[Illustration: Elizabeth Barrett Browning]

THE LETTERSOFELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

EDITED WITH BIOGRAPHICAL ADDITIONSBYFREDERIC 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 ofa collection of her letters, is met at the outset of his task by theknowledge that both Mrs. Browning herself and her husband more than, once expressed their strong dislike of any such publicity in regard tomatters of a personal and private character affecting themselves. Thefact that expressions to this effect are publicly extant is one whichhas to be faced or evaded; but if it could not be fairly faced, andthe apparent difficulty removed, the present volumes would neverhave seen the light. It would be a poor qualification for the task ofpreparing a record of Mrs. Browning's life, to be willing therein todo violence to her own expressed wishes and those of her husband. Butthe expressions to which reference has been made are limited, eitherformally or by implication, to publications made during their ownlifetime. They shrank, as any sensitive person must shrink, fromseeing their private lives, their personal characteristics, aboveall, their sorrows and bereavements, offered to the inspection andcriticism of the general public; and it was to such publications thattheir protests referred. They could not but be aware that the detailsof their lives would be of interest to the public which read andadmired their works, and there is evidence that they recognised thatthe public has some claims with regard to writers who have appealedto, and partly lived by, its favour. They only claimed that duringtheir own lifetime their feelings should be consulted first; when theyshould have passed away, the rights of the public would begin. 

It is in this spirit that the following collection of Mrs. Browning'sletters has now been prepared, in the conviction that the lovers ofEnglish literature will be glad to make a closer and more intimateacquaintance with one--or, it may truthfully be said, with two--ofthe most interesting literary characters of the Victorian age. It is aselection from a large mass of letters, written at all periods in Mrs. Browning's life, which Mr. Browning, after his wife's death, reclaimedfrom the friends to whom they had been written, or from theirrepresentatives. No doubt, Mr. Browning's primary object was toprevent publications which would have been excessively distressingto his feelings; but the letters, when once thus collected, werenot destroyed (as was the case with many of his own letters), butcarefully preserved, and so passed into the possession of his son, Mr. R. Barrett Browning, with whose consent they are now published. Inthis collection are comprised the letters to Miss Browning (the poet'ssister, whose consent has also been freely given to the publication), Mr. H. S. Boyd, Mrs. Martin, Miss Mitford, Mrs. Jameson, Mr. JohnKenyon, Mr. Chorley, Miss Blagden, Miss Haworth, and Miss Thomson(Madame Emil Braun). [1] To these have been added a number of letterswhich have been kindly lent by their possessors for the purpose of thepresent volumes. 

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Sutherland-Orr had access to these letters for herbiography of Robert Browning, and quotes several passages fromthem. With this exception, none of the letters have been publishedpreviously; 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 andarrangement. With regard to the former task one word is necessary. Itmay be thought that the almost entire absence of bitterness (except oncertain political topics), of controversy, of personal ill feelingof any kind, is due to editorial excisions. This is not the case. The number of passages that have been removed for fear of hurting thefeelings of persons still living is almost infinitesimal; and inthese the cause of offence is always something inherent in the factsrecorded, not in the spirit in which they are mentioned. No person hadless animosity than Mrs. Browning; it seems as though she could hardlybring herself to speak harshly of anyone. The omissions that have beenmade are almost wholly of passages containing little or nothing ofinterest, or repetitions of what has been said elsewhere; andthey have been made with the object of diminishing the bulk andconcentrating the interest of the collection, never with the purposeof 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 incompleteones, to her letters. Many of them are dated merely by the day of theweek or month, and can only be assigned to their proper place in theseries on internal evidence. In some cases, however, the envelopeshave been preserved, and the date is then often provided by thepostmarks. These supply fixed points by which the others can betested; and ultimately all have fallen into line in chronologicalorder, and with at least approximate dates to each letter. 

The correspondence, thus arranged in chronological order, forms analmost continuous record of Mrs. Browning's life, from the earlydays in Herefordshire to her death in Italy in 1861; but in order tocomplete the record, it has been thought well to add connecting linksof narrative, which should serve to bind the whole together into theunity of a biography. It is a chronicle, rather than a biography inthe artistic sense of the term; a chronicle of the events of a life inwhich there were but few external events of importance, and in whichthe subject of the picture is, for the most part, left to paint herown portrait, and that, moreover, unconsciously. Still, this is amethod which may be held to have its advantages, in that it can hardlybe affected by the feelings or prejudices of the biographer; and ifit does not present a finished portrait to the reader, it provides himwith the materials from which he can form a portrait for himself. Theexternal events are placed upon record, either in the letters or inthe connecting links of narrative; the character and opinions of Mrs. Browning reveal themselves in her correspondence; and her genius isenshrined in her poetry. And these three elements make up all that maybe known of her personality, all with which a biographer has to deal. 

It is essentially her character, not her genius, that is presentedto the reader of these letters. There are some letter-writers whosegenius is so closely allied with their daily life that it shinesthrough into their familiar correspondence with their friends, andtheir letters become literature. Such, in their very different ways, with very different types of genius and very different habits of dailylife, are Gray, Cowper, Lamb, perhaps Fitzgerald. But letter-writerssuch as these are few. More often the correspondence of men and womenof letters is valuable for the light it throws upon the character andopinions of those whose character and opinions we are led to regardwith admiration or respect, or at least interest, on account of theirother writings. In these cases it may be held that the publicationis justifiable or not, according as the character which it reveals isaffected favourably or the reverse. Not all truth, even about famousmen, is useful for publication, but only such as enables us toappreciate better the works which have made them famous. Their highestselves are expressed in their literary work; and it is a poor serviceto truth to insist on bringing to light the fact that they also hadlower selves--common, dull, it may be vicious. What illustrates theirgenius and enhances our respect for their character, may rightly bemade 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 doubtupon these points. These letters, familiarly written to her privatefriends, without the smallest idea of publication, treating of thethoughts that came uppermost in the ordinary language of conversation, can lay no claim to make a new revelation of her genius. On the otherhand, perhaps because the circumstances of Mrs. Browning's lifecut her off to an unusual extent from personal intercourse with herfriends, and threw her back upon letter-writing as her principal meansof communication with them, they contain an unusually full revelationof her character. And this is not wholly unconnected with her literarygenius, since her personal convictions, her moral character, enteredmore 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 Italianpoems, owe their value to the pure and earnest character, the stronglove of truth and right, the enthusiasm on behalf of what is oppressedand the indignation against all kinds of oppression and wrong, whichwere prominent elements in a personality of exceptional worth andbeauty. 

An editor can generally serve his readers best by remaining in thebackground; but he is allowed one moment for the expression of hispersonal feelings, when he thanks those who have assisted him in hiswork. In the present case there are many to whom it is a pleasure tooffer such thanks. In the first place, I have to thank Mr. R. BarrettBrowning and Miss Browning most cordially for having accepted theproposal of the publishers (Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. , to whomlikewise my gratitude is due) to put so pleasant and congenial atask into my hands. Mr. Browning has also contributed a number ofsuggestions and corrections while the sheets have been passing throughthe press. I have also to thank those who have been kind enough tooffer letters in their possession for inclusion in these volumes: LadyAlwyne Compton for the letters to Mr. Westwood; Mrs. Arthur Severnfor the letters to Mr. Ruskin; Mr. G. L. Craik for the letters to MissMulock; Mrs. Commeline for the letters to Miss Commeline; Mr. T. J. Wise for the letters to Mr. Cornelius Mathews; Mr. C. Aldrich forthe letter to Mrs. Kinney; Col. T. W. Higginson for a letter to MissChanning; and the Rev. G. Bainton for a letter to Mr. Kenyon. Ithas not been possible to print all the letters which have been thusoffered; but this does not diminish the kindness of the lenders, northe gratitude of the editor. 

Finally, I should wish to offer my sincere thanks to Lady EdmondFitzmaurice for much assistance and advice in the selection andrevision of the letters; a labour which her friendship with Mr. Browning towards the close of his life has prompted her to bestow mostfreely and fully upon this memorial of his wife. 

F. G. K. 

_July 1897_. 

CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME

CHAPTER I1806-1835

Birth--Hope End--Early Poems--Sidmouth--'Prometheus'

CHAPTER II1835-1841

London--Magazine Poems--'The Seraphim and other Poems'--Torquay--Deathof Edward Barrett--Return to London

CHAPTER III1841-1843

Wimpole Street--'The Greek Christian Poets'--'The EnglishPoets'--'The New Spirit of the Age'--Miscellaneous Letters

CHAPTER IV1844-1846

The 'Poems' of 1844--Miss Martineau and Mesmerism--Pro-posedJourney to Italy

CHAPTER V1846-1849

Friendship with Robert Browning--Love and Marriage--Parisand Pisa--Florence--Vallombrosa--Casa Guidi--Italian Politicsin 1848

CHAPTER VI1849-1851

Birth of a Son--Death of Mrs. Browning, senior--Bagni diLucca--New Edition of Poems--Siena--Florentine Life

PORTRAIT OF ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. _Frontispiece_ CASA GUIDI

THE LETTERSOFELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

CHAPTER I

1806-1835

Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, still better known to the world asElizabeth Barrett Browning, was born on March 6, 1806, the eldestchild of Edward and Mary Moulton Barrett. I Both the date and placeof her birth have been matters of uncertainty and dispute, and even sotrustworthy an authority as the 'Dictionary of National Biography' isinaccurate with respect to them. All doubt has, however, been set atrest by the discovery of the entry of her birth in the parish registerof Kelloe Church, in the county of Durham. [2] She was born at CoxhoeHall, the residence of Mr. Barrett's only brother, Samuel, aboutfive miles south of the city of Durham. Her father, whose name wasoriginally Edward Barrett Moulton, had assumed the additional surnameof Barrett on the death of his maternal grandfather, to whose estatesin 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 hiswife's poems, that 'on the early death of his father he was broughtfrom Jamaica to England when a very young child, as a ward of thelate Chief Baron Lord Abinger, then Mr. Scarlett, whom he frequentlyaccompanied 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' atother schools than Harrow--'by the youth whose fag he had become, thathe was withdrawn from the school by his mother, and the delinquentwas expelled. At the age of sixteen he was sent by Mr. Scarlett toCambridge, 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 beknown, and her comparatively early death causes her to be little heardof in the record of her daughter's life. 

[Footnote 2: See _Notes and Queries_ for July 20, 1889, supplementedby 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 theBarrett family, and it need merely be noted that it had beenconnected for some generations with the island of Jamaica, and ownedconsiderable estates there. [3] It is a curious coincidence that RobertBrowning was likewise in part of West Indian descent, and so, too, wasJohn Kenyon, the lifelong friend of both, by whose means the poet andpoetess were first introduced to one another. 

[Footnote 3: These estates still remain in the family, and Mr. CharlesBarrett, the eldest surviving brother of Mrs. Browning, now livesthere. ]

The family of Mr. Edward Barrett was a fairly large one, consisting, besides Elizabeth, of two daughters, Henrietta and Arabel, and eightsons--Edward, whose tragic death at Torquay saddened so much of hissister's life, Charles (the 'Stormie' of the letters), Samuel, George, Henry, Alfred, Septimus, and Octavius; Mr. Barrett's inventivenesshaving apparently given out with the last two members of his family, reducing him to the primitive method of simple enumeration, anenumeration in which, it may be observed, the daughters counted fornothing. Not many of these, however, can have been born at Coxhoe; forwhile Elizabeth was still an infant--apparently about the beginningof the year 1809--Mr. Barrett removed to his newly purchased estateof Hope End, in Herefordshire, among the Malvern hills, and only a fewmiles 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. Hereshe spent her first twenty years of conscious life. Here is the sceneof the childish reminiscences which are to be found among her earlierpoems, of 'Hector in the Garden, ' 'The Lost Bower, ' and 'The DesertedGarden. ' And here too her earliest verses were written, and thefoundations laid of that omnivorous reading of literature of all sortsand kinds, which was so strong a characteristic of her tastes andleanings. 

On this subject she may be left to tell her own tale. In a letterwritten on October 5, 1843, to Mr. R. H. Horne, she furnishes him withthe following biographical details for his study of her in 'The NewSpirit of the Age. ' They supply us with nearly all that we know of herearly life and writings. 

'And then as to stories, my story amounts to the knife-grinder's, withnothing at all for a catastrophe. A bird in a cage would have as gooda story, Most of my events, and nearly all my intense pleasures, havepassed in my _thoughts_. I wrote verses--as I dare say many have donewho never wrote any poems--very early; at eight years old and earlier. But, what is less common, the early fancy turned into a will, andremained with me, and from that day to this, poetry has been adistinct object with me--an object to read, think, and live for. And Icould make you laugh, although you could not make the public laugh, by the narrative of nascent odes, epics, and didactics crying aloud onobsolete muses from childish lips. The Greeks were my demi-gods, andhaunted me out of Pope's Homer, until I dreamt more of Agamemnon thanof Moses the black pony. And thus my great "epic" of eleven or twelveyears old, in four books, and called "The Battle of Marathon, " and ofwhich fifty copies were printed because papa was bent upon spoilingme--is Pope's Homer done over again, or rather undone; for, although acurious production for a child, it gives evidence only of animitative faculty and an ear, and a good deal of reading in a peculiardirection. The love of Pope's Homer threw me into Pope on one side andinto Greek on the other, and into Latin as a help to Greek--and theinfluence of all these tendencies is manifest so long afterwards asin my "Essay on Mind, " a didactic poem written when I was seventeen oreighteen, and long repented of as worthy of all repentance. The poemis imitative in its form, yet is not without traces of an individualthinking and feeling--the bird pecks through the shell in it. Withthis it has a pertness and pedantry which did not even then belong tothe character of the author, and which I regret now more than I do theliterary defectiveness. 

'All this time, and indeed the greater part of my life, we lived atHope End, a few miles from Malvern, in a retirement scarcely broken tome 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 ittroubles the heart as it looks back. There I had my fits of Pope, andByron, and Coleridge, and read Greek as hard under the trees as someof your Oxonians in the Bodleian; gathered visions from Plato and thedramatists, and eat and drank Greek and made my head ache with it. Doyou know the Malvern Hills? The hills of Piers Plowman's Visions? Theyseem to me my native hills; for, although I was born in the county ofDurham, 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 beautywould I stand in the sunshine and the shadow of them any more. Itwould be a mockery, like the taking back of a broken flower to itsstalk. '[4]

[Footnote 4: R. H. Horne, _Letters of E. B. Browning_, i. 158-161. ]

So, while the young Robert Browning was enthusiastically declaimingpassages of Pope's Homer, and measuring out heroic couplets withhis hand round the dining table in Camberwell, Elizabeth Barrett wasdrinking from the same fount of inspiration among the Malvern Hills, and was already turning it to account in the production of her firstepic. The fifty copies of the 'Battle of Marathon, ' which Mr. Barrett, proud of his daughter's precocity, insisted on having printed, bearthe date of 1819. Only five of them are now known to exist, and theseare all in private hands; even the British Museum possesses only thereprint which the hero-worship of the present generation caused to beproduced in 1891. Seven years later, when she had just reached theage of twenty, her first volume of verse was offered to the worldin general. It was entitled 'An Essay on Mind, and other Poems, ' andincluded, besides the didactic poem after the manner of Pope whichformed the _pièce de rèsistance_, a number of shorter pieces, severalof which, as she informed Horne, [5] had been written when she was notmore 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 wasfirst attacked by serious illness. 'At fifteen, ' she says in herautobiographical letter, already quoted in part, 'I nearly died;' andthis may be connected with a statement by Mrs. Richmond Ritchie, tothe effect that 'one day, when Elizabeth was about fifteen, the younggirl, impatient for her ride, tried to saddle her pony alone, in afield, and fell with the saddle upon her, in some way injuring herspine so seriously that she was for years upon her back. '[6] Thelatter part of this statement cannot indeed be quite accurate; forher period of long confinement to a sick-room was of later date, andbegan, according to her own statement, from a different cause. Mr. R. Barrett Browning states that the injury to the spine was notdiscovered for some time, but was afterwards attributed, not to afall, but to a strain whilst tightening her pony's girths. No doubtthis injury contributed towards the general weakness of health towhich she was always subject. 

[Footnote 6: _Dict. Of Nat. Biography_, vii. 78. ]

Of her earliest letters, belonging to the Hope End period, very fewhave been preserved, and most of those which remain are of littleinterest. The first to be printed here belongs to the period of hermother's last illness, which ended in her death on October 1, 1828. Itis addressed to Mrs. James Martin, a lifelong friend, whose name willappear frequently in these pages. At the time when it was written shewas 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 necessaryto adopt any violent measure with regard to our beloved invalid. He seems entirely to rely, for her ultimate restoration, upon adiscipline as to diet, and a course of strengthening medicine. Thisis most satisfactory to us; and her spirits have been soothed andtranquillised by his visit. She has slept quietly for the last fewnights, and reports herself to be _brisker_ and stronger, and tobe comparatively free from pain. This account is, perhaps, toofavorable, [7] and will appear so to you when you see her, as I amafraid you will, not looking much better, _much_ more cheerful, thanwhen you paid us your last visit. But when we are very _willing_ tohope, we are apt to be too _ready_ to hope: though really, withoutbeing _too_ sanguine, we may consider quiet nights and diminished painto be satisfactory signs of amendment. I know you will be glad to hearof them, and I hope you will _witness_ them very soon, in spite ofthis repulsive snow. It will do mama good, and I am sure it will giveus all pleasure, to benefit by some of your charitable pilgrimagesover 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 oneis accustomed to regard as American. ]

_To Miss Commeline_Hope End: Monday, [October 1828]. 

My dear Miss Commeline, --Thank you for the sympathy and interestwhich you have extended towards us in our heavy affliction. Even _you_cannot know _all_ that we have lost; but God knows, and it has pleasedHim to take away the blessing that He gave. And all _must_ be rightsince He doeth all! Indeed we did not foresee this great grief! If wehad we could not have felt it less; but I should not then have beendenied the consolation of being with her at the last. 

It is idle to speak now of such thoughts, and circumstances haveunquestionably been rightly and mercifully ordered. We are all welland 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 isdreary and the distance long: and if you were to come, we might not beable to meet you and to speak to you with calmness. In that case youwould receive a melancholy impression which I should like to spareyou. Perhaps it would be better for you and less selfish in us, ifwe were to defer this meeting a little while longer--but do what youprefer doing! I can never forget the regard and esteem entertained foryou by one whose tenderness and watchfulness I have felt every dayand hour since she gave me that life which her loss embitters--whosememory is more precious to me than any earthly blessing left behind; Ihave 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 notjust 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 waslikely to complain about 'the number of letters from Malvern;' and asto my doing so, why did you suggest that? To fill up a sentence, orto conjure up some kind of limping excuse for idle people? Amongidle people, perhaps you have written _me_ down. But the reason ofmy silence was far more reasonable than yours. I have been engaged inalternately wishing in earnest and wishing in vain for the power ofsaying when I could go to Malvern--and in being unwell besides. Forthe last week I have not been at all well, and indeed was obligedyesterday to go to bed after breakfast instead of after tea, whereI contrived to abstract myself out of a good deal of pain into LordByron's Life by Moore. To-day this abstraction is not necessary; I ammuch better; and, indeed, little remains of the indisposition butthe _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 verywise as to lie down upon the grass last Monday, when the sun wasshining deceitfully, though the snow was staring at me from thehedges, with an expression anything but dog-daysical!

Henrietta's face-ache is quite well, and I don't mean to give any morebulletins to-day. I hope your 'tolerably well' is turned into 'quitewell' too by this time. 

In reply to your query, I will mention that _the existence_ actuallyextended until Thursday without the visit here--a phenomenon inphysics and metaphysics. I was desired by a note a short timepreviously, 'to embrace all my circle with the utmost tenderness, '_as proxy_. Considering the extent of the said circle, this was a verycomprehensive request, and a very unreasonable one to offer to anyoneless than the hundred-armed Indian god Baly. I am glad thatyour alternative of a house is so near to the right side of theturnpike--in which case, a _miss_ is certainly not as _bad_ asa _mile_. May Place is to be vacated in May, though its presentinhabitants do not leave Malvern. I mention this to you, but praydon't _re-mention_ it to anybody. The rent is 15£. Mr. Boyd[9] willnot be angry with me for not going to see him sooner than I can. Atleast, I am sure he ought not. Though you are all kind enough to wishme to go, I always think and know (which is consolatory to everythingbut 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 withElizabeth Barrett is commemorated in her poem, 'Wine of Cyprus, 'and in three sonnets expressly addressed to him. He was at this timeliving at Great Malvern, where Miss Barrett frequently visited him, reading and discussing Greek literature with him, especially the worksof the Greek Christian Fathers. But to call him her tutor, as has morethan once been done, is a mistake: see Miss Barrett's letter to; himof March 3, 1845. Her knowledge of Greek was due to her volunteeringto share her brother Edward's work under his tutor, Mr. MacSwiney. ]

The fear 1832 brought a great change in the fortunes of the Barrettfamily, and may be said to mark the end of the purely formative periodin Elizabeth Barrett's life. Hitherto she had been living in the homeand among the surroundings of her childhood, absorbing literaturerather than producing it; or if producing it, still mainly for her ownamusement and instruction, rather than with any view of appealing tothe 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 findher embarking definitely on literature as the avowed pursuit andoccupation of her life. Sidmouth in Devonshire was the place to whichthe Barrett family now removed, and the letters begin henceforth to belonger and more frequent, and to tell a more connected tale. 

[Footnote 10: Mr. Ingram, in his _Life of E. B. Browning_ ('EminentWomen' Series) connects this fact with the abolition of colonialslavery, and a consequent decrease in Mr. Barrett's income; but sincethe abolition only took place in 1833, while Hope End was given up inthe 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 andhandwriting were in themselves pleasant sights to me, and the kindnessyet more welcome. Believe that I am grateful to you for _all_ yourkindness--for your kindness now, and your kindness in the days whichare past. Some of those past days were very happy, and some of themvery sorrowful--more sorrowful than even our last days at dear, dearHope End. _Then_, I well recollect, though I could not then thank youas I ought, how you _felt for_ us and _with_ us. Do not think I canever forget _that time_, or _you_. I had written a note to you, whichthe bearer of Bummy's and Arabel's to Colwall[11] omitted to take. Afterwards I thought it best to spare you any more farewells, whichare upon human lips, of all words, the most natural, and of all themost painful. 

They told us of our having past your carriage in Ledbury. DearMrs. Martin, I cannot dwell upon the pain of that first hour of ourjourney; 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 feltinexpressibly relieved--relieved from the restlessness and anxietywhich have so long oppressed us--and now we are calmer and happierthan we have been for very long. If we could only have papa and Broand Sette[12] with us! About half an hour before we set off, papafound out that he _could not_ part with Sette, who sleeps withhim, and is always an amusing companion to him. Papa was, however, unwilling to separate him perforce from his little playfellows, andasked him whether he wished very much to go. Sette's heart was quitefull, but he answered immediately, 'Oh, no, papa, I would _much_rather stay with _you_. ' He is a dear affectionate little thing. Heand Bro being with poor Papa, we are far more comfortable about himthan we should otherwise be--and perhaps our going was his sharpestpang. 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 thatword in your letter. I have often been afraid, on account of papa nothaving been for so long a time at Colwall, lest you should fancy thathe did not value your society and your kindness. Do not fancy it. Painful circumstances produce--as we have often had occasion toobserve--different effects upon different minds; and some feeling, with which I certainly have no sympathy has made papa shrink fromsociety of any kind lately. He would not even attend the religioussocieties in Ledbury, which he was so much pledged to support, and sointerested in supporting. If you knew how much he has talked of you, and asked every particular about you, you could not fancy that hisregard for you was estranged. He has an extraordinary degree ofstrength of mind on most points--and strong feeling, when it is notallowed to run in the natural channel, will sometimes force its waywhere it is not expected. You will think it strange; but never up tothis moment has he even alluded to the subject, before _us_--never, atthe 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 lastevening. 

We slept at the York House in Bath. Bath is a beautiful town _asa town_, and the country harmonises well with it, without being abeautiful country. As _mere country_, nobody would stand still to lookat it; though as town country, many bodies would. Somersetshire ingeneral seems to be hideous, and I could fancy from the walls whichintersect it in every direction, that they had been turned to stoneby looking at the _Gorgonic_ scenery. The part of Devonshire throughwhich our journey lay is nothing _very_ pretty, though it must beallowed to be beautiful after Somersetshire. We arrived here almostin the dark, and were besieged by the crowd of disinterestedtradespeople, who _would_ attend us through the town to our house, tohelp to unload the carriages. This was not a particularly agreeablereception in spite of its cordiality; and the circumstance of therebeing not a human being in our house, and not even a rushlightburning, did not reassure us. People were tired of expecting us everyday for three weeks. Nearly the whole way from Honiton to this placeis a descent. Poor dear Bummy said she thought we were going intothe _bowels of the earth_, but suspect she thought we were goingmuch deeper. Between you and me, she does not seem _delighted_ withSidmouth; but her spirits are a great deal better, and in time shewill, I dare say, be better pleased. _We_ like very much what we haveseen of it. The town is small and not superfluously clean, but, ofcourse, the respectable houses are not a part of the town. Ours is onewhich the Grand Duchess Helena had, not at all _grand_, but extremelycomfortable and cheerful, with a splendid sea view in front, andpleasant green, hills and trees behind. The drawing-room's fourwindows all look to the sea, and I am never tired of looking out ofthem. I was doing so, with a most hypocritical book before me, whenyour letter arrived, and I _felt_ all that you said in it. I alwaysthought that the sea was the sublimest object in nature. MontBlanc--Niagara must be nothing to it. _There_, the Almighty's formglasses itself in tempests--and not only in tempests, but in calm--inspace, in eternal motion, in eternal regularity. How can we look atit, 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 notonly well, but mercifully. 

Mr. And Mrs. H----, with whom papa is slightly acquainted, havecalled upon us, and shown us many kind attentions. They are West Indiapeople, not very polished, but certainly _very_ good-natured. We hearthat the place is extremely full and gay; but this is, of course, onlyan _on dit_ to us at present. I have been riding a donkey two or threetimes, and enjoy very much going to the edge of the sea. The air hasmade me sleep more soundly than I have done for some time, and I daresay 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 thatmyrtles and verbena, three or four feet high, and hydrangeas are inflower in the gardens--even in ours, which is about a hundred andfifty yards from the sea. I have written to the end of my paper. Giveour kindest regards to Mr. Martin, and ever believe me, Your affectionate and gratefulE. B. B. 

