day's railroad.
Thursday.
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 _that you were not
forgotten_....
From Alexandria we heard yesterday that they sailed from thence on the
first of January, and the home passage may be long.
The _changes_ 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.
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
_not_ know--that there are two women whom I have hated all my life
long--_Lady Byron and Marie Louise_. To prove how false the public
effigy of the former is, however, Mrs. Jameson told me that she knew
_nothing of mathematics, nothing of science_, and that the element
preponderating in her mind is the _poetical_ element--that she cares
much for _my_ poetry! How deep in the knowledge of the depths of
vanity must Mrs. J. be, to tell me _that_--now mustn't she? But there
was--yes, and is--a strong adverse feeling to work upon, and it is not
worked away.
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 _languages_) to be 'equally beautiful,
wonderful, and _undeniable_' but he is prudent enough to desire that
no use should be made of this letter ... And now no more for to-day.
With love to Mr. Martin, ever believe me
Your affectionate
BA.
[Footnote 127: A copy of the 1838 volume for which Mrs. Martin had
asked.]
_To John Kenyan_
Saturday, February 8, 1845.
I return to you, dearest Mr. Kenyon, the two numbers of Jerold
Douglas's[128] 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 _Leeds Ladies' Committee_, authorised and
backed by the London _General Council of the League_, 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_, 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.'
Ever affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
[Footnote 128: Evidently a slip of the pen for Douglas Jerrold, whose
'Shilling Magazine' began to come out in 1845.]
_To Miss Commeline_
50 Wimpole Street: [February-March 1845].
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 _were_!) 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 _you_ 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
_silk_ 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.
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....
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's_ and _we's_, and kindly
trust to me fo |