[Footnote 11: The Martins' home near Malvern, about a mile from HopeEnd. ]

[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 atlength and at such a time. Indeed, it was exactly the time when, ifwe were where we have been, we should have wished you to walk overthe hill and talk to us; and although, after all that the most zealousfriends of letter writing can say for it, it is _not_ such a happything as talking with those you care for, yet it is the next happiestthing. I am sure I thought so when I read your letter . .. 

And now I must tell you about ourselves. Papa and Bro and Sette havemade us so much happier by coming, and we have the comfort of seeingdear papa in good spirits, and not only satisfied but pleased withthis place. It is scarcely possible, at least it seems so to me, to dootherwise than admire the beauty of the country. It is the very landof green lanes and pretty thatched cottages. I don't mean the kind ofcottages which are generally thatched, with pigstyes and cabbages anddirty children, but thatched cottages with verandas and shrubberies, and sounds from the harp or piano coming through the windows. Whenyou stand upon any of the hills which stand round Sidmouth, the wholevalley seems to be thickly wooded down to the very verge of the sea, and these pretty villas to be springing from the ground almost asthickly and quite as naturally as the trees themselves. There arecertainly many more houses out of the town than in it, and they allstand apart, yet near, hiding in their own shrubberies, or behind thegreen 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 blackwith foliage, where it is twilight in the middle of the day, andothers letting in beautiful glimpses of the spreading heathy hillsor of the sunny sea. I am sure you would like the transition from thecliffs, from the bird's eye view to, I was going to say, the mole'seye view, but I believe moles don't see quite clearly enough to suitmy purpose. There are a great number of people here. Sam was at anevening 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 mightexpect. _We_ know only the Herrings and Mrs. And the Miss Polandsand Sir John Kean. Mrs. And Miss Weekes, and Mr. And Mrs. James havecalled upon us, but we were out when they came. I suppose it will benecessary to return their visits and to know them; and when we do, you shall hear about them, and about everybody whom we know. Iam certainly much better in health, stronger than I was, and lesstroubled 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 stillpleasanter. I believe Henrietta walks out about _three_ times a day. She is looking particularly well, and often talks, and I am sure stilloftener thinks, of you. You know how fond of you she is. Papa walksout with her--and _us_; and we all, down to

Occyta, breakfast and drink tea together. The dining takes place atfive o'clock. To-morrow, if this lovely weather will stand still andbe accommodating, we talk of rowing to Dawlish, which is about tenmiles off. We have had a few cases of cholera, at least _suspicious_cases: one a fortnight before we arrived, and five since, inthe course of a month. All dead except one. I confess a littlenervousness; but it is wearing away. The disease does not seem to makeany progress; and for the last six days there have been no patients atall. 

Do let us hear very soon, my dear Mrs. Martin, how you are--how yourspirits are, and whether Rome is still in your distance. Surely noplan could be more delightful for you than this plan; and if you don'tstay _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 mydetails. Do not go to Matton or to the Bartons or to Eastnor withoutgiving my love. How often my thoughts are at _home_! I cannot helpcalling it so still in my thoughts. I may like other places, but noother place can ever appear to me to deserve that name. 

Dearest Mrs. Martin's affectionateE. B. BARRETT. 

_To Mrs. Martin_Sidmouth: December 14, 1832. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --I hope you are very angry indeed with us fornot 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, butprocrastinating and waiting for news rather more worthy of being readin Rome than any which even now I can send you. .. . And now, my dearMrs. 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 ofDublin's_[13] valuable opinion upon my 'Prometheus. I am sure that ifyou have not thought me very ungrateful, you must be very indulgent. My mind was at one time so crowded by painful thoughts, that they shutout many others which are interesting to me; and among other things, Iforgot once or twice, when I had an opportunity, to thank _you_, dearMrs. Martin. I believe I should have taken advantage of your proposal, but papa said to me, 'If he criticises your manuscript in a mannerwhich does not satisfy you, you won't be easy without defendingyourself, and he might be drawn into taking more trouble than youhave now any idea of giving him. ' I sighed a little at losing such anopportunity of gaining a great advantage, but there seemed to be somereason in what papa said I have completed a preface and notes to mytranslation; and since doing so, a work of exactly the same characterby a Mr. Medwin has been published, and commended in Bulwer'smagazine. [14] Therefore it is probable enough that my trouble, excepting as far as my own amusement went, has been in vain. But papameans to try Mr. Valpy, I believe. He left us since I began to writethis letter, with a promise of returning before Christmas Day. We_do_ miss him. Mr. Boyd has made me quite angry by publishing histranslations by rotation in numbers of the 'Wesleyan Magazine, 'instead of making them up into a separate publication, as I hadpersuaded him to do. There is the effect, you see, of going, even fora time, out of my reach! The readers of the 'Wesleyan Magazine' arepious people, but not cultivated, nor, for the most part, capable ofestimating either the talents of Gregory or his translator's. I havebegun already to _insist_ upon another publication in a separate form, and shall gain my point, I dare say. I have been reading Bulwer'snovels 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 thedelicacy nor the candour which constitute true nobility of mind andher extent of talent forms but a scanty veil to shadow her otherdefects. Bulwer has quite delighted me. He has all the dramatic talentwhich Scott has, and all the passion which Scott has not, andhe appears to me to be besides a far profounder discriminator ofcharacter. There are very fine things in his 'Denounced. ' We subscribeto 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 besatisfied. Do you know that Mr. Curzon has left Ledbury? We were gladto receive your letter from Dover although it told us that you wereremoving so far from us. Do let us hear of your enjoying Italy. Isthere much English society in Rome, and is it like English societyhere? I can scarcely fancy an invitation card, 'Mrs. Huggin-muggin athome, ' carried through the _Via Sacra_. I am sure my 'little hand' hasdone its duty to-day. I shall leave the corners to Henrietta. Giveour kindest regards to Mr. Martin, and ever believe me, my dear Mrs. Martin, Your affectionateE. B. B. 

[Footnote 13: Archbishop Whately. ]

[Footnote 14: _The New Monthly Magazine_, at this time edited byBulwer, afterwards the first Lord Lytton. ]

The letter just printed contains the first allusion in Miss Barrett'sletters to any of her own writings. The translation of the 'PrometheusBound' of Aeschylus was the first-fruits of the removal to Sidmouth. It was written, as she told Horne eleven years afterwards, 'in twelvedays, and should have been thrown into the fire afterwards--the onlymeans of giving it a little warmth. '[15] Indeed, so dissatisfieddid she subsequently become with it, that she did what she could tosuppress it, and in the collected edition of 1850 substituted anotherversion, written in 1845, which she hoped would secure the finaloblivion of her earlier attempt. [16] The letter given above shows thatthe composition of the earlier version took place at the end of 1832;and in the following year it was published by Mr. Valpy, along withsome shorter poems, of which Miss Barrett subsequently wrote that 'afew of the fugitive poems may be worth a little, perhaps; but theyhave not so much goodness as to overcome the badness of the blasphemyof Aeschylus. ' The volume, which was published anonymously, receivedtwo sentences of contemptuous notice from the 'Athenaeum, ' in whichthe reviewer advised 'those who adventure in the hazardous lists ofpoetic translation to touch anyone rather than Aeschylus, and they maytake 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 resurrectionisthas been too much for her, and the version of 1833 has recentlybeen reprinted. Of this reprint the best that can be said is that itprovides 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 angryindeed with me; and perhaps it would be quite as well to spare thissheet of paper an angry look of yours, by consigning it over toHenrietta. Yet do believe me, I have been anxious to write to you along time, and did not know where to direct my letter. The historyof all my unkindness to you is this: I delayed answering your kindwelcome letter from Rome, for three weeks, because Henrietta was atTorquay, and I knew that she would like to write in it, and becauseI was unreasonable enough to expect to hear every day of her cominghome. At the end of the three weeks, and on consulting your dates andplans, I found out that you would probably have quitted Rome beforeany 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 hearwas, that you were somewhere between Italy and England; and all Icould do was, to wait patiently, and throw myself at your feet as soonas you came within sight and hearing. And now do be as generous as youcan, my dear Mrs. Martin, and try to forgive one who never _could_ beguilty of the fault of forgetting you, notwithstanding appearances. Weheard only yesterday of your being expected at Colwall. And althoughwe cannot welcome you there, otherwise than in this way, at thedistance of 140 miles, yet we must welcome you in this way, and assureboth of you how glad we are that the same island holds all of us oncemore. It pleased us very much to hear how you were enjoying yourselvesin Rome; and you must please us now by telling us that you areenjoying yourselves at Colwall, and that you bear the change withEnglish philosophy. The fishing at Abbeville was a link betweenthe past and the present; and would make the transition between theeternal city and the eternal tithes a little less striking. My wonderis how you could have persuaded yourselves to keep your promise andleave Italy as soon as you did. Tell me how you managed it. And tellme everything about yourselves--how you are and how you feel, andwhether you look backwards or forwards with the most pleasure, andwhether the influenza has been among your welcomers to England. Henrietta and Arabel and Daisy[18] were confined by it to their bedsfor several days and the two former are only now recovering theirstrength. Three or four of the other boys had symptoms which were notstrong enough to put them to bed. As for me, I have been quite wellall the spring, and almost all the winter. I don't know when I havebeen so long well as I have been lately; without a cough or anythingelse disagreeable. Indeed, if I may place the influenza in aparenthesis, we have all been perfectly well, in spite of ourfishing and boating and getting wet three times a day. There is goodtrout-fishing at the Otter, and the noble river Sid, which, if I likedto stand in it, _might_ cover my ankles. And lately, Daisy andSette and Occyta have studied the art of catching shrimps, and soakthemselves up to their waists like professors. My love of waterconcentrates itself in the boat; and this I enjoy very much, when thesea is as blue and calm as the sky, which it has often been lately. Ofsociety we have had little indeed; but Henrietta had more than muchof it at Torquay during three months; and as for me, you know I don'twant any though I am far from meaning to speak disrespectfully of _Mr. Boyds_, which has been a pleasure and comfort to me. His house isnot 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 Maynumber of the 'Wesleyan Magazine;' and if you have an opportunity ofprocuring last December's number, _do_ procure _that_. There aresome translations in each of them, which I think you will like. TheDecember translation is my favourite, though I was amanuensis onlyin the May one. Henrietta and Arabel have a drawing master, and aremeditating soon beginning to sketch out of doors--that is, if beforethe meditation is at an end we do not leave Sidmouth. Our plans arequite uncertain; and papa has not, I believe, made up his mind whetheror not to take this house on after the beginning of next month;when our engagement with our present landlord closes. If we do leaveSidmouth, you know as well as I do where we shall go. Perhaps toBoulogne! perhaps to the Swan River. The West Indians are irreparablyruined if the Bill passes. Papa says that in the case of its passing, nobody in his senses would think of even attempting the culture ofsugar, and that they had better hang weights to the sides of theisland of Jamaica and sink it at once. Don't you think certain headsmight be found heavy enough for the purpose? No insinuation, I assureyou, against the Administration, in spite of the dagger in their righthands. Mr. Atwood seems to me a demi-god of ingratitude! So much forthe 'fickle reek of popular breath' to which men have erected theirtemple of the winds--who would trust a feather to it? I am almost moresorry for poor Lord Grey who is going to ruin us, than for our poorselves who are going to be ruined. You will hear that my 'Prometheusand other Poems' came into light a few weeks ago--a fortnight ago, Ithink. I dare say I shall wish it out of the light before I have donewith it. And I dare say Henrietta is wishing me anywhere, rather thanwhere I am. Certainly I have past _all bounds_. Do write soon, andtell us everything about Mr. Martin and yourself. And ever believe me, dearest Mrs. Martin, Your affectionateE. 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 hopenot. 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 forme: and we must beg of you to forgive us both for the sake of eachother. Thank you for the kind letter which I have been so tardy inthanking you for, but which was not, on that account, the less gladlyreceived. Do believe how much it pleases me _always_ to see and readdear Mrs. Martin's handwriting. But I must try to tell you someless ancient truths. We are still in the ruinous house. Without anypoetical fiction, the walls are too frail for even _me_, who enjoy thesituation in a most particularly particular manner, to have any desireto pass the winter within them. One wind we have had the privilege ofhearing already; and down came the tiles while we were at dinner, andmade us all think that down something else was coming. We have hadone chimney pulled down to prevent it from tumbling down; and havereceived especial injunctions from the bricklayers not to lean toomuch out of the windows, for fear the walls should follow the destinyof the chimney. Altogether there is every reasonable probabilitythat the whole house will in the course of next winter be as likePersepolis as anything so ugly can be! If another house which will fitus can be found in Sidmouth, I am sure papa will take it; but, as hesaid the other day, 'If I can't find a house, I must go. ' I hope hemay find one, and as near the sea as this ruin. I have enjoyed itsmoonlight and its calmness all the summer; and am prepared to enjoyits tempestuousness of the winter with as true an enjoyment. What weshall 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 Iwrite 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 acomforting certainty--that wherever we may go or stay, the decreewhich moves or fixes us will and must be the 'wisest virtuousestdiscreetest best!' . .. 

So, I will change the subject to myself. You told me that you weregoing to read my book, and I want to know what you think of it. If youwere given to compliment and insincerity, I should be afraid of askingyou; because, among other _evident_ reasons, I might then appear tobe asking for your praise instead of your opinion. As it is--I want toknow what you think of my book. Is the translation stiff? If you knowme at all (and I venture to hope that you do) you will be certain thatI shall _like_ your honesty, and love you for being honest, even ifyou 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 Iam glad, and always shall be, that the negroes are--virtually--free!

May God bless you, dear Mrs. Martin!Ever believe me, your affectionateE. B. BARRETT. 

_To H. S. Boyd_Sidmouth: Friday [1834]. 

My dear Friend, --I don't know how I shall begin to persuade you not tobe angry with me, but perhaps the best plan will be to confess as manysins as would cover this sheet of paper, and then to go on with mymerits. Certainly I am altogether guiltless of your charge of notnoticing your book's arrival because no Calvinism arrived with it. I told you the bare truth when I told you _why_ I did not writeimmediately. The passage relating to Calvinism I certainly read, and as certainly was sorry for; but as certainly as both thosecertainties, such reading and such regret had nothing whatever to dowith 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 havesent 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--oftheir remaining, worthless as they are, at Mr. P. 's mercy. As formy writing about them, I should not be able to make up my mind todo _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 shouldbe half ashamed to write to him now on any subject. A very longinterregnum took place in our correspondence, which was his own work;and when he wrote to me the summer before last, I delayed from weekto week, and then from month to month, answering it. And now I feelashamed to write at all. 

Perhaps you will wonder why I am not ashamed to write to _you_. IndeedI have meant to do it very, very often. Don't be severe upon me. I amalways afraid of writing to you too often, and so the opposite faultis 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 readingthe Bridgewater treatise, and am now trying to understand Prout uponChemistry. I shall be worth something at last, shall I not? Who knowsbut what I may die a glorious death under the _pons asinorum_ afterall? Prout (if I succeed in understanding him) does not hold thatmatter is infinitely divisible; and so I suppose the seeds ofmatter--the ultimate molecules--are a kind of _tertium quid_ betweenmatter and spirit. Certainly I can't believe that any kind of matter, primal or ultimate, can be _indivisible_, which it must according tohis view. 

Chalmers's treatise is, as to eloquence, surpassingly beautiful; as tomatter, I could not walk with him all the way, although I longed todo it, for he walked on flowers, and under shade--'no tree on which afine 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 writingbefore, because I know very well that you would rather have not heardfrom me immediately. .. . And so, you and Mrs. Mathew have been tearingto 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! 'Thepoints upon which you and I differed' are so numerous, that if Ireally _am_ wrong upon every one of them, Mrs. Mathew has indeedreason to 'punish me with hard thoughts. ' Well, she can't help myfeeling 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 melove her. I am weary of controversy in religion, and should be sowere I stronger and more successful in it than I am or care to be. Thecommand is not 'argue with one another, ' but 'love one another. ' Itis better to love than to convince. They who lie on the bosom of Jesusmust lie there _together_!

Not a word about your book![19] Don't you mean to tell me anythingof 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'sMagazine' for August, at an article entitled 'Rogueries of Tom Moore, 'you will be amused with a notice of the 'Edinburgh Review's' criticismin the text, and of yourself in a note. We have had a crowded Biblemeeting, and a Church Missionary and London Missionary meetingbesides; and I went last Tuesday to the Exmouth Bible meeting withMrs. Maling, Miss Taylor, and Mr. Hunter. We did not return untilhalf-past one in the morning. .. . The Bishop of Barbadoes and the Deanof Winchester were walking together on the beach yesterday, makingSidmouth look quite episcopal. You would not have despised it _half somuch_, had you been here. 

Do you know any person who would like to send his or her son toSidmouth, for the sake of the climate, and private instruction: andif 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, andas it mentions Mrs. Boyd's having gone to Dover, I trust that she iswell again. Should she be returned, give my love to her. 

The black-edged paper may make you wonder at its cause. Our dearaunt Mrs. Butler died last month at Dieppe--and died _in Jesus_. MissClarke 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 yourplans are. I hear nothing about our leaving Sidmouth. 

[Footnote 19: _The Fathers not Papists_, including a reprint of sometranslations from the Greek Fathers, which Mr. Boyd had publishedpreviously. ]

_To Miss Commeline_September 22, 1834 [Sidmouth]. 

I am afraid that there can be no chance of my handwriting at leastbeing unforgotten by you, dear Miss Commeline, but in the case of yourhaving a very long memory you may remember the name which shall bewritten at the end of this note, and which belongs to one who doesnot, nor is likely to forget you! I was much, _much_ obliged to youfor the kind few lines you wrote to me--how long ago! No, do notremember how long--do not remember _that_ for fear you should think meunkind, and--what I am not! I have intended again and again to answeryour 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? PerhapsI shall not; but even if I do not, I shall not cease to wish you to bewell and happy 'in the body or out of the body. '

We came to Sidmouth for two months, and you see we are here still; andwhen 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 tranquillityand 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 besidesmyself. We are living in a thatched cottage, with a green lawn boundedby a _Devonshire lane_. Do you know what that is? Milton did when hewrote of 'hedgerow elms and hillocks green. ' Indeed Sidmouth is a nestamong elms; and the lulling of the sea and the shadow of the hillsmake it a peaceful one. But there are no majestic features in thecountry. It is all green and fresh and secluded; and the grandeur isconcentrated upon the ocean without deigning to have anything to dowith the earth. I often find my thoughts where my footsteps once usedto 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 withregard to our dear papa. He left us two months ago to do his Londonbusiness: and a few weeks since we were told by a letter from him thathe was ill; he giving us to understand that his complaint was ofa rheumatic character. By the next coach, we were so daring (I canscarcely understand how we managed it) as to send Henry to him:thinking that it would be better to be scolded than to suffer him tobe alone and in suffering at a London hotel. We were not scolded: butmy 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 daysafterwards we received. .. . I cannot help being anxious and fearful. You know he is _all_ left to us--and that without him we should indeedbe orphans and desolate. Therefore you may well know what feelingsthose are with which we look back upon his danger; and forwards to anythreatening of a return of it. .. . It may not be so. Do not, when youwrite, allude to my fearing about it. Our only feeling now shouldcertainly be a deep feeling of thankfulness towards that God of allconsolation Who has permitted us to know His love in the midst of manygriefs; and Who while He has often cast upon us the sorrow and theshadow, has yet enabled us to recognise it as that 'shadow of thewings of the Almighty, ' wherein we may 'rejoice. ' We shall probablysee our dear papa next week. At least we know that he is only waitingfor 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 shallprobably have to leave it in March: but I do not think that we shalldo so before. Henrietta is still very anxious to leave Sidmouthaltogether; and I still feel that I shall very much grieve to leaveit: so that it is happy for us that neither is the _decider_ on thispoint. I have often thought that it is happier _not_ to do what onepleases, and perhaps you will agree with me--if you don't please atthe 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 ofyou and Mr. Martin _in detail_. Miss Maria Commeline sent a note toHenrietta a fortnight ago: and in it was honorable mention of you--butI won't interfere with the sublimities of your imagination, by tellingyou what it was. .. . I should like to hear something of Hope End:whether there are many alterations, and whether the new lodge, ofwhich I heard, is built. Even now, the thought stands before mesometimes like an object in a dream that I shall see no more thosehills and trees which seemed to me once almost like portions of myexistence. This is not meant for murmuring. I have had much happinessat Sidmouth, though with a character of its own. Henrietta and Arabeland I are the only guardians just now of the three youngest boys, theonly 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 justnow to have letters from Jamaica--from my dear dear Bro--but thepacket 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 affectionateE. B. BARRETT. 

You have of course heard of poor Mrs. Boyd's death. Mr. Boyd and hisdaughter 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 Iknow, and you will be glad, I know, to be told what I am going totell you. Dear Georgie has taken his degree, and very honorably, atGlasgow, 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 coursepublicly: and we have heard from a fellow student of his, that hisanswers were more pertinent than those of any other of the examined, and elicited much applause. Mr. Groube is the fellow student--but hehas ceased to be one, having found the Glasgow studies too heavy forhis health. Stormie shrank from the public examination, on account ofthe hesitation in his speech. He would not go up; although, accordingto report, as well qualified as Georgie. Mr. Groube says that theladies of Glasgow are preparing to break their hearts for Georgie'sdeparture: and he and Stormie leave Glasgow on May I. Now, I am sureyou 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 hearof a failure--for Georgie was in great alarm and prepared us for thevery worst. Therefore the surprise and pleasure were great. 

I can't tell you of our plans; although the Glasgow students come tous in a week and this house will be too small to receive them. Wemay leave Sidmouth immediately, or not at all. I shall soon be quitequalified to write a poem on the 'Pleasures of _Doubt_'--and a verygood subject it will be. The pleasures of certainty are generally farless enjoyable--I mean as pleasures go in this unpleasing world. Papais in London, and much better when we heard from him last--and we areawaiting his decree. .. . 

And now what remains for me to tell you? I believe I have read moreHebrew than Greek lately; yet the dear Greek is not less dear thanever. 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 verysettled one--never intended to be permanent, and yet never having afixed term nor any reason for a fixed term. Hence it spread itselfgradually over a space of nearly three years, before the longcontemplated move to London actually took place. During the latterpart of that period, however, extant letters of Miss Barrett arealmost wholly wanting, and there is little information from any othersource as to the course of her life. It was apparently in the summerof 1835 that Sidmouth was finally left behind, Mr. Barrett havingthen taken a house at 74 Gloucester Place (near Baker Street), which, though never regarded as more than a temporary residence, continued tobe the home of his family for the next three years. 

The move to London was followed by two results of great importancefor Elizabeth Barrett. In the first place, her health, which had neverbeen strong, broke down altogether in the London atmosphere, and it isfrom some time shortly after the arrival in Gloucester Place thatthe 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-roomwas always small, we yet owe to this fact the commencement of some ofher closest friendships, notably those with her distant cousin, JohnKenyon, and with Miss Mitford, the authoress of 'Our Village, ' and ofa correspondence on a much fuller and more elaborate scale than any ofthe earlier period. To this, no doubt, the fact of her confinement toher room contributed not a little; for being unable to go out and seeher friends, much of her communication with them was necessarily byletter. At the same time her literary activity was increasing. Shebegan to contribute poems to various magazines, and to be broughtthereby into connection with literary men; and she was also employedon the longer compositions which went to make up her next volume ofpublished verse. 

All this was, however, only of gradual development; and for some timeher 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 isuncertain, but it seems to belong to a time soon after the arrival ofthe 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 shallnot be able to do to-day--namely, to visit _you_--he must take withhim a few lines from _Porsonia_ _greeting_, to say how glad I am tofeel myself again at only a short distance from you, and how stillgladder I shall be when the same room holds both of us. Don't be angrybecause 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 readyto smile upon you whenever you give us the opportunity, as graciouslyas Socrates did upon his executioner. How much you will have to sayto me about the Greeks, unless you begin first to abuse me aboutthe _Romans_; and if you begin _that_, the peroration will be avery pathetic one, in my being turned out of your doors. Such is myprophecy. 

Papa has been telling me of your abusing my stanzas on Mrs. Hemans'sdeath. I had a presentiment that you would: and behold, why I saidnothing to you of them. Of course, I maintain, _versus_ both you andpapa, that they are very much to be admired: as well as everythingelse proceeding from or belonging to ME. Upon which principle, I hopeyou 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 writeto you when, among such dearer interests and deep anxieties, you mayperhaps 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 youthink of us at all--that we have changed our hearts with our residenceso much as to forget to sympathise with you, dear Mrs. Martin, or toneglect to apprise you ourselves of our movements. Indeed, a letterto you should have been written among my first letters on arriving inLondon, only Henrietta (my scape-goat, _you_ will say) said, '_I_ willwrite to Mrs. Martin. ' And then after I had waited, and determinedto write without waiting any longer, we heard of poor Mrs. Hanford'saffliction and your anxiety, and I have considered day after daywhether 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 whichonly He in Jesus Christ can give to the so afflicted. For I know wellthat you are afflicted with the afflicted, and that with you sympathyis suffering; and that while the tenderest earthly comfort isadministered by your presence and kindness to your dear friends, youwill feel bitterly for them what a little thing earthly comfort is, when the earthly beloved perish before them. May He who is the Belovedin the sight of His Father and His Church be near to them and you, andcause you to _feel_ as well as _know_ the truth, that what is suddensorrow, to our judgments, is only long-prepared mercy in _His_ willwhose names are _Wisdom_ and _Love_. Should it not be, dear friend, that the tears of our human eyes ought to serve the happy and touchingpurpose of reminding us of those tears of Jesus which He shed inassuming our sorrow with our flesh? And the memory of those tearsinvolves all comfort. A recognition of the oneness of the human natureof that Divine Saviour who ever liveth, with ours which perishes andsorrows so; an assurance drawn from thence of _His_ sympathy who sitson the throne of God, with us who suffer in the dust of earth, andof all those doctrines of redemption and sanctification and happinesswhich come from Him and by Him. 

Now you will forgive me for writing all this, dearest Mrs. Martin. Ilike 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 cannotthink of affliction, particularly when it comes near to me in theaffliction or anxiety of dear friends, without looking back andremembering what voice of God used to sound softly to me when noneother could speak comfort. You will forgive me, and not be angry withme for trying, or seeming to try, to be a sermon writer. 

Perhaps, dear Mrs. Martin, when you do feel inclined and able towrite, 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 hearhow your dear charge is--whether there should appear any prospect ofimprovement; and how poor Mrs. Hanford bears up against this heavycalamity; and whether the anxiety and nursing affect your health. Butwe shall try to hear this from the Biddulphs; and so do put me out ofyour head, except when its thoughts would dwell on those on earth whosympathise with you and care for you. 

You see we are in London after all, and poor Sidmouth left afar. Iam almost inclined to say 'poor us' instead of 'poor Sidmouth. ' ButI dare say I shall soon be able to see in my dungeon, and begin to beamused with the spiders. Half my soul, in the meantime, seems to havestayed behind on the seashore, which I love more than ever now that Icannot walk on it in the body. London is wrapped up like a mummy, ina yellow mist, so closely that I have had scarcely a glimpse of itscountenance 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--andsucceed. 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 livein London succeed, I _believe_ that papa's intention is to take anunfurnished house and have his furniture from Ledbury. You may wonderat 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 thecase of leaving it, to return to Devonshire, and I should look withweary eyes to another strangership and pilgrimage even among greenfields that know not these fogs. Papa's object in settling here refersto my brothers. George will probably enter as a barrister student atthe Inner Temple on the fifth or sixth of this month, and he willhave the advantage of his home by our remaining where we are. Anotheradvantage of London is, that we shall see here those whom we might seenowhere else. This year, dear Mrs. Martin, may it bring with it thetrue pleasure of seeing _you_! Three have gone, and we have not seenyou. .. . May God bless you and all that you care for, being with youalways as the God of consolation and peace. 

Your affectionateE. B. BARRETT. 

It is from the middle of this year that Miss Barrett's activeappearance as an author may be dated. Hitherto her publications hadbeen confined to a few small anonymous volumes, printed rather toplease herself and her friends than with any idea of appealing to awider public. She was now anxious to take this farther step, and, withthat 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 thistime personally unknown to Miss Barrett, but an application through acommon friend led both to the opening to the poetess of the pages ofthe 'New Monthly Magazine, ' then edited by Bulwer, and also to thecommencement of a friendship which has left its mark in the twovolumes of published letters to Mr. Home. The following is Mr. Home'saccount 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 ofletters was 'The Romaunt of Margret, '[20] which appeared in the Julynumber of the magazine. Mr. Home must, however, have been in errorin speaking of 'The Dead Pan' as its successor, since that was notwritten till some years later. More probably it was 'The Poet'sVow, [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 notbeen very well for a day or two, and shall enjoy a visit to you onMonday so much more than I shall be able to do to-day, that I will askyou to forgive my not going to you this week, and to receive me kindlyon that day instead--provided, you know, it is not wet. 

The [Greek: Achaiides] approach the [Greek: Achaioi][22] moretremblingly than usual, with the 'New Monthly Magazine' in theirhands. Now pray don't annoy yourself by reading a single word whichyou 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 youdown 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, Ithink. After some observations on other periodicals, the writer goeson to say: 'The "New Monthly Magazine" has not one heavy article. Itis rich in poetry, including some fine sonnets by the Corn Law Rhymer, and a fine although too dreamy ballad, "The Poet's Vow. " We arealmost tempted to pause and criticise the work of a writer of so muchinspiration and promise as the author of this poem, and exhort himonce again, to greater clearness of expression and less quaintness inthe choice of his phraseology; but this is not the time or place fordigression. '

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 byyour praise of my 'Sea-mew. '[23] Love to Annie. We were glad to hearthat 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 withoutaccents 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 endof this week without having once seen you--particularly when your twonotes are waiting all this time to be answered. Do believe that theywere not, either of them, addressed to an ungrateful person, and thatthe only reason of their being received _silently_ was my hope ofanswering them more agreeably to both of us--by talking instead ofwriting. 

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 istaken and will be remembered as such. But you have a cruel heart fora parody, and this one tried my sensibility so much that I cried--withlaughing. I confess to you notwithstanding, it was _very fair_, anddealt its blow with a shining pointed weapon. 

But what will you say to me when I confess besides that, in the faceof all your kind encouragement, my Drama of the Angels[25] has neverbeen touched until the last three days? It was _not_ out of pureidleness on my part, nor of disregard to your admonition; but when mythoughts were distracted with other things, books just begun inclosingme all around, a whole load of books upon my conscience, I could notpossibly rise up to the gate of heaven and write about my angels. You know one can't sometimes sit down to the sublunary, occupationof reading Greek, unless one feels _free_ to it. And writing poetryrequires a double liberty, and an inclination which comes only ofitself. 

But I have begun. I tried the blank metre once, and it _would notdo_, and so I had to begin again in lyrics. Something above an hundredlines is written, and now I am in two panics, just as if one were notenough. First, because it seems to me a very daring subject--a subjectalmost beyond our sympathies, and therefore quite beyond the sphere ofhuman poetry. Perhaps when all is written courageously, I shall haveno courage left to publish it. Secondly, because all my tendenciestowards mysticism will be called into terrible operation by thisdreaming upon angels. 

 Yes; you _will_ read a mystery, but don't make any rash resolutions about reading anything. As I havebegun, 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 adictionary. 

Arabel and I intend to pay you a visit on Monday, and if we can, andit is convenient to you, we are inclined to invite ourselves to yourdinner 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 untilthis 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 orTuesday. 

I have had another note from the editor of the 'New MonthlyMagazine'--very flattering, and praying for farther supplies. TheAngels were not ready, and I was obliged to send something else, whichI 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 _Pindáring_. 

 'Yet oh! that I, a female Jove, These fogs sublime might float on, Where, eagle-like, my dove might show A very [Greek: _ugron nôton_]. [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 ancientdames 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, asa 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 writingto you (I mean the need to myself), and although so many weeks andeven months have passed away in silence, they have not done so in lackof affection and thought. 

I had wished very much to have been able to tell you in this letterwhere we had taken our house, or where we were going to take it. Weremain, however, in our usual state of conscious ignorance, althoughthere is a good deal of talking and walking about a house in WimpoleStreet--which, between ourselves, I am not very anxious to live in, on account of the gloominesses of that street, and of that part of thestreet, whose walls look so much like Newgate's turned inside out. Iwould rather go on, in my old way, inhabiting castles in the air thanthat particular house. Nevertheless, if it _is_ decided upon, I daresay I shall contrive to be satisfied with it, and sleep and wake verymuch as I should in any other. It will certainly be a point gainedto be settled somewhere, and I do so long to sit in my ownarmchair--strange as it will look out of my own room--and to read frommy own books. .. . For our own particular parts, our healths continuegood--none of us, I think, the worse for fog or wind. As to wind, wewere almost elevated into the prerogative of _pigs_ in the late storm. We could almost _see_ it, and the feeling it might have been fatal tous. Bro and I were moralising about shipwrecks, in the dining-room, when down came the chimney through the skylight into the entrancepassage. You may imagine the crashing effect of the bricks boundingfrom 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 hasbeen a dreadful calumny about Henrietta and me--that we had the halldoor open for the purpose of going out into the street with ourhair on end, if Bro had not _encouraged_ us by shutting the door andlocking it. I confess to opening the door, but deny the purpose ofit--at least, maintain that I only meant to keep in reserve a way ofescape, _in case_, as seemed probable, the whole house was on itsway to the ground. Indeed, we should think much of the _mercy_ of theescape. Bro had been on the staircase only five minutes before. Sarahthe housemaid was actually there. She looked up accidentally and sawthe nodding chimneys, and ran down into the drawing-room to papa, shrieking, but escaping with one graze of the hand from one brick. Howdid _you_ fare in the wind? I never much imagined before that anythingso true to nature as a real live storm could make itself heard in ourstreets. But it has come too surely, and carried away with it, besidesour chimney, all that was left to us of the country, in the shape ofthe Kensington Garden trees. Now do write to me, dearest Mrs. Martin, and soon, and tell me all you can of your chances and mischances, andhow Mr. Martin is getting on with the parish, and yourself with theparishioners. But you have more the name of living at Colwall than thething. You seem to me to lead a far more wandering life than we, for all our homelessness and 'pilgrim shoon. ' Why, you have been inIreland since I last said a word to you, even upon paper. .. . 

I sometimes think that a pilgrim's life is the wisest--at least, themost congenial to the 'uses of this world. ' We give our sympathies andassociations to our hills and fields, and then the providence of Godgives _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? DidDr. Johnson, in his paradise of Fleet Street, love the pavement andthe walls? I doubt _that_--whether I ought to do so or not--though Idon't doubt at all that one may be contented and happy here, and lovemuch _in_ the place. But the place and the privileges of it don't mixtogether 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 beento see Wordsworth twice. He was very kind to me, and let me hearhis conversation. I went with him and Miss Mitford to Chiswick, andthought all the way that I must certainly be dreaming. I saw heralmost 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 affectionsand generous benevolences, showed me every present and absentkindness, professing to love me, and asking me to write to her. Hernovel is to be published soon after Christmas, and I believe a newtragedy is to appear about the same time, 'under the protection of Mr. Forrest. ' Papa has given me the first two volumes of Wordsworth's newedition. The engraving in the first is his _own face_. You might thinkme 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 domyself, for I saw at the same time Landor--the brilliant Landor!--and_felt_ the difference between great genius and eminent talent; Allthese visions have passed now. I hear and see nothing, except my dovesand the fireplace, and am doing little else than [_words torn out_]write all day long. And then people ask me what I _mean_ in [_wordstorn out_]. I hope you were among the six who understood or halfunderstood my 'Poet's Vow'--that is, if you read it at all. UncleHedley 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 passionand pathos, and made me shed a great many tears. How do you get onwith the reading society? Do you see much or anything of Lady MargaretCocks, 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 waslent did not return it to me in time. Will you tell her this, if youdo see her, and give her my kind regards at the same time? Dear Bellwas so sorry not to have seen you. If she had, you would have thoughther looking _very_ well, notwithstanding the thinness--perhaps, insome measure, on account of it--and in _eminent_ spirits. I have notseen her in such spirits for very, very long. And there she is, downat Torquay, with the Hedleys and Butlers, making quite a colony of it, and everybody, in each several letter, grumbling in an undertone atthe dullness of the place. What would _I_ give to see the waves oncemore! But perhaps if I were there, I should grumble too. It is ahappiness to them to be _together_, and that, I am sure, they allfeel. .. . 

Believe me, dearest Mrs. Martin, your affectionateE. B. B. 

Oh that you would call me Ba![29]

[Footnote 29: Elizabeth Barrett's 'pet name' (see her poem, _PoeticalWorks_, ii. 249), given to her as a child by her brother Edward, andused 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, underthe head of literary news, that a change of editorship was takingplace in the 'New Monthly Magazine;' and that Theodore Hook was topreside in the room of Mr. Hall. I am so much too modest and too wiseto expect the patronage of two editors in succession, that I expectboth my poems in a return cover, by every twopenny post. Besides, whathas Theodore Hook to do with Seraphim? So, I shall leave that poem ofmine to your imagination; which won't be half as troublesome to you asif I asked you to read it; begging you to be assured--to write it downin your critical rubric--that it is the very finest composition youever read, _next_ (of course) to the beloved 'De Virginitate' ofGregory 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 themthe most agreeable of the whole party; for he said, what he never didbefore, that he could sit here for an hour! Our love to Annie--andforgive me for Baskettiring a letter to you. I mean, of course, as tosize, not type. 

Yours affectionately, E. B. BARRETT. 

Is your poem printed yet?

 [Footnote 30:Do you mind that deed of Até 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_ copiesof 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 acceptin return a duplicate of gratitude. 

As to my 'Seraphim, ' they are not returned to me, as in the case oftheir being unaccepted, I expressly begged they might be. Had the oldeditor been the present one, my inference would of course be, thattheir insertion was a determined matter; but as it is, I don'tknow what to think. [31] A long list of great names, belonging to_intending_ contributors, appeared in the paper a day or two ago, andamong them was Miss Mitford's. 

Are you wroth with me for not saying a word about going to seeyou? 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 inyour right hand, and a Baskerville in your left, before the year isout! That degree of happiness will satisfy at least the _bodily_ partof you. 

You may wish, in return, for _me_, that I may learn to write rathermore 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 inthe _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, shesays--but not, _I_ say, to answer your letter to _her_ yesterday, butyour letter to _me_, some weeks ago--which I meant to answer muchmore immediately if the _ignis fatuus_ of a house (you see to whata miserable fatuity I am reduced, of applying your pure countrymetaphors to our brick pollutions) had not been gliding justbefore us, and I had not much wished to be able to tell you of oursettlement. As it is, however, I must write, and shall keep a solemnsilence on the solemn subject of our shifting plans. .. . 

No! I was not at all disappointed in Wordsworth, although perhaps Ishould not have singled him from the multitude as a great man. Thereis a _reserve_ even in his countenance, which does not lightenas Landor's does, whom I saw the same evening. His eyes have moremeekness than brilliancy; and in his slow even articulation thereis rather the solemnity and calmness of _truth_ itself, than theanimation and energy of those who seek for it. As to my being quite atmy ease when I spoke to him, why how could you ask such a question? Itrembled both in my soul and body. But he was very kind, and satenear me and talked to me as long as he was in the room--and reciteda translation by Cary of a sonnet of Dante's--and altogether, it wasquite a dream! Landor too--Walter Savage Landor . .. In whose handsthe ashes of antiquity burn again--gave me two Greek epigrams he hadlately written . .. And talked brilliantly and prominently until Bro(he and I went together) abused him for _ambitious_ singularity andaffectation. But it was very interesting. And dear Miss Mitford too!and Mr. Raymond, a great Hebraist and the ancient author of 'A Curefor a Heartache!' I never walked in the skies before; and perhapsnever shall again, when so many stars are out! I shall at least seedear Miss Mitford, who wrote to me not long ago to say that she wouldsoon be in London with 'Otto, ' her new tragedy, which was written atMr. Forrest's own request, he in the most flattering manner havingapplied to her a stranger, as the authoress of 'Rienzi, ' for adramatic work worthy of his acting--after rejecting many plays offeredto him, and among them Mr. Knowles's. .. . She says that her play willbe quite opposed, in its execution, to 'Ion, ' as unlike it 'as aruined castle overhanging the Rhine, to a Grecian temple. ' And I donot doubt that it will be full of ability; although my own opinionis that she stands higher as the authoress of 'Our Village' than of'Rienzi, ' and writes prose better than poetry, and transcends ratherin Dutch minuteness and high finishing, than in Italian ideality andpassion. I think besides that Mr. Forrest's rejection of any playof Sheridan Knowles must refer rather to its unfitness for thedevelopment of his own personal talent, than to its abstract demerit, whatever Transatlantic tastes he may bring with him. The publishedtitle of the last play is 'The Daughter, ' not 'The Wreckers, ' althoughI 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 offeredtemptation to sit in the authoress's own box. With regard to 'Ion, 'I think it is a beautiful work, but beautiful _rather_ morally thanintellectually. Is this right or not? Its moral tone is very noble, and sends a grand and touching harmony into the midst of the fulldiscord of this utilitarian age. As dramatic _poetry_, it seems to meto want, not beauty, but power, passion, and condensation. This is my_doxy_ about 'Ion. ' Its author[32] made me very proud by sending it tome, although we do not know him personally. I have _heard_ that he isa most amiable man (who else could have written 'Ion'?), but that hewas 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 itlogical or satisfactory. I forget whether 'slowness of the pulse' _is_mentioned in it as a symptom of the poetical aestus. I am afraid, ifit be a symptom, I dare not take my place even in the 'forlorn hope ofpoets' in this age so forlorn as to its poetry; for my pulse is in acontinual flutter and my feet not half cold enough for a pedestal--soI must make my honours over to poor papa straightway. He has beenshivering and shuddering through the cold weather; and partaking ourinfluenza in the warmer. I am very sorry that you should have been asufferer too. It seems to have been a universal pestilence, even downin Devonshire, where dear Bummy and the whole colony have had theirshare of 'groans. ' And one of my doves shook its pretty head andruffled its feathers and shut its eyes, and became subject to pap andnursing and other infirmities for two or three days, until I was ingreat consternation for the result. But it is well again--cooing asusual; and so indeed we all are. But indeed, I can't write asentence more without saying some of the evil it deserves--of theutilitarianisms of this corrupt age--among some of the chief of whichare steel pens!

I am so glad that you liked my 'Romaunt, ' and so resigned that you didnot understand some of my 'Poet's Vow, ' and so obliged that you shouldcare to go on reading what I write. They vouchsafed to publish in thefirst number of the new series of the 'New Monthly' a little poem ofmine called 'The Island, '[33] but so incorrectly that I was glad atthe additional oblivion of my signature. If you see it, pray alter thelast senseless line of the first page into 'Leaf sounds with water, inyour ear, ' and put 'amreeta' instead of 'amneta' on the second page;and strike out '_of_' in the line which names Aeschylus! There areother blunders, [but] these are intolerable, and cast me out of my'contentment' for some time. I have begged for [proof] sheets infuture; and as none have come for the ensuing month, I suppose I shallhave nothing in the next number. They have a lyrical dramatic poem ofmine, 'The Two Seraphim, ' which, whenever it appears, I shall like tohave your opinion of. As to the incomprehensible line in the 'Poet'sVow' of which you asked me the meaning, 'One making one in strongcompass, ' I meant to express how that oneness of God, 'in whom are allthings, ' produces a oneness or sympathy (sympathy being the tendencyof many to become one) in all things. Do you understand? or is theexplanation to be explained? The unity of God preserves a unity inmen--that is, a perpetual sympathy between man and man--which sympathywe must be subject to, if not in our joys, yet in our griefs. Ibelieve the subject itself involves the necessity of some mysticism;but I must make no excuses. I am afraid that my very Seraphim will notbe thought to stand in a very clear light, even at heaven's gate. Butthis is much _asay_ about nothing . .. 

The Bishop of Exeter is staying and preaching at Torquay. Do you notenvy 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 partof my soul. _You_ 'read all O'Connell's speeches. ' I never read any ofthem--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 affectionateE. B. BARRETT. 

Thank you for the 'Ba' in Henrietta's letter. If you knew how manypeople, whom I have known only within this year or two, whether I likethem or not, say 'Ba, Ba, ' quite naturally and pastorally, you wouldnot 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 anyintercourse; 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 toreturn to England before the spring--which news proved me a prophet, and disappointed me at the same time, for one can't enjoy even aprophecy in this world without something vexing. Indeed, I do long tosee you again, dearest Mrs. Martin, and should always have the samepleasure in it, and affection for you, if my friends and acquaintanceswere as much multiplied as you _wrongly_ suppose them to be. But thetruth is that I have almost none at all, in this place; and, exceptour relative Mr. Kenyon, not one literary in any sense. Dear MissMitford, one of the very kindest of human beings, lies buried ingeraniums, thirty miles away. I could not conceive what Henriettahad been telling you, or what you meant, for a long time--until weconjectured that it must have been something about Lady Dacre, whokindly sent me her book, and intimated that she would be glad toreceive me at her conversations--and you know me better than todoubt whether I would go or not. There was an equal unworthiness andunwillingness towards the honor of it. Indeed, dearest Mrs. Martin, it is almost surprising how we contrive to be as dull in London as inDevonshire--perhaps more so, for the sight of a multitude induces asense of seclusion which one has not without it; and, besides, therewere at Sidmouth many more known faces and listened-to voices than wesee and hear in this place. No house yet! And you will scarcelyhave patience to read that papa has seen and likes another house inDevonshire Place, and that he _may_ take it, and we _may_ be settledin it, before the year closes. I myself think of the whole businessindifferently. My thoughts have turned so long on the subject ofhouses, 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 morecomfortable in a house with cleaner carpets, and taken for ratherlonger 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 feelingof four red London walls closing around us for seven, eleven, ortwenty-five years, would be a harsh and hard one, and make us crywistfully 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 poorprisoners. Papa has talked several times of taking us into the countryfor two months this summer, and we have dreamt of it a hundred timesin addition; but, after all, we are not likely to go I dare say. Itwould have been very delightful--and who knows what may take placenext summer? We may not absolutely _die_, without seeing a tree. Henrietta has seen a great many. You will have heard, I dare say, ofthe enjoyment she had in her week at Camden House. She seems to havewalked from seven in the morning to seven at night; and was quitedelighted with the kindness within doors and the sunshine without. Iassure you that, fresh as she was from the air and dew, she saluted usamidst the sentiment of our sisterly meeting just in this way--it wasalmost her first exclamation--'What a very disagreeable smell there ishere!' And this, although she had brought geraniums enough from Camdento perfume the Haymarket!. .. 

I am happy to announce to you that a new little dove has appearedfrom a shell--over which nobody had prognosticated good--on August16, 1837. I and the senior doves appear equally delighted, and weall three, in the capacity of good sitters and indefatigablepullers-about, take a good deal of credit upon ourselves. .. . 

Arabel has begun oil painting, and without a master--and you can'tthink how much effect and expression she has given to several of herown sketches, notwithstanding all difficulties. Poor Henrietta iswithout a piano, and is not to have one again _until we have anotherhouse_! This is something like 'when Homer and Virgil are forgotten. '_Speaking of Homer and Virgil_, I have been writing a 'Romance of theGanges, '[34] in order to illustrate an engraving in the new annualto be edited by Miss Mitford, Finden's tableaux for 1838. It does notsound a _very_ Homeric undertaking--I confess I don't hold any kind ofannual, gild it as you please, in too much honour and awe--but frommy wish to please her, and from the necessity of its being done in acertain time, I was 'quite frightful, ' as poor old Cooke used tosay, in order to express his own nervousness. But she was quitepleased--she is very soon pleased--and the ballad, gone the way ofall writing, now-a-days, to the press. I do wish I could send you somekind of news that would interest you; but you see scarcely any exceptall this selfishness is in my beat. Dearest Bro draws and readsGerman, and I fear is dull notwithstanding. But we are every one ofus more reconciled to London than we were. Well! I must not writeany more. Whenever you think of me, dearest Mrs. Martin, remember howdeeply 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 meto say that she and Bro are going to dine with Mrs. Robert Martinto-morrow. I must tell you that Georgie and I went to hear Dr. Chalmers preach, three Sundays ago. His sermon was on a text whoseextreme beauty would diffuse itself into any sermon preached uponit--God is love. His eloquence was very great, and his views noble andgrasping. I expected much from his imagination, but not so much fromhis knowledge. It was truer to Scripture than I was prepared for, although there seemed to me some _want_ on the subject of the workof the Holy Spirit on the heart, which work we cannot dwell upon tooemphatically. 'He worketh in us to will and to do, ' and yet we are aptto will and do without a transmission of the praise to Him. May Godbless 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 afflictionwithout very frequent thoughts of you and a desire to express some ofthem in this way, and although so much time has passed I do hope thatyou will believe in the sympathy with which I, or rather _we_, havethought of you, and in the regard we shall not cease to feel for youeven if we meet no more in this world. It is blessed to know bothfor 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 isthe light in the dark place be with you [now] and always, causing youto feel rather the glory that is in Him than the shadow which is inall beside--that so the sweetness of the consolation may pass thebitterness of even grief. Do give my love to Mrs. Commeline and toyour sisters, and believe me, all of you, that the friends who havegone from your neighbourhood have not gone from my old remembrance, either of your kindness to them, or of their own feelings of interestin you. 

Trusting to such old remembrances, I will believe that you care toknow what we are doing and how we are settling--that word which hasnow been on our lips for years, which it is marvellous to think howit got upon human lips at all. We came from Sidmouth to try London andourselves, and see whether or not we could live together; and aftermore than a year and a half close contact with smoke we find no verygood excuse for not remaining in it; and papa is going on with hiseternal hunt for houses--the wild huntsman in the ballad is nothingto him, all except the sublimity--intending very seriously to takethe first he can. He is now about one in particular, but I won't tellwhere it is because we have considered so many houses in particularthat our considerations have come to be a jest in general. I shallbe heartily glad, at least I _think_ so, for it is possible thatthe reality of being bricked up for a lease time may not be veryagreeable. I think I shall be heartily glad when a house is taken, andwe have made it look like our own with our furniture and pictures andbooks. I am so anxious to see my old books. I believe I shall begin atthe 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. Iremember when I was a child spreading my vitality, not over trees andflowers (I do that still--I still believe they have a certain animalsusceptibility to pleasure and pain; 'it is my creed, ' and, beingWordsworth's besides, I am not ashamed of it), but over chairs andtables and books in particular, and being used to fancy a kind of lovein them to suit my love to them. And so if I were a child I shouldhave an intense pity for my poor folios, quartos, and duodecimos, tosay nothing of the arm-chair, shut up all these weeks and months inboxes, without a rational eye to look upon them. Pray forgive me if Ihave written a great deal of nonsense--'Je m'en doute. '

Henrietta has spent a fortnight at Chislehurst with the Martins, andwas very joyous there, and came back to us with that happy triumphantair which I always fancy people 'just from the country' put on towardsus hapless Londoners. 

But you must not think I am a discontented person and grumble all daylong at being in London. _There are many advantages here_, as I say tomyself whenever it is particularly disagreeable; and if we can't seeeven a leaf or a sparrow without soot on it, there are the parrots atthe Zoological Gardens and the pictures at the Royal Academy; and reallive poets above all, with their heads full of the trees and birds andsunshine of paradise. I have stood face to face with Wordsworth andLandor; 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 Londonat 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 lastof my languages, for I have begun absolutely to detest the sight of adictionary or grammar, which I never liked except as a means, and lovepoetry 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 Iread, even of Greek poetry, and am resolute to work whatever littlefaculty I have, clear of imitations and conventionalisms whichcloud and weaken more poetry (particularly now-a-days) than would bebelieved possible without looking into it. .. . 

As to society in London, I assure you that none of us have much, andthat as for me, you would wonder at seeing how possible it is tolive as secludedly in the midst of a multitude as in the centreof solitude. My doves are my chief acquaintances, and I am so veryintimate with _them_ that they accept and even demand my assistance inbuilding their innumerable nests. Do tell me if there is any hope ofseeing any of you in London at any time. I say 'do tell me, ' for Iwill venture to ask you, dear Miss Commeline, to write me a few linesin one of the idlest hours of one of your idlest days just to tell mea little about you, and whether Mrs. Commeline is tolerably well. Praybelieve me under all circumstances, Yours sincerely and affectionately, E. B. BARRETT. 

The spring of 1838 was marked by two events of interest to MissBarrett and her family. In the first place, Mr. Barrett's apparentlyinterminable search for a house ended in his selection of 50 WimpoleStreet, which continued to be his home for the rest of his life, andwhich is, consequently, more than any other house in London, tobe associated with his daughter's memory. The second event wasthe publication of 'The Seraphim, and other Poems, ' which was MissBarrett's first serious appearance before the public, and in herown name, as a poet. The early letters of this year refer to thepreparation of this volume, as well as to the authoress's health, which was at this time in a very serious condition, owing to thebreaking of a blood-vessel. Indeed, from this time until her marriagein 1846 she held her life on the frailest of tenures, and lived in allrespects 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 papathinks--and, indeed, I think--that as I have already _had_ two proofsheets and forty-eight pages, and the printers have gone on to therest of the poem, it would not be very welcome to them if we wereto ask them to retrace their steps. Besides, I would rather--_I_ formyself, _I_--that you had the whole poem at once and clearly printedbefore you, to insure as many chances as possible of your liking it. I am _promised_ to see the volume completed in three weeks from thistime, so that the dreadful moment of your reading it--I mean the'Seraphim' part of it--cannot be far off, and perhaps, the seasonbeing a good deal advanced even now, you might not, on consideration, wish me to retard the appearance of the book, except for some verysufficient reason. I feel very nervous about it--far more than I didwhen my 'Prometheus' crept out [of] the Greek, or I myself out ofthe shell, in the first 'Essay on Mind. ' Perhaps this is owing to Dr. Chambers's medicines, or perhaps to a consciousness that my presentattempt _is_ actually, and will be considered by others, more a trialof 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 youradmitting me to stand with gloves on within a yard of Baxter. Thisextraordinary 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 lastcold days, which have occasioned some uncomfortable sensations, and hestill thinks I shall be better in the summer season. In the meantimehe 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 uponpaper, and making you the victim. 

To propitiate you, let me tell you that your commands have beenperformed 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] Ishould like you to read it. If you would, you would thank me forsaying 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 MissThomson too for caring to spend a thought on me after all the Parisianglories and rationalities which I sympathise with by many degreesnearer than you seem to do. We, in this England here, are just socialbarbarians, to my mind--that is, we know how to read and write andthink, and even talk on occasion; but we carry the old rings in ournoses, and are proud of the flowers pricked into our cuticles. By somuch are they better than we on the Continent, I always think. Lifehas a thinner rind, and so a livelier sap. And _that_ I can see in thebooks and the traditions, and always understand people who like livingin France and Germany, and should like it myself, I believe, on someaccounts. 

Where did you get your Bacchanalian song? Witty, certainly, butthe recollection of the _scores_ a little ghastly for the occasion, perhaps. You have yourself sung into silence, too, all possible songsof Bacchus, as the god and I know. 

Here is a delightful letter from Miss Martineau. I cannot be soselfish as to keep it to myself. The sense of natural beauty and the_good_ sense of the remarks on rural manners are both exquisite oftheir kinds, and Wordsworth is Wordsworth as she knows him. Have Isaid 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 sonof a wealthy West Indian landowner, but came to England while quitea boy, and was a conspicuous figure in literary society during thesecond quarter of the century. He published some volumes of minorverse, but is best known for his friendships with many literary menand women, and for his boundless generosity and kindliness to all withwhom he was brought into contact. Crabb Robinson described him as aman 'whose life is spent in making people happy. ' He was a distantcousin of Miss Barrett, and a friend of Robert Browning, who dedicatedto him his volume of 'Dramatic Romances, ' besides writing and sendingto him 'Andrea del Sarto' as a substitute for a print of the painter'sportrait which he had been unable to find. The best account of Kenyonis 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 notable to say 'good-bye' to you, that--I am _not_ writing this note onthat account. 

It is a begging note, and now I am wondering to myself whether youwill think me very childish or womanish, or silly enough to be bothtogether (I know your thoughts upon certain parallel subjects), ifI 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 cuttingsout of the garden--of myrtle or geranium; I care very little which, orwhat else. Only I say 'myrtle' because it is less given to die and Isay _two_ to be sure of my chances of saving one. Will you? You wouldplease me very much by doing it; and certainly not _dis_ please me byrefusing to do it. Your broadest 'no' would not sound half so strangeto me as my 'little crooked thing' does to you; but you see everybodyin 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 itbefore you go, just write in two words, 'Send it, ' or I shall inferfrom your silence that I may keep it until you come back. No necessityfor answering this otherwise. Is it as bad as asking for autographs, or worse? At any rate, believe me _in earnest_ this time--besidesbeing, 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 lastfew days, but fear that nothing will make me essentially so exceptthe invisible sun. I am, however, a little better, and God's will isalways done in mercy. 

As to the poems, do forgive me, dear Mr. Boyd; and refrain fromexecuting your cruel threat of suffering 'the desire of reading themto pass away. '

I have not one sheet of them; and papa--and, to say the truth, Imyself--would so very much prefer your reading the preface first, thatyou must try to indulge us in our phantasy. The book Mr. Bentley halfpromises to finish the printing of this week. At any rate it is likelyto be all done in the next: and you may depend upon having a copy _assoon_ 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 thatbetween Saunders and Otley and the 'Seraphim' I had fallen to theground of your disfavour. But I do trust to be able to send you a copybefore 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 bepast, and Dr. Chambers told me yesterday that he expected to see mein two days nearly as well as before this casualty. And I have been, thank God, pretty well lately; and although when the stethoscope wasapplied three weeks ago, it did not speak very satisfactorily of thestate of the lungs, yet Dr. Chambers seems to be hopeful still, and totalk of the wonders which the summer sunshine (when it does come) maybe the means of doing for me. And people say that I look rather betterthan worse, even now. 

Did you hear of an autograph of Shakespeare's being sold lately for avery large sum (I _think_ it was above a hundred pounds) on the creditof 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 andthe Finden's tableaux of this year. The title is 'The Romaunt of thePage, '[37] and the subject not of my own choosing. 

I believe that you will certainly have 'The Seraphim' this week. Domacadamise 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, tosend 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 enoughfor them to 'learn to _fly_. '

I am so sorry that Emily Harding saw Arabel and went away without thisnote, which I have been meaning to write to you for several days, andhave been so absorbed and drawn away (all except my thoughts) byother things necessary to be done, that I was forced to defer it. Myballad, [38] containing a ladye dressed up like a page and gallopingoff to Palestine in a manner that would scandalise you, went to MissMitford this morning. But I augur from its length that she will not beable to receive it into Finden. 

Arabel has told me what Miss Harding told her of your being in the actof going through my 'Seraphim' for the second time. For the feelingof interest in me which brought this labour upon you, I thank you, mydear friend. What your opinion _is_, and _will_ be, I am prepared tohear with a good deal of awe. You will _certainly not approve of thepoem_. 

There now! You see I am prepared. Therefore do not keep back one roughword, for friendship's sake, but be as honest as--you could not helpbeing, without this request. 

If I should live, I shall write (_I believe_) better poems than 'TheSeraphim;' which belief will help me to survive the condemnation heavyupon 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 lastmade its appearance at the end of May. At the time of its publication, English poetry was experiencing one of its periods of ebb betweentwo flood tides of great achievement. Shelley, Keats, Byron, Scott, Coleridge were dead; Wordsworth had ceased to produce poetry of thefirst order; no fresh inspiration was to be expected from Landor, Southey, Rogers, Campbell, and such other writers of the Georgian eraas still were numbered with the living. On the other hand, Tennyson, though already the most remarkable among the younger poets, was stillbut exercising himself in the studies in language and metrical musicby which his consummate art was developed; Browning had published only'Pauline, ' 'Paracelsus, ' and 'Strafford;' the other poets who havegiven distinction to the Victorian age had not begun to write. Andbetween the veterans of the one generation and the young recruits ofthe next there was a singular want of writers of distinction. Therewas thus every opportunity for a new poet when Miss Barrett enteredthe lists with her first volume of acknowledged verse. 

Its reception, on the whole, does credit alike to its own merits andto the critics who reviewed it. It does not contain any of those poemswhich have proved the most popular among its authoress's completeworks, except 'Cowper's Grave;' but 'The Seraphim' was a poem whichdeserved to attract attention, and among the minor poems were 'ThePoet's Vow, ' 'Isobel's Child, ' 'The Romaunt of Margret, ' 'My Doves, 'and 'The Sea-mew. ' The volume did not suffice to win any widereputation for Miss Barrett, and no second edition was called for; onthe other hand, it was received with more than civility, with genuinecordiality, by several among the reviewers, though they did not failto note its obvious defects. The 'Athenaeum'[39] began its review withthe 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 'TheSeraphim, ' 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 highlyesteemed at that date, was somewhat colder, and dwelt more onthe faults of the volume, but added nevertheless that 'there areoccasional passages of great beauty, and full of deep poeticalfeeling. In 'The Romaunt of Margret' it detected the influence ofTennyson--a suggestion which Miss Barrett repudiated rather warmly;and it concluded with the declaration that the authoress 'possessesa fine poetical temperament, and has given to the public, in thisvolume, a work of considerable merit. '

[Footnote 41: June 23, 1838. ]

Such were the principal voices among the critical world when MissBarrett first ventured into its midst; and she might well be satisfiedwith them. Two years later, the 'Quarterly Review'[42] included hername in a review of 'Modern English Poetesses, ' along with CarolineNorton, 'V. , ' and others whose names are even less remembered to-day. But though the reviewer speaks of her genius and learning in highterms of admiration, he cannot be said to treat her sympathetically. He objects to the dogmatic positiveness of her prefaces, and protestswarmly against her 'reckless repetition of the name of God'--a chargewhich, in another connection, will be found fully and fairly met inone of her later letters. On points of technique he criticisesher frequent use of the perfect participle with accented finalsyllable--'kissed, ' 'bowed, ' and the like--and her fondness for theadverb 'very;' both of which mannerisms he charges to the example ofTennyson. He condemns the 'Prometheus, ' though recognising it as 'aremarkable performance for a young lady. ' He criticises the subject of'The Seraphim, ' 'from which Milton would have shrunk;' but adds, 'Wegive Miss Barrett, however, the full credit of a lofty purpose, andadmit, moreover, that several particular passages in her poemare extremely fine; equally profound in thought and striking inexpression. ' 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 outsideworld. The letters show how it appeared to the authoress herself. 

The first of them deserves a word of special notice, because it islikewise the first in these volumes addressed to Miss Mary RussellMitford, whose name holds a high and honourable place in the rollof Miss Barrett's friends. Her own account of the beginning of thefriendship should be quoted in any record of Mrs. Browning's life. 

'My first acquaintance with Elizabeth Barrett commenced about fifteenyears ago. [43] She was certainly one of the most interesting personsthat I had ever seen. Everybody who then saw her said the same;so that it is not merely the impression of my partiality or myenthusiasm. Of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower of dark curlsfalling on either side of a most expressive face, large tender eyes, richly fringed by dark eyelashes, a smile like a sunbeam, and sucha look of youthfulness that I had some difficulty in persuading afriend, in whose carriage we went together to Chiswick, that thetranslatress 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 anotherinvaluable friend, [44] to whom I owe many obligations, but none sogreat as this, I saw much of her during my stay in town. We met soconstantly and so familiarly that, in spite of the difference ofage, [45] intimacy ripened into friendship, and after my return intothe country we corresponded freely and frequently, her letters beingjust 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 Mitfordthat '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 RussellMitford, p. 155 (1859). ]

Miss Barrett's letters show how warmly she returned this feeling offriendship, which lasted until Miss Mitford's death in 1855. Of theearlier letters many must have disappeared: for it is evident fromMiss Mitford's just quoted words, and also from many references inher published correspondence, that they were in constant communicationduring these years of Miss Barrett's life in London. After hermarriage, however, the extant letters are far more frequent, and willbe 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 ofus thank you for your more than kindnesses. The extracts were bothgladdening and surprising--and the one the more for being the otheralso. Oh! it was _so_ kind of you, in the midst of your multitude ofoccupations, to make time (out of love) to send them to us!

As to the ballad, dearest Miss Mitford, which you and Mr. Kenyon areindulgent enough to like, remember that he passed his criticismover it--before it went to you--and so if you did not find as manyobscurities 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--wheneverhe says that I am _perversely_ obscure. Unfortunately obscure, notperversely--that is quite a wrong word. And the last time he used itto 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 thisfault of mine, which is my destiny rather than my choice, and comesupon me, I think, just where I would eschew it most. So little hasperversity to do with its occurrence, that my fear of it makes mesometimes feel quite nervous and thought-tied in composition. .. . 

I have not seen Mr. Kenyon since I wrote last. All last week I wasnot permitted to get out of bed, and was haunted with leeches andblisters. And in the course of it, Lady Dacre was so kind as to callhere, and to leave a note instead of the personal greeting which I wasnot able to receive. The honor she did me a year ago, in sending meher book, encouraged me to offer her my poems. I hesitated about doingso at first, lest it should appear as if my vanity were dreaming ofa _return_; but Mr. Kenyon's opinion turned the balance. I was verysorry not to have seen Lady Dacre and have written a reply to hernote expressive of this regret. But, after all, this inaudible voice(except in its cough) could have scarcely made her understand that Iwas obliged by her visit, had I been able to receive it. 

Dr. Chambers has freed me again into the drawing-room, and I am muchbetter or he would not have done so. There is not, however, muchstrength or much health, nor any near prospect of regaining either. It is well that, in proportion to our feebleness, we may feel ourdependence upon God. 

I feel as if I had not said half, and they have come to ask me if Ihave 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 neareryou than I am! _Indeed_, I did not forget Dr. Mitford when I wrotethose words, although they look like it. 

Your gratefully affectionateE. B. BARRETT. 

_To H. S. Boyd_50 Wimpole Street: Wednesday morning [June 1838]. 

My dear Friend, --Do not think me depraved in ingratitude for notsooner thanking you for the pleasure, made so much greater by thesurprise, which your note of judgment gave me. The truth is that Ihave been very unwell, and delayed answering it immediately until thepainful physical feeling went away to make room for the pleasurablemoral one--and this I fancied it would do every hour, so that I mightbe able to tell you at ease all that was in my thoughts. The fancy wasa vain one. The pain grew worse and worse, and Dr. Chambers has beenhere for two successive days shaking his head as awfully as if it boreall Jupiter's ambrosial curls; and is to be here again to-day, butwith, I trust, a less grave countenance, inasmuch as the leeches lastnight did their duty, and I feel much better--God be thanked for therelief. But I am not yet as well as before this attack, and am stillconfined to my bed--and so you must rather imagine than read what Ithought and felt in reading your wonderful note. Of course it pleasedme very much, very very much--and, I dare say, would have made me vainby this time, if it had not been for the opportune pain and the sightof Dr. Chambers's face. 

I sent a copy of my book to Nelly Bordman _before_ I read yoursuggestion. I knew that her kind feeling for me would interest her inthe sight of it. 

Thank you once more, dear Mr. Boyd! May all my critics be gentle afterthe 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 maykeep. It is a favorable criticism, certainly--but I confess this of myvanity, that it has not altogether pleased me. You see what it is tobe spoilt. 

As to the 'Athenaeum, ' although I am _not_ conscious of the quaintnessand mannerism laid to my charge, and am very sure that I have alwayswritten too naturally (that is, too much from the impulse of thoughtand feeling) to have studied '_attitudes_, ' yet the critic was quiteright in stating his opinion, and so am I in being grateful to him forthe liberal praise he has otherwise given me. Upon the whole, I likehis review better than even the 'Examiner, ' notwithstanding my beingperfectly satisfied with _that_. 

Thank you for the question about my health. I am very tolerablywell--for _me_: and am said to look better. At the same time I amaware 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 wordand is only to be caught by digitalis. But I am better--for thepresent--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 mySUCCEEDING EDITIONS!

You will smile at that, and so do _I. _

Arabel is walking in the Zoological Gardens with the Cliffes--but Ithink you will see her before long. 

Your affectionate friend, E. B. BARRETT. 

Don't let me forget to mention the Essays[47]. You shall haveyours--and Miss Bordman hers--and the delay has not arisen from eitherforgetfulness or indifference on my part--although I never deny thatI 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 soreasonable! 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 inappearance, I thank you at last, and very sincerely, for your kindletter. 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 forevery 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 riskof 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 allowedby Dr. Chambers to come downstairs again, and occupy my old placeon the sofa. My health remains, however, in what I cannot helpconsidering myself, and in what, I _believe_, Dr. Chambers considers, a very precarious state, and my weakness increases, of course, underthe remedies which successive attacks render necessary. Dr. Chambersdeserves my confidence--and besides the skill with which he has metthe different modifications of the complaint, I am grateful to himfor a feeling and a sympathy which are certainly rare in such of hisprofession as have their attention diverted, as his must be, by animmense practice, to fifty objects in a day. But, notwithstanding all, one breath of the east wind undoes whatever he labours to do. It iswell to look up and remember that in the eternal reality these secondcauses are no causes at all. 

Don't leave this note about for Arabel to see. I am anxious not toalarm her, or any one of my family: and it may please God to make meas well and strong again as ever. And, indeed, I am twice as well thisweek 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, editorof the 'Athenaeum, '[48] which speaks _huge_ praises of my poems. If hewere to say a tithe of them in print, it would be nine times above myexpectation!

[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 amafraid to think--but certainly I must not make this note very long. Idid intend to write to you to-day in any case. Since Saturday I havehad my thanks ready at the end of my fingers waiting to slide alongto 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 thepraises as well as I do most of the findings-fault--and there is notime 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 wellas usual. The truth is that I was rather excited and tired yesterdayby rather too much talking and hearing talking, and suffer for itto-day in my _pulse_. But I am better on the whole. 

Mr. Cross, [49] the great lion, the insect-making lion, came yesterdaywith Mr. Kenyon, and afterwards Lady Dacre. She is kind and gentle inher manner. She told me that she had 'placed my book in the hands ofMr. Bobus Smith, the brother of Sidney Smith, and the best judgein 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 tohear 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 notlikely to think so, E. B. B. 

[Footnote 49: Andrew Crosse, the electrician, who had recentlypublished his observations of a remarkable development of insect lifein connection with certain electrical experiments--a discovery whichcaused much controversy at the time, on account of its supposedbearings 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 whenI do not _say_ them. I have put up your various notes together, andperhaps 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_ sosure 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 withwhich 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 begrammatical. 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 thenit was rather guessing and stammering and tottering through parts ofHomer and extracts from Xenophon than reading. _You_ would not havecalled it reading if you had heard it. 

I studied hard by myself afterwards, and the kindness with whichafterwards 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 towait a minute_. 

The wind is unfavorable for the sea. I do not think there is the leastprobability of my going before the end of next week, if then. Youshall hear. 

Affectionately yours, E. B. BARRETT. 

I am tolerably well. I have been forced to take digitalis again, whichmakes 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 ofPatmos, loving John. ']

In the course of this year the failure in Miss Barrett's health hadbecome so great that her doctor advised removal to a warmer climatefor the winter. Torquay was the place selected, and thither shewent in the autumn, accompanied by her brother Edward, her favouritecompanion from childhood. Other members of the family, including Mr. Barrett, joined them from time to time. At Torquay she was able tolive, but no more, and it was found necessary for her to stay duringthe summers as well as the winters of the next three years. Lettersfrom this period are scarce, though it is clear from Miss Mitford'scorrespondence that a continuous interchange of letters was kept upbetween the two friends, and her acquaintanceship with Horne was nowripening into a close literary intimacy. A story relating to BishopPhillpotts of Exeter, the hero of so many racy anecdotes, is containedin a letter of Miss Barrett's which must have been written aboutChristmas of either 1838 or 1839:--

'He [the bishop] was, however, at church on Christmas Day, and uponMr. Elliot's being mercifully inclined to omit the Athanasian Creed, prompted him most episcopally from the pew with a "whereas;" andfurther on in the Creed, when the benign reader substituted theword _condemnation_ for the terrible one--"Damnation!" exclaimed thebishop. The effect must have been rather startling. '

A slight acquaintance with the words of the Athanasian Creed willsuggest that the story had suffered in accuracy before it reached MissBarrett, who, of course, was unable to attend church, and whose ownignorance on the subject may be accounted for by remembering thatshe had been brought up as a Nonconformist. With a little correction, however, the story may be added to the many others on record withrespect to 'Henry of Exeter. '

The following letter is shown, by the similarity of its contentsto the one which succeeds it, to belong to November 1839, when MissBarrett 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, whatevershe may wish to do. I felt, in reading your unreproaching letterto her, as self-reproachful as anybody could with a great deal ofinnocence (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 receivingyour welcome letter, I have written scarcely at all, nor that littlewithout much exertion. Had it been with me as usual, be sure thatyou should not have had any silence to complain of. Henrietta knew Iwished to write, and felt, I suppose, unwilling to take my place whenmy filling it myself before long appeared possible. A long story--andnot as entertaining as Mother Hubbard. But I would rather tireyou than leave you under any wrong impression, where my regard andthankfulness to you, dearest Mrs. Martin, are concerned. 

To reply to your kind anxiety about me, I may call myself decidedlybetter than I have been. Since October I I have not been out ofbed--except just for an hour a day, when I am lifted to the sofa withthe bare permission of my physician--who tells me that it is so mucheasier to make me worse than better, that he dares not permit anythinglike exposure or further exertion. I like him (Dr. Scully) verymuch, and although he evidently thinks my case in the highest degreeprecarious, yet knowing how much I bore last winter and understandingfrom him that the worst _tubercular_ symptoms have not actuallyappeared, I am willing to think it may be God's will to keep me herestill longer. I would willingly stay, if it were only for the sake ofthat tender affection of my beloved family which it so deeply affectsme to consider. Dearest papa is with us now--to my great comfortand joy: and looking very well!--and astonishing everybody with hiseternal youthfulness! Bro and Henrietta and Arabel besides, I cancount as companions--and then there is dear Bummy! We are fixed atTorquay 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 dotrust and hope to go away. The death of my kind friend Dr. Burywas, as you suppose, a great grief and shock to me. How could it beotherwise, after his daily kindness to me for a year? And then hisyoung wife and child--and the rapidity (a three weeks' illness) withwhich he was hurried away from the energies and toils and honors ofprofessional life to the stillness of _that_ death!

'_God's Will_' is the only answer to the mystery of the world'safflictions. .. . 

Don't fancy me worse than I am--or that this bed-keeping is the resultof a gradual sinking. It is not so. A feverish attack prostrated meon October 2--and such will leave their effects--and Dr. Scully is soafraid of leading me into danger by saying, 'You may get up and dressas usual' that you should not be surprised if (in virtue of being thesenior Torquay physician and correspondingly prudent) he left mein this durance vile for a great part of the winter. I am decidedlybetter than I was a month ago, really and truly. 

May God bless you, dearest Mrs. Martin! My best and kindest regardsto Mr. Martin. Henrietta desires me to promise for her a letter toColwall soon; but I think that one from Colwall should come first. MayGod bless you! Bro's fancy just now is painting in water colours andhe performs many sketches. Do you ever in your dreams of universalbenevolence 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 hasnot been intended, there will be another reason for being thankful toyou, in addition to the many. To do myself justice, one of my earliestimpulses on seeing my beloved Arabel, and recurring to the kindnesswith which you desired that happiness for me long before I possessedit, 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 sendyou the ballad--in expectation of your dread judgment upon which Idelayed my own writing. It came in the first letter we received in ournew house, on the first of last October. An hour after reading it, Iwas upon my bed; was attacked by fever in the night, and from thatbed have never even been lifted since--to these last days ofNovember--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 dome harm than good, that he will neither permit any present attempt atfurther exertion, nor hint at the time when it may be advisable forhim to permit it. Under the circumstances it has of course been moredifficult than usual for me to write. Pray believe, my dear and kindfriend, in the face of all circumstances and appearances, that I neverforget 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' underthe new Postage Act--if it be in God's wisdom and mercy to spare methrough the winter. Under the new act I shall not mind writing tenwords and then stopping. As it is, they would scarcely be worth elevenpennies. 

Thank you again and again for your praise of the ballad, which bothdelighted and _surprised_ me . .. As I had scarcely hoped that youmight like it at all. Think of Mr. Tilt's never sending me a proofsheet. The consequences are rather deplorable, and, if they hadoccurred 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 asa flood, and sweeping away meanings and melodies together. The annualitself is more splendid than usual, and its vignettes have illustratedmy story--angels, devils and all--most beautifully. Miss Mitford'stales (in prose) have suffered besides by reason of Mr. Tilt--but areattractive and graphic notwithstanding--and Mr. Horne has supplied adramatic poem of great power and beauty. 

How I rejoice with you in the glorious revelation (about to be) ofGregory's second volume! The 'De Virginitate' poem will, in its newpurple 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 havemuch reason to be happy--more to be grateful--yet am more obedientto the former than to the latter impulse. May the Giver of goodgive gratitude with as full a hand! May He bless _you_--and bring ustogether 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 ofPrince Albert or not?[53]

[Footnote 53: The engagement of Prince Albert to Queen Victoria tookplace in October 1839. ]

_To H. S. Boyd_Torquay: May 29, 1840. 

My ever dear Friend, --It was very pleasant to me to see your sealupon a letter once more; and although the letter itself left me witha mournful impression of your having passed some time so much lesshappily than I would wish and pray for you, yet there remains thepleasant thought to me still that you have not altogether forgottenme. Do receive the expression of my most affectionate sympathy underthis and every circumstance--and I fear that the shock to your nervesand spirits could not be a light one, however impressed you might beand must be with the surety and verity of God's love working in allHis will. Poor poor Patience! Coming to be so happy with you, withthat joyous smile I thought so pretty! Do you not remember my tellingyou so? Well--it is well and better for her; happier for her, if Godin Christ Jesus have received her, than her hopes were of the holidaytime with you. The holiday is _for ever_ now. .. . 

I heard from Nelly Bordman only a few days before receiving yourletter, and so far from preparing me for all this sadness andgloom, she pleased me with her account of you whom she had latelyseen--dwelling upon your retrograde passage into youth, and thedelight you were taking in the presence and society of some stillmore youthful, fair, and gay _monstrum amandum_, some prodigy ofintellectual accomplishment, some little Circe who never turnedanybodies into pigs. I learnt too from her for the first time that youwere settled at Hampstead! Whereabout at Hampstead, and for how long?She didn't tell me _that_, thinking of course that I knew somethingmore 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 woodsshould interpose between us--that I should be lying here, fast boundby a spell, a sleeping beauty in a forest, and that _you_, who usedto be such a doughty knight, should not take the trouble of cuttingthrough even a hazel tree with your good sword, to find out whathad 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 ahouse there and have carried your books there, and wear Hampsteadgrasshoppers in your bonnet (as they did at Athens) to prove yourselfof the soil. 

All this nonsense will make you think I am better, and indeed I ampretty well just now--quite, however, confined to the bed--except whenlifted from it to the sofa baby-wise while they make it; even thenapt to faint. Bad symptoms too do not leave me; and I am obliged to beblistered every few days--but I am free from any attack just now, andam a good deal less feverish than I am occasionally. There has beena consultation between an Exeter physician and my own, and they agreeexactly, both hoping that with care I shall pass the winter, and rallyin the spring, both hoping that I may be able to go about again withsome comfort and independence, although I never can be fit again foranything like exertion. .. . 

Do you know, did you ever hear anything of Mr. Horne who wrote 'Cosmode Medici, ' and the 'Death of Marlowe, ' and is now desecrating hispowers (I beg your pardon) by writing the life of Napoleon? By theway, 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 haswritten to me so kindly (offering, although I never saw him in mylife, to cater for me in literature, and send me down anything likelyto interest me in the periodicals), that I cannot but think hisamiability and genius do honor to one another. 

Do you remember Mr. Caldicott who used to preach in the infantschoolroom at Sidmouth? He died here the death of a saint, as he hadlived a saintly life, about three weeks ago. It affected me a gooddeal. But he was always so associated in my thoughts more with heaventhan earth, that scarcely a transition seems to have passed upon hislocality. 'Present with the Lord' is true of him now; even as 'havinghis 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 dearfriend! In the meantime do not forget me. I never can forget _you_. 

Your affectionate and gratefulELIZABETH 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 verylong, or at least seems so, since you wrote to me. But you say toArabel in speaking of me that I '_used_ to care for what is poetical;'therefore, perhaps you say to yourself sometimes that I _used_ tocare for _you_! I am anxious to vindicate my identity to you, in thatrespect above all. 

It is a long, dreary time since I wrote to you. I admit the pause onmy own part, while I charge you with another. But _your_ silence hasembraced more pleasantness and less suffering to you than mine has tome, and I thank God for a prosperity in which my unchangeable regardfor you causes me to share directly. .. . 

I have not rallied this summer as soon and well as I did last. I wasvery ill early in April at the time of our becoming conscious to ourgreat affliction--so ill as to believe it utterly improbable, speakinghumanly, that I ever should be any better. I am, however, a very greatdeal 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, andthat I have not been absolutely idle lately, an 'Athenaeum' shallbe sent to you containing a poem on the subject of the removal ofNapoleon'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 therewas 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 ofthe Rose, '[55] and appeared lately in a magazine. Arabel is going towrite 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 agreat many schemes. I am seldom at a loss for thread. 

Do write sometimes to me, and tell me if you do anything besideshearing the clocks strike and bells ring. My beloved papa is with mestill. There are so many mercies close around me (and his presenceis far from the least), that God's _Being_ seems proved to me, _demonstrated_ to me, by His manifested love. May His blessing inthe full lovingness rest upon you always! Never fancy I can forget orthink of you coldly. 

Your affectionate and gratefulELIZABETH 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 whichutterly wrecked Elizabeth Barrett's life for a time, and cast adeep shadow over it which never wholly passed away--the death of herbrother Edward through drowning. On July 11, he and two friends hadgone for a sail in a small boat. They did not return when they wereexpected, and presently a rumour came that a boat, answering inappearance to theirs, had been seen to founder in Babbicombe Bay;but it was not until three days later that final confirmation of thedisaster was obtained by the discovery of the bodies. What this blowmeant to the bereaved sister cannot be told: the horror with which sherefers to it, even at a distance of many years, shows how deeply itstruck. It was the loss of the brother whom she loved best of all; andshe had the misery of thinking that it was to attend on her that hehad come to the place where he met his death. Little wonder if Torquaywas thenceforward a memory from which she shrank, and if even thesound of the sea became a horror to her. 

One natural consequence of this terrible sorrow is a long break in hercorrespondence. It is not until the beginning of 1841 that she seemsto have resumed the thread of her life and to have returned to herliterary occupations. Her health had inevitably suffered under theshock, and in the autumn of 1840 Miss Mitford speaks of not daring toexpect more than a few months of lingering life. But when things wereat the worst, she began unexpectedly to take a turn for the better. Through the winter she slowly gathered strength, and with strength thedesire to escape from Torquay, with its dreadful associations, andto return to London. Meanwhile her correspondence with her friendsrevived, and with Horne in particular she was engaged during 1841 inan active interchange of views with regard to two literary projects. Indeed, it was only the return to work that enabled her to struggleagainst 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 orin exaggeration, but from very clear and positive conviction--I dobelieve that I should be _mad_ at this moment, if I had not forcedback--dammed out--the current of rushing recollections by work, work, work. ' One of the projects in which she was concerned was 'ChaucerModernised, ' a scheme for reviving interest in the father of Englishpoetry, suggested in the first instance by Wordsworth, but committedto the care of Horne, as editor, for execution. According to thescheme as originally planned, all the principal poets of the day wereto be invited to share the task of transmuting Chaucer into modernlanguage. Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, Horne, and others actually executedsome portions of the work; Tennyson and Browning, it was hoped, wouldlend a hand with some of the later parts. Horne invited Miss Barrettto contribute, and, besides executing modernisations of 'QueenAnnelida and False Arcite' and 'The Complaint of Annelida, '[56] shealso advised generally on the work of the other writers during itsprogress through the press. The other literary project was for alyrical drama, to be written in collaboration with Horne. It was to becalled 'Psyché Apocalypté, ' 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 Chaucermodernised, ' (1841). ]

The sketch of its contents, given in the correspondence with Horne, will make the modern reader accept with equanimity the fact that itnever progressed beyond the initial stage of drafting the plot. It isallegorical, philosophical, fantastic, unreal--everything which wascalculated to bring out the worst characteristics of Miss Barrett'sstyle and to intensify her faults. Fortunately her removal fromTorquay to London interrupted the execution of the scheme. Itwas never seriously taken up again, and, though never explicitlyabandoned, died a natural death from inanition, somewhat to the reliefof Miss Barrett, who had come to recognise its impracticability. 

Apart from the correspondence with Horne, which has been publishedelsewhere, very few letters are left from this period; but those whichhere follow serve to bridge over the interval until the departurefrom Torquay, which closes one well-marked period in the life of thepoetess. 

_To Mrs. Martin_December 11, 1840. 

My ever dearest Mrs. Martin, --I should have written to you withoutthis last proof of your remembrance--this cape, which, warm and prettyas it is, I value so much more as the work of your hands and gift ofyour affection towards me. Thank you, dearest Mrs. Martin, and thankyou too for _all the rest_--for all your sympathy and love. And dobelieve that although grief had so changed me from myself and warpedme from my old instincts, as to prevent my looking forwards withpleasure to seeing you again, yet that full amends are made in thelooking back with a pleasure more true because more tender than anyold retrospections. Do give my love to dear Mr. Martin, and say what Icould not have said even if I had seen him. 

Shall you really, dearest Mrs. Martin, come again? Don't think we donot think of the hope you left us. Because we do indeed. 

A note from papa has brought the comforting news that my dear, dearStormie is in England again, in London, and looking perfectly well. Itis a mercy which makes me very thankful, and would make me joyful ifanything 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 hetells me. Yes--there is something besides about Sette and Occy beingeither unknown or misknown, through the fault of their growing. Papais not near returning, I think. He has so much to do and see, and somuch cause to be enlivened and renewed as to spirits, that I beggedhim not to think about me and stay away as long as he pleased. And theaccounts of him and of all at home are satisfying, I thank God. .. . 

There is an east wind just now, which I feel. Nevertheless, Dr. Scullyhas said, a few minutes since, that I am as well as he could hope, considering the season. 

May God bless you ever!Your gratefully attachedBA. 

_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'tlook at, even? I fear you must have thought that the dream about myingratitude has come true. 

And yet it has not. Dearest Mrs. Martin, it has _not_. I have notforgotten you or remembered you less affectionately through all thesilence, or longed less for the letters I did not ask for. But thetruth is, my faculties seem to hang heavily now, like flappers whenthe spring is broken. _My_ spring _is_ broken, and a separate exertionis 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--thetendency to lie down to sleep among the snows of a weary journey--Idon't give up much to it. Only I find it sometimes at the root ofcertain negligences--for instance, of this toward _you_. 

Dearest Mrs. Martin, receive my sympathy, _our_ sympathy, in theanxiety you have lately felt so painfully, and in the rejoicing forits happy issue. Do say when you write (I take for granted, you see, that you will write) how Mrs. B---- is now--besides the intelligencemore nearly touching me, of your own and Mr. Martin's health andspirits. 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 havemade an exertion to see Mrs. Hanford. It was not from want of interestin her--least of all from want of love to _you_. But I have notstirred from my bed yet. But, to be honest, that was not the reason--Idid not feel as if I _could_, without a painful effort, which, on theother hand, could not, I was conscious, result in the slightest shadeof satisfaction to her, receive and talk to her. Perhaps it is hardfor you to _fancy_ even how I shrink away from the very thought ofseeing a human face--except those immediately belonging to me in loveor relationship--(yours _does_, you know)--and a stranger's might beeasier to look at than one long known. .. . 

For my own part, my dearest Mrs. Martin, my heart has been lightenedlately by kind, _honest_ Dr. Scully (who would never give an opinionjust to please me), saying that I am 'quite right' to mean to go toLondon, and shall probably be fit for the journey early in June. He says that I may pass the winter there moreover, and withimpunity--that wherever I am it will probably be necessary for meto remain shut up during the cold weather, and that under suchcircumstances it is quite possible to warm a London room to as safea condition as a room _here_. So my heart is lightened of the fearof opposition: and the only means of regaining whatever portion ofearthly 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 Imake 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 whatI did--or tried to do--and as to the criticisms, you were right--andthey sha'n't be unattended to if the opportunity of correction begiven to me. 

Ever your affectionateBA. 

_To H. S. Boyd_August 28, 1841. 

My very dear Friend, --I have fluctuated from one shadow of uncertaintyand anxiety to another, all the summer, on the subject to which mylast earthly wishes cling, and I delayed writing to you to be able tosay I am going to London. I may say so now--as far as the human maysay 'yes' or 'no' of their futurity. The carriage, a patent carriagewith a bed in it, and set upon some hundreds of springs, is, Ibelieve, on its road down to me, and immediately upon its arrivalwe begin our journey. Whether we shall ever complete it remainsuncertain--_more_ so than other uncertainties. My physician appears agood deal alarmed, calls it an undertaking full of hazard, and myselfthe 'Empress Catherine' for insisting upon attempting it. But I must. I go, as 'the doves to their windows, ' to the only earthly daylight Isee here. I go to rescue myself from the associations of this dreadfulplace. I go to restore to my poor papa the companionships family. Enough has been done and suffered for _me_. I thank God I am goinghome at last. 

How kind it was in you, my very kind and ever very dear friend, to askme to visit you at Hampstead! I felt myself smiling while I read thatpart of your letter, and laid it down and suffered the vision to ariseof your little room and your great Gregory and your dear self scoldingme softly as in the happy olden times for not reading slow enough. Well--we do not know what _may_ happen! I _may_ (even that isprobable) read to you again. But now--ah, my dear friend--if you couldimagine me such as I am!--you would not think I could visit you! YetI am wonderfully better this summer; and if I can but reach homeand bear the first painful excitement, it will do me more good thananything--I know it will! And if it does not, it will be _well_ evenso. 

I shall tell them to send you the 'Athenaeum' of last week, where Ihave a 'House of Clouds, '[57] which papa likes so much that he wouldwish to live in it if it were not for the damp. There is not a clockin one room--that's another objection. How are your clocks? Do theygo? 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, dogive her (and yourself too) Arabel's love and mine. I wish I heard ofyou 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. Itis, 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 thousandsprings 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 justifiedby his medical responsibility in laying before me all possibleconsequences. I have considered them all, and dare them gladly andgratefully. Papa's domestic comfort is broken up by the separation inhis family, and the associations of this place lie upon me, struggleas I may, like the oppression of a perpetual night-mare. It is aninstinct of self-preservation which impels me to escape--or to tryto escape. And In God's mercy--though God forbid that I should denyeither His mercy or His justice, if He should deny me--we may betogether in Wimpole Street in a few days. Nelly Bordman has kindlywritten to me Mr. Jago's favourable opinion of the patent carriages, and his conviction of my accomplishing the journey withoutinconvenience. 

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 forGreek_, you will trust the poems to me which you mention. I care asmuch for poetry as ever, and could not more. 

Your affectionate and gratefulELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

[Footnote 57: _Poetical Works_, iii. 186. ]

CHAPTER III

1841-1843

In September 1841 the journey from Torquay was actually achieved, andMiss Barrett returned to her father's house in London, from which shewas never to be absent for more than a few hours at a time until theday, five years later, when she finally left it to join her husband, Robert Browning. Her life was that of an invalid, confined to her roomfor the greater part of each year, and unable to see any but afew intimate friends. Still, she regained some sort of strength, especially during the warmth of the summer months, and was able tothrow herself with real interest into literary work. In a life suchas this there are few outward events to record, and its story is besttold in Miss Barrett's own letters, which, for the most part, needlittle comment. The letters of the end of 1841 and beginning of 1842are almost entirely written to Mr. Boyd, and the main subject of themis the series of papers on the Greek Christian poets and the Englishpoets which, at the suggestion of Mr. Dilke, then editor of the'Athenaeum, ' she contributed to that periodical. Of the composition oforiginal 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 whichcrossed the threshold of this house before me, and looked like yourwelcome to me home. I have read the passages you wished me to read--Ihave read them _again_: for I remember reading them under your star(or the greater part of them) a long while ago. You, on the otherhand, may remember of _me_, that I never could concede to you muchadmiration for your Gregory as a poet--not even to his grand work 'DeVirginitate. ' He is one of those writers, of whom there are instancesin our own times, who are only poetical in prose. 

The passage imitative of Chryses I cannot think much of. Try to beforgiving. It is toasted dry between the two fires of the Scripturesand Homer, and is as stiff as any dry toast out of the simile. To besincere, I like dry toast better. 

The Hymns and Prayers I very much prefer; and although I remembered agood deal about them, it has given me a pleasure you will approve ofto go through them in this edition. The one which I like best, which Ilike far best, which I think worth all the rest ('De Virginitate'and all put together), is the _second_ upon page 292, beginning 'Soicharis. ' It is very fine, I think, written out of the heart and forthe heart, warm with a natural heat, and not toasted dry and brown andstiff at a fire by any means. 

Dear Mr. Boyd, I coveted Arabel's walk to you the other day. I shalloften covet my neighbour's walks, I believe, although (and may God bepraised for it!) I am more happy--that is, nearing to the feeling ofhappiness now--than a month since I could believe possible to a heartso bruised and crushed as mine has [been] be at home is a blessing anda relief beyond what these words can say. 

But, dear Mr. Boyd, you said something in a note to Arabel some littletime ago, which I will ask of your kindness to avoid saying again. Ihave been through the whole summer very much better; and even if itwere 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. Mycase is very clear: not tubercular consumption, not what is called a'decline, ' but an affection of the lungs which leans towards it. Youknow a blood-vessel broke three years ago, and I never quite got overit. Mr. Jago, not having seen me, could scarcely be justified in aconjecture of the sort, when the opinions of four able physicians, two of them particularly experienced in diseases of the chest, andthe other two the most eminent of the faculty in the east and west ofEngland, were decided and contrary, while coincident with each other. Besides, you see, I am becoming better--and I could not desire morethan 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 meanything except her own affection. 

I hope Arabel expressed for me my thankful sense of Mrs. Smith's kindintention. But, indeed, although I would see _you_, dear Mr. Boyd, gladly, or an angel or a fairy or any very particular friend, I amnot fit either in body or spirit for general society. I _can't_ seepeople, and if I could it would be very bad for me. Is Mrs. Smithwriting? Are you writing? Part of me is worn out; but the poeticalpart--that is, the _love_ of poetry--is growing in me as freshly andstrongly as if it were watered every day. Did anybody ever love it andstop in the middle? I wonder if anybody ever did?. .. Believe me youraffectionateE. B. B. 

_To H. S. Boyd_50 Wimpole Street: December 29, 1841. 

My dear Friend, --I should not have been half as idle abouttranscribing these translations[58] if I had fancied you could care somuch to have them as Arabel tells me you do. They are recommended toyour mercy, O Greek Daniel! The _last_ sounds in my ears most likeEnglish poetry; but I assure you I took the least pains with it. Thesecond is obscure as its original, if it do not (as it does not) equalit otherwise. The first is yet more unequal to the Greek. I praisedthat Greek poem above all of Gregory's, for the reason that it has_unity and completeness_, for which, to speak generally, you maysearch the streets and squares and alleys of Nazianzum in vain. Tellme 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? Ohno, you do not tempt me with your musical clocks. My time goes to thebest music when I read or write; and whatever money I can spend uponmy 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 hisacceptance of the unworthy little book[60] he does her the honour ofdesiring to see. 

It is more unworthy than he could have expected when he expressed thatdesire, having been written in very early youth, when the mind wasscarcely free in any measure from trammels and Popes, and, what isworse, when flippancy of language was too apt to accompany immaturityof opinion. The miscellaneous verses are, still more than the chiefpoem, 'childish things' in a strict literal sense, and the wholevolume is of little interest even to its writer except for personalreasons--except for the traces of dear affections, since rudelywounded, and of that _love_ of poetry which began with her sooner thanso soon, and must last as long as life does, without being subjectto the changes of life. Little more, therefore, can remain for sucha 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 samemoment the expression of touched and gratified feelings with whichMiss 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 noteto her. 

[Footnote 59: Mr. Thomas Westwood was the author of a volume of'Poems, ' published in 1840, 'Beads from a Rosary' (1843), 'The Burdenof the Bell' (1850), and other volumes of verse. Several of hiscompositions were appearing occasionally in the _Athenaeum_ at thetime 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 translationsto the 'Athenaeum, ' attaching to them an infamous prefatory note whichsays all sorts of harm of Gregory's poetry. You will be very angrywith it and me. 

And you _may_ be angry for another reason--that in the midst of mytrue thankfulness for the emendations you sent me, I ventured toreject one or two of them. You are right, probably, and I wrong; butstill, I thought within myself with a womanly obstinacy not altogetherpeculiar to me, --'If he and I were to talk together about them, hewould kindly give up the point to me--so that, now we cannot talktogether, _I might as well take it_. ' Well, you will see what I havedone. Try not to be angry with me. You shall have the 'Athenaeum' assoon as possible. 

My dear Mr. Boyd, you know how I disbelieved the probability of thesepapers being accepted. You will comprehend my surprise on receivinglast night a very courteous: note from the editor, which I wouldsend to you if it were legible to anybody except people used tolearn reading from the pyramids. He wishes me to contribute to the'Athenaeum' some prose papers in the form of reviews--'the reviewbeing a mere form, and the book a mere text. ' He is not veryclear--but I fancy that a few translations of _excerpta_, with a proseanalysis and synthesis of the original author's genius, might suithis purpose. Now suppose I took up some of the early Christian Greekpoets, and wrote a few continuous papers _so_?[61] Give me youradvice, my dear friend! I think of Synesius, for one. Suppose you sendme a list of the names which occur to you! _Will_ you advise me? Willyou write directly? Will you make allowance for my teazing you? Willyou lend me your little Synesius, and Clarke's book? I mean the onecommenced 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 andadvice altogether. I had just (when your note arrived) finished twohymns of Synesius, one being the seventh and the other the ninth. Oh! I do remember that you performed upon the latter, and my modestyshould have certainly bid me 'avaunt' from it. Nevertheless, it is sofine, so prominent in the first class of Synesius's beauties, that Itook courage and dismissed my scruples, and have produced a versionwhich I have not compared to yours at all hitherto, but which probablyis much rougher and _rather_ closer, winning in faith what it losesin elegance. 'Elegance' isn't a word for me, you know, generallyspeaking. The barbarians herd with me, 'by two and three. '

I had a letter to-day from Mr. Dilke, who agrees to everything, closeswith the idea about 'Christian Greek poets' (only begging me to keepaway from theology), and suggesting a subsequent reviewal of Englishpoetical literature, from Chaucer down to our times. [62] Well, butthe Greek poets. With all your kindness, I have scarcely sufficientmaterials for a full and minute survey of them. I have won a sight ofthe 'Poetae Christiani, ' but the price is ruinous--_fourteen guineas_, and then the work consists almost entirely of Latin poets, deductingGregory and Nonnus, and John Damascenus, and a cento from Homer bysomebody 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 accessto the rest. Try to turn in your head what I should do. Greg. Nyssendid not write poems, did he? Have I a chance of seeing your copy ofMr. 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 extendedreference and admiration to his qualities as an orator. But whoeverread it to you should have explained that when I wrote 'He was anorator, ' the word _orator_ was marked emphatically, so as to appearprinted in capital letters of emphasis. Do not say 'you _chose_, ' 'you_chose_. ' I didn't and don't choose to be obstinate, indeed; but Ican't see the sense of that 'heavenly soul. '

Ever your grateful and affectionateE. B. B. 

I shall have room for praising Gregory in these papers. 

[Footnote 61: The series of papers on the Greek Christian Poetsappeared in the _Athenaeum_ for February and March 1842; they arereprinted in the _Poetical Works_, v. 109-200. ]

[Footnote 62: This scheme took shape in the series of papers on theEnglish Poets which appeared in the _Athenaeum_ in the course of Juneand 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 forgood temper, that among the Gregorys and Synesiuses I have forgotteneverything about you. No; indeed it has not been so. I have never_stopped_ being grateful to you for your kind notes, and the two lastpieces of Gregory, although I did not say an overt 'Thank you;' butI have been very very busy besides, and thus I answered to myself foryour being kind enough to pardon a silence which was compelled ratherthan voluntary. 

Do you ever observe that as vexations don't come alone, occupationsdon't, and that, if you happen to be engaged upon one particularthing, it is the signal for your being waylaid by bundles of lettersdesiring immediate answers, and proof sheets or manuscript works whosewriters request your opinion while their 'printer waits'? The oldsaints are not responsible for all the filling up of my time. I havebeen _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 theeditor, 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 allI have to say on the subject in _three parts_. They will admit, theytell me, a fourth _if I please_, but evidently they would prefer asmuch brevity as I could vouchsafe. Only two poets are in the firstnotice, 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 willremunerate 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 theyounger Apollinaris, whose claim is stronger, and I rather wish torefresh my recollection of the height and breadth of that tragicmisdemeanour. 

It is quite true that I never have suffered much pain, and equally sothat I continue most decidedly better, notwithstanding the winter. Ifeel, too--I do hope not ungratefully--the blessing granted to me inthe possibility of literary occupation, --which is at once occupationand distraction. Carlyle (not the infidel, but the philosopher) callsliterature a 'fireproof pleasure. ' How truly! How deeply I have feltthat truth!

May God bless you, dear Mr. Boyd. I don't despair of looking in yourface one day yet before my last. 

Ever your affectionate and obligedE. B. B. 

Arabel's love. 

_To H. S. Boyd_March 2, 1842. 

My ever very dear Friend, --Do receive the assurance that whether Ileave out the right word or put in the wrong one, you never can beother to me than just _that_ while I live, and why not after I haveceased to live? And now--what have I done in the meantime, to becalled 'Miss Barrett'? 'I pause for a reply. '

Of course it gives me very great pleasure to hear you speak so kindlyof my first paper. Some _bona avis_ as good as a nightingale must haveshaken its wings over me as I began it; and if it will but sit onthe same spray while I go on towards the end, I shall rejoice exactlyfour-fold. The third paper went to Mr. Dilke to-day, and I was sofidgety about getting it away (and it seemed to cling to my writingcase with both its hands), that I would not do any writing, even aslittle as this note, until it was quite gone out of sight. You know itis 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 remainfragmentary, than be compressed till they are as dry as a _hortussiccus_ 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 virtueof kindness may be acknowledged out of the pale of the Romish Church. 

In regard to Gregory and Synesius, you will see presently that I havenot wronged them altogether. 

As you have ordered the 'Athenaeums, ' I will not send one to-morrowso as to repeat my ill fortune of being too late. But tell me if youwould like to have any from me, and how many. 

It was very kind in you to pat Flush's[63] head in defiance of dangerand from pure regard for me. I kissed his head where you had pattedit; which association of approximations I consider as an imitationof shaking hands with you and as the next best thing to it. Youunderstand--don't you?--that Flush is my constant companion, myfriend, my amusement, lying with his head on one page of my folioswhile I read the other. (Not _your_ folios--I respect _your_ books, be sure. ) Oh, I dare say, if the truth were known, Flush understandsGreek excellently well. 

I hope you are right in thinking that we shall meet again. Once Iwished _not_ to live, but the faculty of life seems to have sprung upin 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 praiseis sung in her poem, 'To Flush, my Dog' (_Poetical Works_, iii. 19), and in many of the following letters. He accompanied his mistress toItaly, lived to a good old age, and now lies buried in the vaults ofCasa Guidi. ]

_To H. S. Boyd_Saturday night, March 5, 1842. 

My very dear Friend, --I am quite angry with myself for forgetting yourquestions when I answered your letter. 

Could you really imagine that I have not looked into the Greektragedians for years, with my true love for Greek poetry? That isasking 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 ofEuripides with me in Devonshire, and have read him as well asAeschylus and Sophocles--that is _from_ them--both before and sinceI went there. You know I have gone through every line of the threetragedians long ago, in the way of regular, consecutive reading. 

You know also that I had at different times read different dialoguesof Plato; but when three years ago, and a few months previous to myleaving home, I became possessed of a complete edition of his works, edited by Bekker, why then I began with the first volume and wentthrough the whole of his writings, both those I knew and those I didnot know, one after another: and have at this time read, not only allthat is properly attributed to Plato, but even those dialogues andepistles which pass falsely under his name--everything except twobooks I think, or three, of the treatise 'De Legibus, ' which I shallfinish 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 paperwould appear on Saturday or not; but as I have now received the proofsheets, there can be no doubt of it. I have been and _am_ hurried andhunted almost into a corner through the pressing for the fourth paper, and the difficulty about books. You will forgive a very short note tonight. 

I have read of Aristotle only his Poetics, his Ethics, and his workupon Rhetoric, but I mean to take him regularly into both hands when Ifinish 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 ofhis plays may stand for. Next week, my very dear friend, I shall be atyour commands, and sit in spirit at your footstool, to hear and answeranything you may care to ask me--but oh! what have I done that youshould talk to _me_ about 'venturing, ' or 'liberty, ' or anything ofthat 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 yourshort 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 yourkindness could not have wished to give me more satisfaction thanit gave actually. Mr. Kenyon tells me that Mr. Burgess[64] has beenreading and commending the papers, and has brought me from him a newlydiscovered scene of the 'Bacchae' of Euripides, edited by Mr. Burgesshimself for the 'Gentlemen's Magazine, ' and of which he considers thatthe 'Planctus Mariae, ' at least the passage I extracted from it, is animitation. Should you care to see it? Say 'Yes, '--and I will send itto you. 

Do you think it was wrong to make _eternity_ feminine? I knew thatthe Greek word was not feminine; but imagined that the Englishpersonification should be so. Am I wrong in this? Will you considerthe subject again?

Ah, yes! That was a mistake of mine about putting Constantine forConstantius. I wrote from memory, and the memory betrayed me. But saynothing about it. Nobody will find it out. I send you Silentiarius andsome poems of Pisida in the same volume. Even if you had not asked forthem, I should have asked you to look at some passages which are finein both. It appears to me that Silentiarius writes difficult Greek, overlaying his description with a multitude of architectural andother far fetched words! Pisida is hard, too, occasionally, from othercauses, particularly in the 'Hexaëmeron, ' which is not in the bookI send you but in another very gigantic one (as tall as the Irishgiants), which you may see if you please. I will send a coach and sixwith 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 favoriteof 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 Isend you is marked very irregularly; that is, marked in some places, unmarked in others, just as I happened to be near or far frommy pencil and inkstand. Otherwise I should have liked to comparejudgments with you. 

Keep the book as long as you please; it is my own. 

[Footnote 64: George Burges, the classical scholar. He had in 1832contributed to the _Gentleman's Magazine_ (under a pseudonym) somelines purporting to be a newly discovered portion of the _Bacchae_, but really composed by himself on the basis of a parallel passagein the _Christus Patiens_. It is apparently to these lines that MissBarrett alludes, though the 'discovery' was then nearly ten yearsold. ]

_To H. S. Boyd_50 Wimpole Street: April 2, 1842. 

My very dear Friend, --. .. As to your kind desire to hear whatever inthe way of favorable remark I have gathered together for fruit of mypapers, I put on a veil and tell you that Mr. Kenyon thought it welldone, although 'labour thrown away, from the unpopularity ofthe subject;' that Miss Mitford was very much pleased, with thewarmheartedness common to her; that Mrs. Jamieson [_sic_] read them'with great pleasure' unconsciously of the author; and that Mr. Homethe 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 andMrs. Jamieson, although very gifted and highly cultivated women, are not Grecians, and therefore judge the papers simply as Englishcompositions. 

The single unfavorable opinion _is_ Mr. Hunter's, who thinks thatthe criticisms are not given with either sufficient seriousness ordiffidence, and that there is a painful sense of effort through thewhole. Many more persons may say so whose voices I do not hear. I amglad 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 mysilence? Yet the inference is not a true one, however it may look inlogic. 

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 youthat he is not a poet of the same interest as Gregory Nazianzen, however he may appear to me of more lofty cadence in hisversification. My own impression is that John of Euchaita is worth twoof each of them as a poet. His poems strike me as standing in the veryfirst class of the productions of the Christian centuries. Synesiusand John of Euchaita! I shall always think of those two together--notby their similarity, but their dignity. 

I return you the books you lent me with true thanks, and also thosewhich 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 ofuse, 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, ' abookseller's selection published lately. I begin from Langland, ofPiers Plowman and the Malvern Hills. The first paper went to theeditor last week, and I have heard nothing as to whether it willappear on Saturday or not, and perhaps if it does you won't careto have it sent to you. Tell me if you do or don't. I have sufferedunpleasantly in the heart lately from this tyrannous dynasty of eastwinds, but have been well otherwise, and am better, in _that_. Flushiemeans to bark the next time he sees you in revenge for what you say ofhim. 

Good bye, dear Mr. Boyd; think of me as

Your ever affectionateE. B. B. 

_To H. S. Boyd_June 3, 1842. 

My very dear Friend, --I disobeyed you in not simply letting you knowof the publication of my 'English Poets, ' because I did not knowmyself when the publication was to take place, and I hope you willforgive the innocent crime and accept the first number going to youwith this note. I warn you that there will be two numbers more at_least_. Therefore do not prepare yourself for perhaps the impossiblemagnanimity of reading them through. 

And now I am fit for rivalship with your clocks, papa having given mean Aeolian harp for the purpose. Do you know the music of an Aeolianharp, and that nothing below the spherical harmonies is so sweetand soft and mournfully wild? The amusing part of it is (after thepoetical) that Flushie is jealous and thinks it is alive, and takesit as very hard that I should say 'beautiful' to anything except hisears!

Arabel talks of going to see you; but if you are sensible to thisintense and most overcoming heat, you will pardon her staying away forthe present. 

We have heard to-day that Annie proposes to publish her Miscellany bysubscription; and although I know it to be the only way, compatiblewith publication at all, to avoid a pecuniary loss, yet the customis so entirely abandoned except in the case of persons of a lowercondition of life than _your daughter_, that I am sorry to think ofthe observations it may excite. The whole scheme has appeared to mefrom the beginning _most foolish_, and if you knew what I know ofthe state and fortune of our ephemeral literature, you would usewhat influence you have with her to induce her to condemn her'contributions' to the adorning of a private annual rather than thepurpose in unhappy question. I wish I dared to appeal through my truelove for her to her own good sense once more. 

My very dear friend's affectionate and gratefulE. B. B. 

If you _do_ read any of the papers, let me know, I beseech you, yourfull and free opinion of them. 

_To H. S. Boyd_June 22, 1842. 

My very dear Friend, --I thank you gratefully for your two notes, withtheir united kindness and candour--the latter still rarer than theformer, if less 'sweet upon the tongue. ' Sir William Alexander'stragedy _(that_ is the right name, I think, Sir William Alexander, Earl of Stirling) you will not find mentioned among my dramaticnotices, because I was much pressed for room, and had to treat thewhole subject as briefly as possible, striking off, like the Roman, only the heads of the flowers, and I did not, besides, receive yourinjunction until my third paper on the dramatists was finished and inthe press. When you read it you will find some notice of that tragedyby 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 Itremble to anticipate the possible--nay, the very probable--scolding Imay have from you, upon my various heresies as to Dryden and Pope andQueen Anne's versificators. In the meantime you have breathing time, for Mr. Dilke, although very gracious and courteous to my offence ofextending the two papers he asked for _into four_, [65] yet could findno room in the 'Athenaeum' last week for me, and only _hopes_ for itthis week. And after this week comes the British Association business, which always fills every column for a month, so that a further delayis possible enough. 'It will increase, ' says Mr. Dilke, 'the zest ofthe reader, ' whereas _I_ say (at least think) that it will help himquite to forget me. I explain all this lest you should blame me forneglect to yourself in not sending the papers. I am so pleased thatyou 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 ofthe window and laid close to him. He examined it particularly, andis a philosophical dog. But I am sure that at first and while it wasplaying he thought so. 

In the same way he can't bear me to look into a glass, because hethinks there is a little brown dog inside every looking glass, and heis jealous of its being so close to _me_. He used to tremble and barkat it, but now he is _silently_ jealous, and contents himself withsqueezing close, close to me and kissing me expressively. 

My very dear friend's ever gratefully affectionateE. 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 coincidenceworse for me than for you, I must, tired as I am to-night, tellyou--ready for to-morrow's return of the books--what I have waitedthree whole days hoping to tell you by word of mouth. But mind, beforeI begin, I don't do so out of despair ever to see you again, because Itrust 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 fromyou any longer the following message of Miss Mitford. She says: 'Won'the take us in his way to Torquay? or from Torquay? Beg him to doso--and of all love, to tell us _when_. ' Afterwards, again: 'I thinkmy father is better. Tell Mr. Kenyon what I say, and stand my friendwith 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 isgood and kind, and to add great intelligence and agreeableness tothese prime qualities. '

Now I have done with being a messenger of the gods, and verily mycaduceus is trembling in my hand. 

O Mr. Kenyon! what have you done? You will know the interpretation ofthe reproach, your conscience holding the key of the cypher. 

In the meantime I ought to be thanking you for your great kindnessabout this divine Tennyson. [66] Beautiful! beautiful! After all, itis a noble thing to be a poet. But notwithstanding the poetry of thenovelties--and you will observe that his two preceding volumes (onlyone 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 isnot said in disparagement of the last, but in admiration of thefirst. There is, in fact, more thought--more bare brave working of theintellect--in the latter poems, even if we miss something of the highideality, and the music that goes with it, of the older ones. Only Iam 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 tiredthat 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 littlelonger. 

[Footnote 66: This refers to the recent publication of Tennyson's_Poems_, in two volumes, the first containing a re-issue of poemspreviously published, while the second was wholly new, and includedsuch poems as the 'Morte d'Arthur, ' 'Ulysses, ' and 'Locksley Hall. ']

[Footnote 67: No doubt Mr. Kenyon's translation of Schiller's 'Godsof Greece, ' which was the occasion of Miss Barrett's poem 'The DeadPan. ']

_To H. S. Boyd_September 14, 1842. 

My very dear Friend, --I have made you wait a long time for the 'NorthAmerican Review, ' because when your request came it was no longerwithin my reach, and because since then I have not been so wellas usual from a sweep of the wing of the prevailing epidemic. Now, however, I am _better_ than I was even before the attack, only wishingthat it were possible to hook-and-eye on another summer to the hemof the garment of this last sunny one. At the end of such a doublesummer, to measure things humanly, I might be able to go to see you atHampstead. Nevertheless, winters and adversities are more fit for usthan a constant sun. 

I suppose, dear Mr. Boyd, you want only to have this review read toyou, and not _written_. Because it isn't out of laziness that I sendthe book to you; and Arabel would copy whatever you please willingly, provided you wished it. Keep the book as long as you please. I haveput a paper mark and a pencil mark at the page and paragraph where Iam taken up. It seems to me that the condemnation of 'The Seraphim' isnot too hard. The poem wants _unity_. 

As to your 'words of fire' about Wordsworth, if I had but a cataractat command I would try to quench them. His powers should not be judgedof by my extracts or by anybody's extracts from his last-publishedvolume. [68] Do you remember his grand ode upon Childhood--worth, to myapprehension, just twenty of Dryden's 'St. Cecilia's Day'--his sonnetupon Westminster Bridge, his lyric on a lark, in which the lark'smusic swells and exults, and the many noble and glorious passagesof his 'Excursion'? You must not indeed blame me for estimatingWordsworth at _his height_, and on the other side I readily confess toyou that he is occasionally, and not unfrequently, heavy and dull, andthat Coleridge had an intenser genius. Tell me if you know anything ofTennyson. He has just published two volumes of poetry, one of which isa republication, but both full of inspiration. 

Ever my very dear friend's affectionate and gratefulE. B. B. 

[Footnote 68: _Poems, chiefly of early and late years, including TheBorderers, a Tragedy_ (1842). ]

_To Mrs. Martin_50 Wimpole Street: October 22, 1842. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --Waiting first for you to write to me, andthen waiting that I might write to you cheerfully, has ended by makingso 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 meagain. Still I must write, and I must moreover ask you to write to meagain; and I must in particular assure you that I have continued tolove you sincerely, notwithstanding all the silence which might seemto say the contrary. What I should like best just now is to have aletter speaking comfortable details of your being comparatively wellagain; yet I hope on without it that you really are so much better asto be next to quite well. It was with great concern that I heardof the indisposition which hung about you, dearest Mrs. Martin, so long--I who had congratulated myself when I saw you last on thepromise of good health in your countenance. May God bless you, andkeep you better! And may you take care of yourself, and remember howmany 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 tellyou. But I have been uneasy in various ways, sometimes by reason andsometimes by fantasy; and even now, although my dear old friend Dr. Scully is something better, he lies, I fear, in a very precariousstate, while dearest Miss Mitford's letters from the deathbed of herfather make my heart ache as surely almost as the post comes. Thereis nothing more various in character, nothing which distinguishesone human being from another more strikingly, than the expression offeeling, the manner in which it influences the outward man. If I werein her circumstances, I should sit paralysed--it would be impossibleto me to write or to cry. And she, who loves and feels with theintensity of a nature warm in everything, seems to turn to sympathyby the very instinct of grief, and sits at the deathbed of her lastrelative, 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 Iknow she feels as deeply as any mourner in the world can. And all thisreminds me of what you once asked me about the inscriptions inLord Brougham's villa at Nice. There are probably as many differentdialects for the heart as for the tongue, are there not?. .. 

And now you will kindly like to have a word said about myself, and itneed not be otherwise than a word to give your kindness pleasure. Thelong splendid summer, exhausting as the heat was to me sometimes, didme essential good, and left me walking about the room and equal togoing downstairs (which I achieved four or five times), and even togoing out in the chair, without suffering afterwards. And, best ofall, the spitting of blood (I must tell you), which more or less keptby me continually, _stopped quite_ some six weeks ago, and I have thusmore reasonable hopes of being really and essentially better thanI could have with such a symptom loitering behind accidentalimprovements. Weak enough, and with a sort of pulse which is notexcellent, I certainly remain; but still, if I escape any decidedattack this winter--and I am in garrison now--there are expectationsof further good for next summer, and I may recover some moderatedegree of health and strength again, and be able to _do_ good insteadof 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 notcome to see me. Mr. Kenyon said 'No'--I couldn't have said 'No' toWordsworth, though I had never gone to sleep again afterwards. Butthis Wordsworth who looks on me now is Wordsworth in a picture. Mr. Haydon the artist, with the utmost kindness, has sent me the portraithe was painting of the great poet--an unfinished portrait--and I amto keep it until he wants to finish it. Such a head! such majesty! andthe 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 ofyou--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 youthese volumes, and in the meantime _I have had a letter from the greatpoet_! Did Arabel tell you that my sonnet on the picture was sent toMr. Haydon, and that Mr. Haydon sent it to Mr. Wordsworth? The resultwas that Mr. Wordsworth wrote to me. King John's barons were neverbetter 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 poemswhich I send you. Read first, to put you into good humour, the sonnetwritten on Westminster Bridge, vol. Iii. Page 78. Then take from thesixth volume, page 152, the passage beginning 'Within the soul' downto 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 thesepassages to be fine poetry, I wish much that you would justify mefurther by reading, out of the _second_ volume, the two poems called'Laodamia' and 'Tintern Abbey' at page 172 and page 161. I will notask you to read any more; but I dare say you will rush on of your ownaccount, 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 becandid. Nay, I need not say so, because you always are, as I am, Your ever affectionateELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

[Footnote 69: It was this picture that called forth the sonnet, 'Ona 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 gavesuch pleasure to Miss Barrett, and which she treasured among herpapers for the rest of her life. Two slips of the pen have beencorrected between brackets. 

'Rydal Mount: Oct. 26, '42. 

'Dear Miss Barrett, --Through our common friend Mr. Haydon I havereceived a sonnet which his portrait of me suggested. I should havethanked you sooner for that effusion of a feeling towards myself, withwhich I am much gratified, but I have been absent from home and muchoccupied. 

'The conception of your sonnet is in full accordance with thepainter's intended work, and the expression vigorous; yet the word"ebb, " though I do not myself object to it, nor wish to have italtered, 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 hereis obscure. Would it not be a little [better] thus? I was going towrite a small change in the order of the words, but I find it wouldnot remove the objection. The verse, as I take it, would be somewhatclearer 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 ofa volume of your writing, which I have read with much pleasure, andbeg 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 somuch deranged. But for that cause I should have presumed to call uponyou 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 passagecriticised by the great poet, she did not accept his amendment. It nowruns

 '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 ofmind when I knit my brows like a 'sleeve of care' over your kindpraises. But the truth is, I _won't_ be praised for being liberal inCalvinism and love of Byron. _I_ liberal in commending Byron! Take outmy heart and try it! look at it and compare it with yours; and answerand tell me if I do not love and admire Byron more warmly than youyourself do. I suspect it indeed. Why, I am always reproached for mylove to Byron. Why, people say to me, '_You_, who overpraise Byron!'Why, when I was a little girl (and, whatever you may think, mytendency is not to cast off my old loves!) I used to think seriouslyof 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 meritof 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 twodoctrines, and hide my eyes in God's love from the sights which otherpeople _say_ they see. I believe simply that the saved are saved bygrace, and that they shall hereafter know it fully; and that the lostare 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 willnot dare to whisper to the nearest devil that reproach of Martha: 'Ifthe Lord had been near me, I had not died. ' But of the means of theworking of God's grace, and of the time of the formation of theDivine counsels, I know nothing, guess nothing, and struggle toguess nothing; and my persuasion is that when people talk of what wasordained or approved by God before the foundations of the world, theirtendency is almost always towards a confusion of His eternal naturewith the human conditions of ours; and to an oblivion of the fact thatwith _Him_ there can be no after nor before. 

At any rate, I do not find it good for myself to examine any more thebrickbats of controversy--there is more than enough to think of intruths clearly revealed; more than enough for the exercise of theintellect and affections and adorations. I would rather not suffermyself to be disturbed, and perhaps irritated, where it is not likelythat I should ever be informed. And although you tell me that yoursystem of investigation is different from some others, answer me withyour accustomed candour, and admit, my very dear friend, that thisargument does not depend upon the construction of a Greek sentence orthe meaning of a Greek word. Let a certain word[71] be 'fore-know' or'publicly _favor_, ' room for a stormy controversy yet remains. I wentthrough the Romans with you partially, and wholly by myself, by yourdesire, and in reference to the controversy, long ago; and I could notthen, and cannot now, enter into that view of Taylor and Adam Clarke, and yourself I believe, as to the _Jews and Gentiles_. Neither couldI conceive that a particular part of the epistle represents an actualdialogue between a Jew and Gentile, since the form of question andanswer appears to me there simply rhetorical. The Apostle Paul waslearned in rhetoric; and I think he described so, by a rhetorical andvivacious form, that struggle between the flesh and the spirit commonto all Christians; the spirit being triumphant through God in ChristJesus. These are my impressions. Yours are different. And since weshould not probably persuade each other, and since we are both of usfond of and earnest in what we fancy to be the truth, why shouldwe cast away the thousand sympathies we rejoice in, religious andotherwise, for the sake of a fruitless contention? 'What!' you wouldsay (by the time we had quarrelled half an hour), 'can't you talkwithout being excited?' Half an hour afterwards: 'Pray _do_ loweryour voice--it goes through my head!' In another ten minutes: 'I couldscarcely have believed you to be so obstinate. ' In another: 'Yourprejudices are insurmountable, and your reason most womanly--you aredegenerated to the last degree. ' In another--why, _then_ you wouldturn me and Flush out of the room and so finish the controversyvictoriously. 

Was I wrong too, dearest Mr. Boyd, in sending the poems to the'Athenaeum'? Well, I meant to be right. I fancied that you wouldrather they were sent; and as your _name_ was not attached, therecould be no harm in leaving them to the editor's disposal. Theyare not inserted, as I anticipated. The religious character was asufficient objection--their character of _prayer_. Mr. Dilke begged meonce, while I was writing for him, to write the name of God and JesusChrist as little as I could, because those names did not accord withthe secular character of the journal!

Ever your affectionate and gratefulELIZABETH 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: progignôskein], 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 silencethat you have affronted me into ill temper by your parody upon mysonnet. Yet 'lucus a non lucendo' were a truer derivation. I laughedand thanked you over the parody, and put off writing to you until Ihad the headache, which forced me to put it off again. .. . 

May God bless you, my dear Mr. Boyd. Mr. Savage Landor once said thatanybody who could write a parody deserved to be shot; but as he haswritten one himself since saying so, he has probably changed his mind. Arabel sends her love. 

Ever your affectionate and gratefulELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

_To H. S. Boyd_January 5, 1842 [1843]. 

My very dear Friend, --My surprise was inexpressible at your utteranceof the name. What! Ossian superior as a poet to Homer! Mr. Boyd sayingso! Mr. Boyd treading down the neck of Aeschylus while he praisesOssian! The fact appears to me that anomalous thing among believers--amiracle without an occasion. 

I confess I never, never should have guessed the name; not thoughI had guessed to Doomsday. In the first place I do not believe inOssian, and having partially examined the testimony (for I don'tpretend 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 occasionalphrases, from the antique--but that these so-called Ossianic poemswere ever discovered and translated as they stand in their presentform, I believe in no wise. As Dr. Johnson wrote to Macpherson, so Iwould say, 'Mr. Macpherson, I thought you an impostor, and think sostill. '

It is many years ago since I looked at Ossian, and I never did muchdelight in him, as that fact proves. Since your letter came I havetaken him up again, and have just finished 'Carthon. ' There arebeautiful passages in it, the most beautiful beginning, I think, 'Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, ' and the next place being filledby that address to the sun you magnify so with praise. But the charmof these things is the _only_ charm of all the poems. There is a soundof wild vague music in a monotone--nothing is articulate, nothing_individual_, nothing various. Take away a few poetical phrases fromthese poems, and they are colourless and bare. Compare them with theold burning ballads, with a wild heart beating in each. How cold theygrow in the comparison! Compare them with Homer's grand breathingpersonalities, with Aeschylus's--nay, but I cannot bear upon my lipsor finger the charge of the blasphemy of such comparing, even forreligion's sake. .. . 

I had another letter from America a few days since, from an Americanpoet of Boston who is establishing a magazine, and asked forcontributions from my pen. The Americans are as good-natured to me asif 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 havenot made me afraid of telling you the truth--that is, _my_ truth, thetruth 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 andHomer. _I_ fashion it in this way: Homer sometimes nods, but Ossian_makes his readers nod_. 

Ever your affectionateELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

Did I tell you that I had been reading through a manuscripttranslation of the 'Gorgias' of Plato, by Mr. Hyman of Oxford, who isa stepson of Mr. Haydon's the artist? It is an excellent translationwith learned notes, but it is _not elegant_. He means to try thepublic upon it, but, as I have intimated to him, the Christians of thepresent 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, Iadmire with you, although I am not sure that I have not seen it or itslike somewhere in a classical poet, Greek or Latin. Perhaps LordByron remembered it when in the 'Siege of Corinth' he said ofhis Francesca's uplifted arm, 'You might have seen the moon shinethrough. ' It reminds me also that Maclise the artist, a man ofpoetical imagination, gives such a transparency to the ghost of Banquoin his picture of Macbeth's banquet, that we can discern through itthe lights of the festival. That is good poetry for a painter, is itnot?

I send you the magazines which I have just received from America, andwhich contain, one of them, 'The Cry of the Human, ' and the other, four of my sonnets. My correspondent tells me that the 'Cry' isconsidered there one of the most successful of my poems, but youprobably will not think so. Tell me exactly what you do think. Atpage 343 of 'Graham's Magazine, ' _Editor's Table_, is a review ofme, which, however extravagant in its appreciation, will give yourkindness pleasure. I confess to a good deal of pleasure myself fromthese American courtesies, expressed not merely in the magazines, but in the newspapers; a heap of which has been sent to me by mycorrespondent--the 'New York Tribune, ' 'The Union, ' 'The Union Flag, '&c. --all scattered over with extracts from my books and benignantwords about their writer. Among the extracts is the whole of thereview of Wordsworth from the London 'Athenaeum, ' an unconsciouscompliment, as they do not guess at the authorship, and one which youwon't thank them for. Keep the magazines, as I have duplicates. 

Dearest Mr. Boyd, since you admit that I am not prejudiced aboutOssian, I take courage to tell you what I am thinking of. 

_I am thinking_ (this is said in a whisper, and in confidence--of twokinds), _I am thinking that you don't admire him quite as much as youdid 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 andless romantic! Well, I will not grumble any more about not having myletter, since you are coming, and since you seem, my dear Mrs. Martin, something in better spirits than your note from Southampton boretoken of. Madeira is the Promised Land, you know; and you should hopehopefully for your invalid from his pilgrimage there. You should hopewith those who hope, my dearest Mrs. Martin. .. . 

Our '_event_' just now is a new purchase of a 'Holy Family, ' supposedto be by Andrea del Sarto. It has displaced the Glover over thechimney-piece in the drawing-room, and dear Stormie and Alfred nearlybroke their backs in carrying it upstairs for me to see before theplacing. It is probably a fine picture, and I seem to see myway through the dark of my ignorance, to admire the grouping andcolouring, whatever doubt as to the expression and divinity may occurotherwise. 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 landscapepiece, and you may imagine the local politics of the arrangement andhanging, with their talk and consultation; while _I_, on the storeyhigher, have my arranging to manage of my pretty new books and mythree hyacinths, and a pot of primroses which dear Mr. Kenyon had thegood nature to carry himself through the streets to our door. But allthe flowers forswear me, and die either suddenly or gradually as soonas 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 asummer in winter! It is the fourth day since I have had the fire wrungfrom me by the heat of temperature, and I sit here _very warm indeed_, notwithstanding that bare grate. Nay, yesterday I had the door thrownopen 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 yourthought of it like? If I were an American, it would make me rabid, andcertain of the free citizens _are_ furious, I understand, while others'speak peace and ensue it, ' admire as much of the book as deservesany sort of admiration, and attribute the blameable parts to theprejudices of the party with whom the writer 'fell in, ' and not toa want of honesty or brotherhood in his own intentions. I admire Mr. Dickens as an imaginative writer, and I love the Americans--I cannotpossibly admire or love this book. Does Mr. Martin? Do _you_?

Henrietta would send her love to you if I could hear her voice nearerthan I do actually, as she sings to the guitar downstairs. And herlove 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. Andremember 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 linesthat I should be half afraid of completing the definition by our nevermeeting, if it were not for what you say afterwards, of the comingto London, and of promising to come and see Flush. If you should betravelling while I am writing, it was only what happened to me when Iwrote not long ago to dearest Mrs. Martin, and everybody in this housecried out against the fatuity of the coincidence. As if I could knowthat 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 myignorance. I shall be consoled if it does--for certain reasons. Butfor none in the world can I help thanking you for your letter, whichgave me so much pleasure from the first sight of the handwriting tothe thought of the kindness spent upon me in it, that after all Icannot thank you as I would. 

Yet I won't let you fancy me of such an irrational state of simplicityas not to be fully aware that _you_, with your 'nature of the fieldsand forests, ' look down disdainfully and with an inward heat ofglorying, upon _me_ who have all my pastime in books--dead andseethed. Perhaps, if it were a little warmer, I might even grant thatyou are right in your pride. As it is, I grumble feebly to myselfsomething about the definition of _nature_, and how we in the town(which 'God made' just as He made your hedges) have _our_ shareof nature too; and then I have secret thoughts of the state of thethermometer, and wonder how people can breathe out of doors. In themeantime, Flush, who is a better philosopher, pushes deep intomy furs, and goes to sleep. Perhaps I should fear the omen for mycorrespondent. 

Oh yes! That picture in 'Boz' is beautiful. For my own part, and by anatural womanly contradiction, I have never cared so much in my lifefor flowers as since being shut out from gardens--unless, indeed, inthe happy days of old when I had a garden of my own, and cut it outinto a great Hector of Troy, in relievo, with a high heroic box noseand shoeties of columbine. [72] But that was long ago. Now I count thebuds of my primrose with a new kind of interest, and you neversaw such a primrose! I begin to believe in Ovid, and look for ametamorphosis. The leaves are turning white and springing up as highas corn. Want of air, and of sun, I suppose. I should be loth to thinkit--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, andfull of life and blood--whatever we may say to the thick rouging andextravagance of gesture. There is a beauty, a tenderness, too, in theorgan scene, which is worthy of the gilliflowers. But my admirationfor 'Boz' fell from its 'sticking place, ' I confess, a good furlong, when I read Victor Hugo; and my creed is, that, _not_ in histenderness, which is as much his own as his humour, but in his seriouspowerful Jew-trial scenes, he has followed Hugo closely, and neverscarcely looked away from 'Les Trois Jours d'un Condamné. '

If you should not be on the road, I hope you won't be very longbefore you are, and that dearest Mrs. Martin will put off building hergreenhouse--you see I believe she _will_ build it--until she gets homeagain. 

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 willsuffer me to be; and _that_, indeed, is not very well, my heart beingfuller of all manner of evil than is necessary to its humanity. Butthe wind is changed, and the frost is gone, and it is not quite out ofmy fancy yet that I may see you next summer. _You and summer are notout of the question yet_. Therefore, you see, I cannot be very deepin tribulation. But you may consider it a bad symptom that I have justfinished a poem of some five hundred lines in stanzas, called 'TheLost Bower, '[73] and about nothing at all in particular. 

As to Arabel, she is not an icicle. There are flowers which blow inthe frost--when we brambles are brown with their inward death--and sheis of them, dear thing. _You_ are not a bramble, though, and I hopethat when you talk of 'feeling the cold, ' you mean simply to referto your sensation, and not to your health. Remember also, dearest Mr. Boyd, what a glorious winter we have had. Take away the last ten daysand a few besides, and call the whole summer rather than winter. Oughtwe to complain, really? Really, no. 

I venture another prophecy upon the shoulders of the ast, though myhand shakes so that nobody will read it. 

_You can't abide my 'Cry of the Human, ' and four sonnets_. They havenone 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_ walkacross the park to see me--supposing always that I fail in myaspiration 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 ratherthan in it, and our noises are cousins to silence; and you should passinto a room where the silence is most absolute. Flush's breathing ismy loudest sound, and then the watch's tickings, and then my own heartwhen 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 turnwith it, but I never anticipated the day and the hour for _you_ toturn 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, arguingabout it will only convince you of my obstinacy, and not a bit ofHomer's supremacy. Ossian has wrapt you in a cloud, a fog, a trueScotch mist. You have caught cold in the critical faculty, perhaps. Atany rate, I can't see a bit more of your reasonableness than I can seeof Fingal. _Sic transit_! Homer like the darkened half of the moonin eclipse! You have spoilt for me now the finest image in yourOssian-Macpherson. 

My dearest Mr. Boyd, you will find as few believers in the genuinenessof these volumes among the most accomplished antiquarians in poetryas in the genuineness of Chatterton's Rowley, and of Ireland'sShakespeare. The latter impostures boasted of disciples in the firstinstance, but the discipleship perished by degrees, and the placethereof, during this present 1843, knows it no more. So has it beenwith the belief in Macpherson's Ossian. Of those who believed in thepoems at the first sight of them, who kept his creed to the end? Andspeaking so, I speak of Macpherson's contemporaries whom you respect. 

I do not consider Walter Scott a great poet, but he was highlyaccomplished in matters of poetical antiquarianism, and is certainlycitable as an authority on this question. 

Try not to be displeased with me. I cannot conceal from you that myastonishment is profound and unutterable at your new religion--yournew faith in this pseud-Ossian--and your desecration, in his service, of the old Hellenic altars. And by the way, my own figure reminds meto inquire of you whether you are not sometimes struck with a _want_in him--a want very grave in poetry, and very strange in antiquepoetry--the want of devotional feeling and conscience of God. Observe, that all antique poets rejoice greatly and abundantly in their divinemythology; and that if this Ossian be both antique and godless, he isan exception, a discrepancy, a monster in the history of letters andexperience of humanity. As such I leave him. 

Oh, how angry you will be with me. But you seemed tolerably preparedin your last letter for my being in a passion. .. . Ever affectionatelyyours, 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'son Miss Barrett's poem, _The Dead Pan_, which he had seen inmanuscript; but it also meets some criticisms which others had madeupon 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 yourgood opinion, whether literary or otherwise, being of great price tome, it is even with tears in my eyes that I begin to write to you upona difference between us. And what am I to say? To admit, of course, in the first place, the injuriousness to the 'popularity, ' of thescriptural tone. But am I to sacrifice a principle to popularity?Would you advise me to do so? Should I be more worthy of your kindnessby doing so? and could you (apart from the kindness) call my refusalto do so either perverseness or obstinacy? Even if you could, I hopeyou 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'sexclamation--

 I would rather be A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn--

and if he had never made it, I do think that its significance wouldhave occurred to me, by a sort of instinct, in connection with thisdiscussion. Certainly _I_ would rather be a pagan whose religionwas actual, earnest, continual--for week days, work days, and songdays--than I would be a _Christian_ who, from whatever motive, shrankfrom hearing or uttering the name of Christ out of a 'church. ' I am nofanatic, but I like truth and earnestness in all things, and I cannotchoose but believe that such a Christian shows but ill beside sucha pagan. What pagan poet ever thought of casting his gods out ofhis 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 theend of which is the extolment of what I consider to be Christian truthover the pagan myths shrank even _there_ from naming the name of myGod lest it should not meet the sympathies of some readers, or lest itshould offend the delicacies of other readers, or lest, generally, it should be unfit for the purposes of poetry in what more forciblemanner than by that act (I appeal to Philip against Philip) can Icontrovert my own poem, or secure to myself and my argument a logicaland unanswerable shame? If Christ's name is improperly spoken in thatpoem, then indeed is Schiller right, and the true gods of poetry areto be sighed for mournfully. For be sure that _Burns_ was right, andthat a poet without devotion is below his own order, and that poetrywithout religion will gradually lose its elevation. And then, my dearfriend, we do not live among dreams. The Christian religion is true orit is not, and if it is true it offers the highest and purest objectsof contemplation. And the poetical faculty, which expresses thehighest moods of the mind, passes naturally to the highest objects. Who can separate these things? Did Dante? Did Tasso? Did Petrarch? DidCalderon? Did Chaucer? Did the poets of our best British days? Did anyone of these shrink from speaking out Divine names when the occasioncame? Chaucer, with all his jubilee of spirit and resounding laughter, had the name of Jesus Christ and God as frequently to familiarity onhis lips as a child has its father's name. You say 'our religionis not vital--not week-day--enough. ' Forgive me, but _that_ is aconfession of a wrong, not an argument. And if a poet be a poet, it ishis business to work for the elevation and purification of the publicmind, 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 bedeveloped greatly and nobly, and that in the meantime we are wrong, poetically as morally, in desiring to restrain it. No, I never feltrepelled by any Christian phraseology in Cowper--although he is not afavorite poet of mine from other causes--nor in Southey, nor evenin 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 afanatic--to reproach my poetry for not being Christian enough, andthis is not the first instance, nor the second, of my receiving sucha reproach. I tell you this to open to you the possibility of anotherside to the question, which makes, you see, a triangle of it!

Can you bear with such a long answer to your letter, and forbearcalling it a 'preachment'? There may be such a thing as an awkward anduntimely introduction of religion, I know, and I have possiblybeen occasionally guilty in this way. But for _my principle_ I mustcontend, for it is a poetical principle _and more_, and an entiresincerity in respect to it is what I owe to you and to myself. Try toforgive me, dear Mr. Kenyon. I would propitiate your indulgence for meby 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, andfeel your kindness fully and earnestly. You have advised me about thepoem, [74] entering into the questions referring to it with the warmthrather of the author of it than the critic of it, and this I amsensible of as absolutely as anyone can be. At the same time, I have astrong perception rather than opinion about the poem, and also, if youwould not think it too serious a word to use in such a place, I havea _conscience_ about it. It was not written in a desultory fragmentaryway, the last stanzas thrown in, as they might be thrown out, but witha _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 presentedthe mere avenue to the end of saying them. Therefore I cannot throwthem out--I cannot yield to the temptation even of pleasing _you_ bydoing so; I make a compromise with myself, and _do not throw themout, and do not print the poem_. Now say nothing against this, my dearcousin, because I am obstinate, as you know, as you have good evidencefor knowing. I _will not_ either alter or print it. Then you have yourmanuscript copy, which you can cut into any shape you please as longas you keep it out of print; and seeing that the poem really doesbelong to you, having had its origin in your paraphrase of Schiller'sstanzas, I see a great deal of poetical justice in the manuscriptcopyright remaining in your hands. For the rest I shall have quiteenough to print and to be responsible for without it, and I am quitesatisfied 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 judgmentsin relation to it. 

This being settled, you must suffer me to explain (for mere personalreasons, and not for the good of the poem) that no mortal priest (ofSt. Peter's or otherwise) is referred to in a particular stanza, butthe Saviour Himself. Who is 'the High Priest of our profession, ' andthe only 'priest' recognised in the New Testament. In the same way thealtar candles are altogether spiritual, or they could not be supposed, even by the most amazing poetical exaggeration, to 'light the earthand skies. ' I explain this, only that I may not appear to you to havecompromised the principle of the poem, by compromising any truth (suchin my eyes) for the sake of a poetical effect. 

And now I will not say any more. I know that you will be inclinedto 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 sayone such word. Be kind, and let me follow my own way silently_. I havenot, indeed, like a spoilt child in a fret, thrown the poem up becauseI would not alter it, though you have done much to spoil me. I actadvisedly, and have made up my mind as to what is the wisest and bestthing to do, and personally the pleasantest to myself, after a gooddeal of serious reflection. 'Pan is dead, ' and so best, for thepresent at least. 

I shall take your advice about the preface in every respect, andthanks for the letter and Taylor's memoirs. 

Miss Mitford talks of coming to town for a day, and of bringing Flushwith her, as soon as the weather settles, and to-day looks so likeit that I have mused this morning on the possibility of breakingmy prison doors and getting into the next room. Only there is aforbidding north wind, they say. 

Don't be vexed with me, dear Mr. Kenyon. You know there areobstinacies in the world as well as mortalities, and theretoappertaining. And then you will perceive through all mine, that it isdifficult for me to act against your judgment so far as to put my owntenacity 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 thegenius of Miss Barrett; and for a large part of her life some of theclosest of her personal and literary connections were with Americans. The same is true in both respects of Robert Browning. As appears fromsome letters printed farther on in these volumes, at a time when thesale of his poems in England was almost infinitesimal, they were knownand highly prized in the United States. Expressions of Mrs. Browning'ssympathy with America and of gratitude for the kindly feelings ofAmericans recur frequently in the letters, and it is probable thatthere are still extant in the States many letters written to friendsand correspondents there. Only three or four such have been madeavailable for the present collection; and of these the first followshere in its place in the chronological sequence. It was written to Mr. Cornelius Mathews, then editor of 'Graham's Magazine, ' who hadinvited Miss Barrett to send contributions to his periodical. The warmexpression in it of sympathy with the poetry of Robert Browning, whomshe did not yet know personally, is especially interesting to readersof this later day, who, like the spectators at a Greek tragedy, watchthe development of a drama of which the _dénouement_ is already knownto them. 

_To Cornelius Mathews_50 Wimpole Street: April 28, 1843. 

My dear Mr. Mathews, --In replying to your kind letter I send somemore verse for Graham's, praying such demi-semi-gods as preside overcontributors to magazines that I may not appear over-loquacious tomy editor. Of course it is not intended to thrust three or four poemsinto one number. My pluralities go to you simply to 'bide yourtime, ' and be used one by one as the opportunity is presented. In themeanwhile you have received, I hope, a short letter written to explainmy unwillingness to apply, as you desired me at first, to Wiley andPutnam--an unwillingness justified by what you told me afterwards. I did not apply, nor have I applied, and I would rather not applyat all. Perhaps I shall hear from them presently. The pamphlet onInternational Copyright is welcome at a distance, but it has not comenear me yet; and for all your kindness in relation to the prospectivegift of your works I thank you again and earnestly. You are kind to mein many ways, and I would willingly know as much of your intellectualhabits 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 noticeof Mr. Browning's 'Blot on the Scutcheon, ' which would make onepoet furious (the 'infelix Talfourd') and another a littlemelancholy--namely, Mr. Browning himself. There is truth on bothsides, but it seems to me hard truth on Browning. I do assure you Inever saw him in my life--do not know him even by correspondence--andyet, whether through fellow-feeling for Eleusinian mysteries, orwhether through the more generous motive of appreciation of hispowers, I am very sensitive to the thousand and one stripes with whichthe assembly of critics doth expound its vocation over him, and the'Athenaeum, ' for instance, made me quite cross and misanthropical lastweek. [75] The truth is--and the world should know the truth--it iseasier 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 oncedrunk, indeed, but once he built the ark. Talking of poets, wouldyour 'Graham's Miscellany' care at all to have occasional poeticalcontributions from Mr. Horne? I am in correspondence with him, andI think I could manage an arrangement upon the same terms as myengagement rests on, if you please and your friends please, that is, and without formality, if it should give you any pleasure. He is awriter of great power, I think. And this reminds me that you may belooking all the while for the 'Athenaeum's' reply to your friend'sproposition--of which I lost no time in apprising the editor, Mr. Dilke, and here are some of his words: 'An American friend who hadbeen long in England, and often conversed with me on the subject, resolved on his return to establish such a correspondence. In allthings worth knowing--all reviews of good books' (which 'are publishedfirst or simultaneously, ' says Mr. Dilke, 'in London'), 'he wasanticipated, and after some months he was driven of necessity togeological 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 internationalcopyright shall at once protect the national _meum_ and _tuum_ inliterature and give it additional fullness and value, we shall ceaseto say insolently to you that what we want of your books we will getwithout your help, but as it is, the Mr. Dilkes of us have nothingmuch more courteous to do. I wish I could have been of any use toyour friend--I have done what I could. In regard to critical papersof mine, I would willingly give myself up to you, seeing your goodnature; but it is the truth that I never published any prose papersat all except the series on the Greek Christian poets and the otherseries on the English poets in the 'Athenaeum' of last year, and bothof which you have probably seen. Afterwards I threw up my brief andwent back to my poetry, in which I feel that I must do whatever I amequal to doing at all. That life is short and art long appears to usmore true than usual when we lie all day long on a sofa and are asfrightened of the east wind as if it were a tiger. Life is not onlyshort, but uncertain, and art is not only long, but absorbing. Whathave I to do with writing '_scandal_' (as Mr. Jones would say) uponmy neighbour's work, when I have not finished my own? So I threw up mybrief into Mr. Dilke's hands, and went back to my verses. Whenever Iprint another volume you shall have it, if Messrs. Wiley and Putnamwill convey it to you. How can I send you, by the way, anything I mayhave to send you? Why will you not, as a nation, embrace our greatpenny post scheme, and hold our envelopes in all acceptation? You donot know--cannot guess--what a wonderful liberty our Rowland Hill hasgiven to British spirits, and how we '_flash_ a thought' instead of'wafting' it from our extreme south to our extreme north, paying 'apenny for our thought' and for the electricity included. I recommendyou 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. ' Believeme--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 alreadythat I am right in this thing, the only merit of the translation beingits closeness. Can I be of any use to you, dear Mr. Mathews? When Ican, make use of me. You surprise and disappoint me in your sketch ofthe Boston poet, for the letter he wrote to me struck me as frank andhonest. I wonder if he made any use of the verses I sent him; andI wonder what I sent him--for I never made a note of it, throughnegligence, and have quite forgotten. Are you acquainted withMrs. Sigourney? She has offended us much by her exposition of Mrs. Southey's letter, and I must say not without cause. I rejoice in theprogress of 'Wakondah, ' wishing the influences of mountain and riverto 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 ofBrowning's 'Dramatic Lyrics, ' charging him with taking pleasure inbeing enigmatical, and declaring this to be a sign of weakness, notstrength. It spoke of many of the pieces composing the volume as beingrather fragments and sketches than having any right to independentexistence. ]

_To John Kenyan_May 1, 1843

My dear Cousin, --Here is my copyright for you, and you will see that Ihave put 'word' instead of 'sound, ' as certainly the proper 'word. ' Dolet me thank you once more for all the trouble and interest you havetaken with me and in me. Observe besides that I have altered the titleaccording to your unconscious suggestion, and made it 'The DeadPan, ' 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'tlike 'scornful children' half--no, not half so well as my 'railingchildren, ' although, to be sure, you proved to me that the last wasnigh upon nonsense. You proved it--that is, you almost proved it, fordon'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 intrying to read him at my "usual pace--he _won't_ be read quick. Afterall, and full of beauty and truth as that book is, and strongly as ittakes hold of my sympathies, there is nothing new in it--not even anew Carlyleism, which I do not say by way of blaming the book, becausethe author of it might use words like the apostle's: 'To write thesame things unto you, to me indeed is not grievous, and to you it issafe. ' The world being blind and deaf and rather stupid, requires areiteration 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 byMr. Merivale; also--but this letter is too long already. 

[Footnote 76: Mr. Kenyon's view evidently prevailed, for stanza 19 nowhas 'scornful children. ']

_To Mrs. Martin_May 3, 1843. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --If _you_ promised (which you did), _I_ oughtto 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 aconcentrated essence of brick wall? How I wish--and since I said italoud to you I have often wished it over in a whisper--that you wouldput away your romance, or cut it in two, and spend six months of theyear in London with us! Miss Mitford believes that wishes, if wishedhard enough, realise themselves, but my experience has taught me aless cheerful creed. Only if wishes _do_ realise themselves!

Miss Mitford is at Bath, where she has spent one week and is about tospend two, and then goes on her way into Devonshire. She amused me sothe other day by desiring me to look at the date of Mr. Landor's poemsin their first edition, because she was sure that it must be fiftyyears since, and she finds him at this 1843, the very Lotharioof Bath, enchanting the wives, making jealous the husbands, and'enjoying, ' altogether, the worst of reputations. I suggested thatif she proved him to be seventy-five, as long as he proved himselfenchanting, it would do no manner of good in the way of practicalethics; and that, besides, for her to travel round the world toinvestigate gentlemen's ages was invidious, and might be alarming asto the safe inscrutability of ladies' ages. She is delighted with the_scenery of Bath_, which certainly, take it altogether, marble andmountains, is the most beautiful town I ever looked upon. Cheltenham, I think, is a mere commonplace to it, although the avenues arebeautiful, to be sure. .. . 

Mrs. Southey complains that she has lost half her income by hermarriage, and her friend Mr. Landor is anxious to persuade, by themeans 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 forever. It is not likely that Wordsworth should come here this year, which I am sorry for now, although I should certainly be sorry if hedid come. A happy state of contradiction, not confined either to thatparticular movement or no-movement, inasmuch as I was gratified by hissending me the poem you saw, and yet read it with such extreme pain asto 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 starkand dead is called whimsically, of the Duke of Sussex. It was a finesight, 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 safelyand so missed setting the world on fire; and I shall be as wary ofthem evermore (be sure) as if they were gunpowder. Pray send themto 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 nosmiling 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; andwhen I had counted your great guns and javelin points and othermilitary appurtenances of the Punic war, I said to myself--or toFlush, '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 sendthe verses to her yourself, if you mean to please her entirely: andI cannot agree with you that there is the slightest danger in sendingthem by the post. Letters are never opened, unless you tempt the fleshby putting sovereigns, or shillings, or other metallic substancesinside the envelope; and if the devil entered into me causing meto write a libel against the Queen, I would send it by the postfearlessly 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 yourheroic libel?

The 'pearl' of maidens sends her love to you. 

Your very affectionateELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

_To H. S. Boyd_May 14, 1843. 

My very dear Friend, --I hear with wonder from Arabel of yourrepudiation of my word 'octosyllabic' for the two lines in yourcontroversial poem. Certainly, if you count the syllables on yourfingers, there are ten syllables in each line: of _that_ I amperfectly aware; but the lines are none the less belonging to thespecies of versification called octosyllabic. Do you not observe, mydearest Mr. Boyd, that the final accent and rhyme fall on the eighthsyllable instead of the tenth, and that _that_ single circumstancedetermines the class of verse--that they are in fact octosyllabicverses with triple rhymes?

 Hatching succession apostolical, With other falsehoods diabolical. 

Pope has double rhymes in his heroic verses, but how does he managethem? Why, he admits eleven syllables, throwing the final accent andrhyme 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, thereare always _nine_ syllables in that verse, the final accent and rhymefalling 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 (preciselythe 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 samestructure as yours, and certainly they are octosyllabics, and made useof by Butler in an octosyllabic poem, whereas yours, to be rendered ofthe 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 littleconsequence; but as you charged me with a mistake made in cold bloodand under corrupt influences from Lake-mists, why I was determined tomake the matter clear to you. And as to the _influences_, if I wereguilty of this mistake, or of a thousand mistakes, Wordsworth wouldnot be guilty _in_ me. I think of him now, exactly as I thought of himduring 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 havea soul for poetry, will be so; yet I said, and say in an under-voice, but steadfastly, that Coleridge was the grander genius. There isscarcely anything newer in my estimation of Wordsworth than in thecolour of my eyes!

Perhaps I was wrong in saying '_a pun. _' But I thought I apprehended adouble sense in your application of the term 'Apostolical succession'to Oxford's 'breeding' and 'hatching, ' words which imply succession ina way unecclesiastical. 

After all which quarrelling, I am delighted to have to talk of yourcoming nearer to me--within reach--almost within my reach. Now if I amable to go in a carriage at all this summer, it will be hard but thatI manage to get across the park and serenade you in Greek under yourwindow. 

Your ever affectionateELIZABETH 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 aretruthful and candid in a supreme degree, and therefore it is not yourcandour about Wordsworth which surprises me. 

He had the kindness to send me the poem upon Grace Darling when itfirst appeared; and with a curious mixture of feelings (for I was muchgratified by his attention in sending it) I yet read it with _so_ muchpain from the nature of the subject, that my judgment was scarcelyfree to consider the poetry--I could scarcely determine to myself whatI _thought_ of it from feeling too much. 

_But_ I do confess to you, my dear friend, that I suspect--through themist of my sensations--the poem in question to be very inferior to hisformer poems; I confess that the impression left on my mind is, ofits decided inferiority, and I have heard that the poet's friends andcritics (all except _one_) are mourning over its appearance; sighinginwardly, 'Wordsworth is old. '

One thing is clear to me, however, and over _that_ I rejoice andtriumph greatly. If you can esteem this poem of 'Grace Darling, ' youmust be susceptible to the grandeur and beauty of the poems whichpreceded it; and the cause of your past reluctance to recognise thepoet's power must be, as I have always suspected, from your havinggiven a very partial attention and consideration to his poetry. Youwere partial in your attention _I_, perhaps, was injudicious in myextracts; but with your truth and his genius, I cannot doubt but thatthe time will come for your mutual amity. Oh that I could stand as aherald of peace, with my wool-twisted fillet! I do not understand theGreek metres as well as you do, but I understand Wordsworth's geniusbetter, and do you forgive that it should console me. 

I will ask about his collegian extraction. Such a question neveroccurred to me. Apollo taught him under the laurels, while all theMuses looked through the boughs. 

Your ever affectionateELIZABETH B. BARRETT, Oh, yes, it delights me that you should be nearer. Of course you knowthat Wordsworth is Laureate. [77]

[Footnote 77: Wordsworth was nominated Poet Laureate after the deathof Southey in March 1843. ]

_To John Kenyan_May 19, 1843, Thank you, my dear cousin, for all your kindness to me. There isivy enough for a thyrsus, and I almost feel ready to enact a sort ofBacchus triumphalis 'for jollitie, ' as I see it already planted, andlooking in at me through the window. I never thought to see such asight as _that_ in my London room, and am overwhelmed with my ownglory. 

And then Mr. Browning's note! Unless you say 'nay' to me, I shall keepthis 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 shallremember 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 itwas gained by _wishdom_, which believing is wisdom! No, you wouldcertainly 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 berolled--opposite the arm-chair: the drawers crowned with a coronalof shelves fashioned by Sette and Co. (of papered deal and crimsonmerino) to carry my books; the washing table opposite turned into acabinet with another coronal of shelves; and Chaucer's and Homer'sbusts in guard over these two departments of English and Greekpoetry; three more busts consecrating the wardrobe which there was noannihilating; and the window--oh, I must take a new paragraph for thewindow, I am out of breath. 

In the window is fixed a deep box full of soil, where are _springingup_ my scarlet runners, nasturtiums, and convolvuluses, although theywere disturbed a few days ago by the revolutionary insertion amongthem of a great ivy root with trailing branches so long and wide thatthe top tendrils are fastened to Henrietta's window of the higherstorey, while the lower ones cover all my panes. It is Mr. Kenyon'sgift. He makes the like to flourish out of mere flowerpots, andembower his balconies and windows, and why shouldn't this flourishwith me? But certainly--there is no shutting my eyes to the fact thatit does droop a little. Papa prophesies hard things against it everymorning, 'Why, Ba, it looks worse and worse, ' and everybody preachesdespondency. I, however, persist in being sanguine, looking out fornew shoots, and making a sure pleasure in the meanwhile by listeningto the sound of the leaves against the pane, as the wind lifts themand 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 FredericaBremer's Swedish? Yes, perhaps. Have you read 'The Home, '[1] freshfrom the same springs? _Do_, if you have not. It has not only charmedme, but made me happier and better: it is fuller of Christianity thanthe most orthodox controversy in Christendom; and represents tomy perception or imagination a perfect and beautiful embodiment ofChristian outward life from the inward, purely and tenderly. At thesame time, I should tell you that Sette says, 'I might have liked itten years ago, but it is too young and silly to give me any pleasurenow. ' For _me_, however, it is not too young, and perhaps it won't befor you and Mr. Martin. As to Sette, he is among the patriarchs, tosay nothing of the lawyers--and there we leave him. .. . 

Ever your affectionateBA. 

_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 gonethrough it (I have another copy), but it appears to me to be full offine 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 shouldintend a sarcasm on the age's generous patronage of poetry, which ispossible. 

[Footnote 78: _Orion_, the early editions of which were sold at afarthing, in accordance with a fancy of the author. Miss Barrettreviewed it in the _Athenaum_ (July 1843). ]

_To John Kenyan_June 30, 1843. 

Thank you, my dear Mr. Kenyon, for the Camden Society books, and alsofor these which I return; and also for the hope of seeing you, whichI kept through yesterday. I honor Mrs. Coleridge for the readiness ofreasoning and integrity in reasoning, for the learning, energy, andimpartiality which she has brought to her purpose, and I agree withher in many of her objects; and disagree, by opposing her opponentswith a fuller front than she is always inclined to do. In truth, Ican never see anything in these sacramental ordinances except aprospective sign in one (Baptism), and a memorial sign in theother, the Lord's Supper, and could not recognise either under anymodification as a peculiar instrument of grace, mystery, or the like. The tendencies we have towards making mysteries of God's simplicitiesare as marked and sure as our missing the actual mystery uponoccasion. God's love is the true mystery, and the sacraments are onlytoo simple for us to understand. So you see I have read the book inspite of prophecies. After all I should like to cut it in two--itwould be better for being shorter--and it might be clearer also. Thereis, in fact, some dullness and perplexity--a few passages which are, to my impression, contradictory of the general purpose--somethingwhich is not generous, about nonconformity--and what I cannot helpconsidering a superfluous tenderness for Puseyism. Moreover she iscertainly wrong in imagining that the ante-Nicene fathers did not asa body teach regeneration by baptism--even Gregory Nazianzen, the mostspiritual of many, did, and in the fourth century. But, after all, as a work of theological controversy it is very un-bitter andwell-poised, gentle, and modest, and as the work of a woman _you_ mustadmire 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] Itis a thunderbolt to him. I wonder, in the pauses of my regret, whetherMr. 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 happinessonly not past my appreciation. 

Ever affectionately yours, E. B. B. 

I send the copy of 'Orion' for _yourself_, which you asked for. It isin the fourth edition. 

[Footnote 79: This refers to the competition for the cartoons to bepainted in the Houses of Parliament, in which Haydon was unsuccessful. The disappointment was the greater, inasmuch as the scheme fordecorating the building with historical pictures was mainly due to hisinitiative. ]

_To Mrs. Martin_July 8, 1843. 

Thank you, my dearest Mrs. Martin, for your kind sign of interest inthe questioning note, although I will not praise the _stenography_ ofit. 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 toactivities from having caught cold in an inscrutable manner, and beingstiff and sore from head to foot and inclined to be a little feverishand 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 beforeyesterday if it had not been for this something between cramp andrheumatism, which was rather unbearable at first, but yesterday wasbetter, and is to-day better than better, and to-morrow will leave mequite well, if I may prophesy. I only mention it lest you should haveupbraided me for not answering your note in a moment, as it deservedto be answered. So don't put any nonsense into Georgie's head--forgiveme for beseeching you! I have been very well--downstairs seven oreight times; lying on the floor in Papa's room; meditating _thechair_, which would have amounted to more than a meditation exceptfor this little contrariety. In a day or two more, if this cool warmthperseveres in serving me, and no Ariel refills me 'with aches, ' Ishall fulfil your kind wishes perhaps and be out--and so, no moreabout me!. .. 

Oh, I do believe you think me a Cockney--a metropolitan barbarian! ButI persist in seeing no merit and no superior innocence in being shutup even in precincts of rose-trees, away from those great sourcesof human sympathy and occasions of mental elevation and instructionwithout which many natures grow narrow, many others gloomy, andperhaps, if the truth were known, very few prosper entirely, lit isnot that I, who have always lived a good deal in solitude and livein it still more now, and love the country even painfully in myrecollections of it, would decry either one or the other--solitudeis most effective in a contrast, and if you do not break the barkyou cannot bud the tree, and, in short (not to be _in long_), I couldwrite 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 himgive you, although the author gave me the book--the copy of the newepic, 'Orion, ' which he has with him. You have probably observed theadvertisement, and are properly instructed that Mr. Horne the poet, who has sold three editions already at a farthing a copy, and isselling a fourth at a shilling, and is about to sell a fifth at halfa crown (on the precise principle of the aërial machine--launchinghimself into popularity by a first impulse on the people), is myunknown friend, with whom I have corresponded these four years withouthaving seen his face. Do you remember the beech leaves sent to me fromEpping Forest? Yes, you must. Well, the sender is the poet, and thepoem I think a very noble one, and I want you to think so too. Sohereby I empower you to take it away from George and keep it for mysake--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 wellthat 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 youboth 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 isan outcry. They say that I do it out of envy, and for the equalisationof 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 yourquestioning, and am able to answer that notwithstanding the, as itseems to you, fatal significance of a woman's silence, I am aliveenough to be sincerely grateful for any degree of interest spent uponme. As to Flush, he should thank you too, but at the present moment heis 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 uponthem, oppressed by the torrid necessity of a thermometer above 70. ToFlopsy's acquaintance he would aspire gladly, only hoping that Flopsydoes not 'delight to bark and bite, ' like dogs in general, because ifhe does Flush would as soon be acquainted with a _cat_, he says, forhe does not pretend to be a hero. Poor Flush! 'the bright summer dayson which I am ever likely to take him out for a ramble over hill andmeadow' are never likely to shine! But he follows, or rather leapsinto my wheeled chair, and forswears merrier company even now, to benear me. I am a good deal better, it is right to say, and look forwardto a possible prospect of being better still, though I may be shut outfrom climbing the Brocken otherwise than in a vision. 

You will see by the length of the 'Legend'[80] which I send to you (inits 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 thepress, but I am writing more and more in a view to it, pleased withthe thought that some kind hands are already stretched out in welcomeand acceptance of what it may become. Not as idle as I appear, I havealso been writing some fugitive verses for American magazines. This ismy confession. Forgive its tediousness, and believe me thankfully andvery 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 tobe ashamed of myself. .. . I received the book in all safety, and readyour kind words about my 'Rosary' with more grateful satisfaction thanappears from the evidence. It is great pleasure to me to have writtenfor such readers, and it is great hope to me to be able to write forthem. The transcription of the 'Rosary' is a compliment which I neveranticipated, 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 offaults, as, indeed, all my poems appear to myself to be when I lookback upon them instead of looking down. I hope to be worthier inpoetry some day of the generous appreciation which you and yourfriends 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 ofbooksellers and bookbuyers who could not understand 'the speculationin its eyes?' There are very fine things in this poem, and altogetherI 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 makesme thrill sometimes to the end of my fingers, as only a true greatpoet can. 

You praise me kindly, and if, indeed, the considerations you speak ofcould be true of me, I am not one who could lament having 'learnt insuffering what I taught in song. ' In any case, working for the futureand counting gladly on those who are likely to consider any work ofmine acceptable to themselves, I shall be very sure not to forget myfriends 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 withinthis week or two in receiving a letter--nay, two letters--from MissMartineau, one of the last strangers in the world from whom I had anyright 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 cryingfor pleasure as I read them. She is very hopelessly ill, you areprobably aware, at Tynemouth in Northumberland, suffering agonies frominternal cancer, and conquering occasional repose by the strength ofopium, but 'almost forgetting' (to use her own words) 'to wish forhealth, in the intense enjoyment of pleasures independent of thebody. ' She sent me a little work of hers called 'Traditions ofPalestine. ' Her friends had hoped by the stationary character of somesymptoms that the disease was suspended, but lately it is said to begaining ground, and the serenity and elevation of her mind are moreand more triumphantly evident as the bodily pangs thicken. .. . 

And now I am going to tell you what will surprise you, if you do notknow it already. Stormie and Georgie are passing George's vacation onthe Rhine. You are certainly surprised if you did not know it. Papasigned and sealed them away on the ground of its being good andrefreshing for both of them, and I was even mixed up a little with thediplomacy of it, until I found _they were going_, and then it was ahard, 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 moresatisfied again, and attained to think less of the fatal influences of_my star_. They went away in great spirits, Stormie 'quite elated, ' touse his own words, and then at the end of the six weeks they _must_ beat home at Sessions; and no possible way of passing the interim couldbe pleasanter and better and more exhilarating for themselves. Theplan was to go from Ostend by railroad to Brussels and Cologne, thento pass down the Rhine to Switzerland, spend a few days at Geneva, anda week in Paris as they return. The only fear is that Stormie won't goto Paris. We have too many friends there--a strange obstacle. 

Dearest Mrs. Martin, I am doing something more than writing you aletter, I think. 

May God bless you all with the most enduring consolations! Give mylove to Mr. Martin, and believe also, both of you, in my sympathy. Iam glad that your poor Fanny should be so supported. May God bless herand all of you!

Dearest Mrs. Martin's affectionateBA. 

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 passionwhenever I happen to be silent. For a woman to be silent is ominous, Iknow, but it need not be significant of anything quite so terrible asill-humour. And yet it always happens so; if I do not write I am sureto be cross in your opinion. You set me down directly as 'hurt, ' whichmeans _irritable_; or 'offended, ' which means _sulky_; your ideal ofme 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 softrhymes 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 theChildren'[82] before I sent it to you. But Arabel went without tellingme that she was going: twice she went to St. John's Wood and made nosign; and now I find myself thrown on my own resources. Will you seethe 'Cry of the Human'[83] or not? It will not please you, probably. It wants melody. The versification is eccentric to the ear, and thesubject (the factory miseries) is scarcely an agreeable one to thefancy. Perhaps altogether you had better not see it, because I knowyou think me to be deteriorating, and I don't want you to have furtherhypothetical evidence of so false an opinion. Humbled as I am, I say'so false an opinion. ' Frankly, if not humbly, I believe myself tohave 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 andMiss Mitford, thinking it, comparatively with my other poems, neitherso bad nor so good as you two account it. It has certainly beensingled out for great praise both at home and abroad, and onlythe other day Mr. Horne wrote to me to reproach me for not havingmentioned it to him, because he came upon it accidentally andconsidered it 'one of my best productions. ' Mr. Kenyon holds the sameopinion. As for Flush's verses, they are what I call cobweb verses, thin and light enough; and Arabel was mistaken in telling you thatMiss Mitford gave the prize to them. Her words were, 'They are astender and true as anything you ever wrote, but nothing is equal tothe "House of Clouds. "' Those were her words, or to that effect, and Irefer to them to you, not for the sake of Flush's verses, which reallydo not appear even to myself, their writer, worth a defence, but forthe sake of _your_ judgment of _her_ accuracy in judging. 

Lately I have received two letters from the profoundest woman thinkerin England, Miss Martineau--letters which touched me deeply while theygave me pleasure I did not expect. 

My poor Flush has fallen into tribulation. Think of Catiline, thegreat savage Cuba bloodhound belonging to this house, attempting lastnight to worry him just as the first Catiline did Cicero. Flush wasrescued, but not before he had been wounded severely: and this morninghe is on three legs and in great depression of spirits. My poor, poorFlushie! He lies on my sofa and looks up to me with most patheticeyes. 

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 gratefulE. B. B. 

[Footnote 81: 'To Flush, my dog' (_Poetical Works_, iii. 19). ]

[Footnote 82: Published in _Blackwood's Magazine_ for August 1843, andcalled forth by Mr. Horne's report as assistant commissioner on theemployment 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 maybe 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 readmy papers on the Greek Fathers with the more satisfaction because hehad inferred from my "House of Clouds" that illness had _impaired myfaculties_. ']

_To H. S. Boyd_Monday, September 19, 1843. 

My own dear Friend, --I should have written instantly to explain myselfout of appearances which did me injustice, only I have been in suchdistress as to have no courage for writing. Flush was stolen away, and for three days I could neither sleep nor eat, nor do anything muchmore rational than cry. _Confiteor tibi_, oh reverend father. And ifyou call me very silly, I am so used to the reproach throughout theweek 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 toyou the deterioration of my faculties. Q. E. D. 

In my own defence, I really believe that my distress arose somewhatless from the mere separation from dear little Flushie than from theconsideration of how he was breaking his heart, cast upon the cruelworld. Formerly, when he has been prevented from sleeping on my bed hehas passed the night in moaning piteously, and often he has refused toeat from a strange hand. And then he loves me, heart to heart; therewas 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, therewas little wonder that I, on my part, should cry in the house. 

With great difficulty we hunted the dog-banditti into their caves ofthe city, and bribed them into giving back their victim. Money was theleast thing to think of in such case; I would have given a thousandpounds if I had had them in my hand. The audacity of the wretched menwas marvellous. They said that they had been 'about stealing Flushthese two years, ' and warned us plainly to take care of him for thefuture. 

The joy of the meeting between Flush and me would be a good subjectfor a Greek ode--I recommend it to you. It might take rank next to theepical parting of Hector and Andromache. He dashed up the stairs intomy room and into my arms, where I hugged him and kissed him, black ashe was--black as if imbued in a distillation of St. Giles's. Ah, Ican break jests about it _now_, you see. Well, to go back to theexplanations I promised to give you, I must tell you that Arabel_perfectly forgot_ to say a word to me about 'Blackwood' and your wishthat I should send the magazine. It was only after I heard that youhad procured it yourself, and after I mentioned this to her, that sheremembered her omission all at once. Therefore I am quite vexed anddisappointed, I beg you to believe--_I_, who have pleasure in givingyou any printed verses of mine that you care to have. Never mind! Imay print another volume before long, and lay it at your feet. Inthe meantime, you _endure_ my 'Cry of the Children' better than I hadanticipated--just because I never anticipated your being able to readit to the end, and was over-delicate of placing it in your handson that very account. My dearest Mr. Boyd, you are right in yourcomplaint against the rhythm. The first stanza came into my head in ahurricane, 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 headto foot, you will never find such a rhythm on his person. The wholecrime of the versification belongs to _me_. So blame _me_, and by nomeans another poet, and I will humbly confess that I deserve to beblamed in some _measure_. There is a roughness, my own ear beingwitness, and I give up the body of my criminal to the rod of yourcastigation, kissing the last as if it were Flush. 

A report runs in London that Mr. Boyd says of Elizabeth Barrett: 'Sheis a person of the most perverted judgment in England. ' Now, if thisbe true, I shall not mend my evil position in your opinion, my verydear friend, by confessing that I differ with you, the more the longerI live, on the ground of what you call 'jumping lines. ' I am speakingnot of particular cases, but of the principle, the general principle, of these cases, and the tenacity of my judgment does not arise fromthe teaching of 'Mr. Lucas, ' but from the deeper study of the oldmaster-poets--English poets--those of the Elizabeth and James ages, before the corruption of French rhythms stole in with Waller andDenham, and was acclimated into a national inodorousness by Drydenand Pope. We differ so much upon this subject that we must proceedby agreeing to differ, and end, perhaps, by finding it agreeable todiffer; there can be no possible use in an argument. Only you must beupright in justice, and find Wordsworth innocent of misleading me. Sofar from having read him more within these three years, I have readhim _less_, and have taken no new review, I do assure you, of hisposition and character as a poet, and these facts are testified untoby the other fact that my poetry, neither in its best features nor itsworst, is adjusted after the fashion of his school. 

But I am writing too much; you will have no patience with me. 'TheExcursion' is accused of being lengthy, and so you will tell me that Iconvict 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 butpopular. It is in stanzas, every one an octosyllabic triplet, whichyou 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 tohear--of your having resumed that which used to be so great a pleasureto 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 allmy admiration of him, I would willingly secure more exaltation and abroader clasping of truth. Still, it is not possible to have somuch beauty without a certain portion of truth, the position of theUtilitarians being true in the inverse. But I think as I did of 'uses'and 'responsibilities, ' and do hold that the poet is a preacher andmust look to his doctrine. 

Perhaps Mr. Tennyson will grow more solemn, like the sun, as his daygoes on. In the meantime we have the noble 'Two Voices, ' and, amongother grand intimations of a teaching power, certain stanzas to J. K. (I think the initials are) on the death of his brother, [86] which verydeeply affected me. 

Take away the last stanzas, which should be applied more definitelyto 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 ofhuman grief never surely was more tenderly intimated or touched--itbrought tears to my eyes. Do read it. He is not a Christian poet, upto this time, but let us listen and hear his next songs. He is one ofGod's singers, whether he knows it or does not know it. 

I am thinking, lifting up my pen, what I can write to you whichis likely to be interesting to you. After all I come to chaos andsilence, 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 thingsand 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 witha vain deceit of rural life I have had ivy planted in a box, and ithas flourished and spread over one window, and strikes against theglass with a little stroke from the thicker leaves when the wind blowsat all briskly. _Then_ I think of forests and groves; it is my triumphwhen the leaves strike the window pane, and this is not a sound likea 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 canstretch 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 apparentreason, ungrateful and insensible to your letter, but indeed I amneither one nor the other, and I am writing now to try and prove it toyou. I was much touched by some tones of kindness in the letter, andit was welcome altogether, and I did not need the 'owl' which cameafter to waken me, because I was wide awake enough from the firstmoment; and now I see that you have been telling your beads, while Iseemed to be telling nothing, in that dread silence of mine. May alltrue 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 subjectof books of theology, I will confess to you that, although I have readrather widely the divinity of the Greek Fathers, Gregory, Chrysostom, and so forth, and have of course informed myself in the worksgenerally of our old English divines, Hooker, Jeremy Taylor, and soforth, I am not by any means a frequent reader of books of theology assuch, and as the men of our times have made them. I have looked intothe 'Tracts' from curiosity and to hear what the world was talkingof, and I was disappointed _even_ in the degree of intellectual powerdisplayed in them. From motives of a desire of theological instructionI very seldom read any book except God's own. The minds of persons aredifferently constituted; and it is no praise to mine to admit thatI am apt to receive less of what is called edification from humandiscourses on divine subjects, than disturbance and hindrance. I readthe Scriptures every day, and in as simple a spirit as I can; thinkingas little as possible of the controversies engendered in that greatsunshine, and as much as possible of the heat and glory belonging toit. It is a sure fact in my eyes that we do not require so much _moreknowledge_, 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, althoughhis friends talk of nervousness, and do not fear much ultimatemischief. .. . [87]

It is such a lovely _May_ day, that I am afraid of breaking the spellby 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 badis 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 friendsI belong. Perhaps you will cry out quickly, 'To the blind admirers, certes. ' And I have a high admiration of Wordsworth. His spirit hasworked a good work, and has freed into the capacity of work othernoble spirits. He took the initiative in a great poetic movement, andis not only to be praised for what he has done, but for what hehas helped his age to do. For the rest, Byron has more passion andintensity, Shelley more fancy and music, Coleridge could see furtherinto the unseen, and not one of those poets has insulted his owngenius by the production of whole poems, such as I could name ofWordsworth's, the vulgarity of which is childish, and the childishnessvulgar. Still, the wings of his genius are wide enough to cast ashadow over its feet, and our gratitude should be stronger than ourcritical 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 thethankfulness which is his due from me. .. . 

Yes, I mean to print as much as I can find and make room for, 'BrownRosary' and all. I am glad you liked 'Napoleon, '[89] but I shall bemore glad if you decide when you see this new book that I have madesome general progress in strength and expression. Sometimes I riseinto 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 withoutlabour any more than other kinds of wheat, and the sweat of thespirit's brow is wrung by a yet harder necessity. And, thinking so, Iam inclined to a little regret that you should have hastened your bookeven for the sake of a sentiment. Now you will be angry with me. .. . 

There are certain difficulties in the way of the criticunprofessional, as I know by experience. Our most sweet voicesare scarcely admissible among the most sour ones of the regularbrotherhood. .. . 

Harriet Martineau is quite well, 'trudging miles together in the snow, 'when the snow was, and in great spirits. Wordsworth is to be in Londonin the spring. Tennyson is dancing the polka and smoking cloud uponcloud at Cheltenham. Robert Browning is meditating a new poem, and anexcursion on the Continent. Miss Mitford came to spend a day with mesome ten days ago; sprinkled, as to the soul, with meadow dews. Am Iat the end of my account? I think so. 

Did you read 'Blackwood'? and in that case have you had deep delightin an exquisite paper by the Opium-eater, which my heart trembledthrough from end to end? What a poet that man is! how he vivifieswords, or deepens them, and gives them profound significance. .. . 

I understand that poor Hood is supposed to be dying, really dying, atlast. Sydney Smith's last laugh mixes with his, or nearly so. ButHood had a deeper heart, in one sense, than Sydney Smith, and is thematerial of a greater man. 

And what are you doing? Writing--reading--or musing of either? Are youa reviewer-man--in opposition to the writer? Once, reviewing was mybesetting sin, but now it is only my frailty. Now that I lie hereat the mercy of every reviewer, I save myself by an instinct ofself-preservation from that 'gnawing tooth' (as Homer and Aeschylusdid rightly call it), and spring forward into definite work andthought. Else, I should perish. Do you understand that? If you are areviewer-man you will, and if not, you must set it down among thosemysteries 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 'LiteraryInstitute' at Brighton, I heard of the Reverend somebody Stoddartgravely proposing 'Poetry for the Million' to his audience; heassuring them that 'poets made a mystery of their art, ' but that infact nothing except an English grammar, and a rhyming dictionary, andsome instruction about counting on the fingers, was necessary in orderto 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 aboveletters, Miss Barrett was engaged, during the year 1843, inco-operating with her friend Mr. Home in the production of his greatcritical enterprise, 'The New Spirit of the Age. ' In this the muchdaring author undertook no less a task than that of passing a soberand serious judgment on his principal living comrades in the world ofletters. Not unnaturally he ended by bringing a hornets' nest abouthis ears--alike of those who thought they should have been mentionedand were not, and of those who were mentioned but in terms which didnot satisfy the good opinion of themselves with which Providence hadbeen pleased to gift them. The volumes appeared under Home's namealone, and he took the whole responsibility; but he invited assistancefrom others, and in particular used the collaboration of Miss Barrettto no small extent. She did not indeed contribute any complete essayto his work; but she expressed her opinion, when invited, on severalwriters, in a series of elaborate letters, which were subsequentlyworked up by Home into his own criticisms. [90] The secret of hercooperation was carefully kept, and she does not appear to havesuffered any of the evil consequences of his indiscretions, real orimagined. Another contribution from her consisted of the suggestion ofmottoes appropriate to each writer noticed at length; and in this workshe had an unknown collaborator in the person of Robert Browning. Soends the somewhat uneventful year of 1843. 

[Footnote 90: Her contributions to the essays on Tennyson and Carlylehave recently been printed in Messrs. Nichols and Wise's _LiteraryAnecdotes 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 twovolumes of 'Poems, ' she won her general and popular recognition as apoetess whose rank was with the foremost of living writers. It was sixyears since she had published a volume of verse; and in the meanwhileshe had been gaining strength and literary experience. She had triedher wings in the pages of popular periodicals. She had profited bythe criticisms on her earlier work, and by intercourse with men ofletters; and though her defects in literary art were by no meanspurged away, yet the flights of her inspiration were stronger andmore assured. The result is that, although the volumes of 1844 do notcontain absolutely her best work--no one with the 'Sonnets from thePortuguese' in his mind can affirm so much as that--they contain thatwhich has been most generally popular, and which won her the positionwhich for the rest of her life she held in popular estimation amongthe leaders of English poetry. 

The principal poem in these two volumes is the 'Drama of Exile. ' Ofthe genesis of this work, Miss Barrett gives the following account ina 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 workthan to make copy and corrections, I fell upon a fragment of a sortof masque on "The First Day's Exile from Eden"--or rather it fell uponme, 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 twovolumes; but this design was abandoned, and they appeared under thesimple description of 'Poems, by Elizabeth Barrett Barrett. ' The'Vision of Poets' comes next in length to the 'Drama'; and among theshorter pieces were several which rank among her best work, 'The Cryof the Children, ' 'Wine of Cyprus, ' 'The Dead Pan, ' 'Bertha in theLane, ' '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. ' Sincethe publication of 'The Seraphim' volume, the new era of poetry haddeveloped itself to a notable extent. Tennyson had published thebest of his earlier verse, 'Locksley Hall, ' 'Ulysses, ' the 'Morted'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, ' 'DramaticLyrics, ' 'The Return of the Druses, ' and 'The Blot on the 'Scutcheon';and it was among company such as this that Miss Barrett, by generalconsent, 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 theheart' lost not a grain of its perfume in coming so far, and not aleaf of the flowers was ruffled, and to see such gorgeous colours allon a sudden at Christmas time was like seeing a vision, and almostmade Flush and me rub our eyes. Thank you, dearest Mrs. Martin; howkind of you! The grace of the verses and the brightness of the flowerswere too much for me altogether. And when George exclaimed, 'Why, shehas certainly laid bare her greenhouse, ' I had not a word to say injustification of myself for being the cause of it. 

Papa admired the branch of Australian origin so much that he walkedall over the house with it. Beautiful it is indeed; but my eyes turnback to the camellias. I do believe that I like to look at a camelliabetter 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 hasbeen 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 manyyears in Germany, returned last summer to England to settle. Well, hecan't bear us any longer! His wife is growing paler and paler with thepressure of English social habits, or rather unsocial habits; and hehimself is a German at heart; and besides, being a man of a singularlygenerous nature, and accustomed to give away in handfuls of silverand gold one-third of every year's income, he dislikes the socialobligation of _spending_ it here. So they are going back. Poor Mr. Kenyon! I am full of sympathy with him. This returning to Englandwas a dream of all last year to him. He gave up his house to the newcomers, and bought a new one; and talked of the brightness secured tohis latter years by the presence of his only remaining near relative;and I see that, for all his effort towards a bright view of thematter, he is disappointed--very. Should you suppose that four hundredpounds in Vienna go as far as a thousand in England? I should neverhave 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 posthour, and do not like to pass your kindness with even one day'sapparent neglect. 

May God bless you and dear Mr. Martin. The kindest wishes for the longslope of coming year, and for the many, I trust, beyond it, belong toyou from the deepest of our hearts. 

But shall you not be coming--setting out--very soon, before I canwrite again?

Your affectionateBA. 

_To John Kenyan_[?January 1844. ]

I am so sorry, dear Mr. Kenyon, to hear--which I did, last night, forthe first time--of your being unwell. I had hoped that to-day wouldbring a better account, but your note, with its next week prospect, isdisappointing. 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 moresymptoms of small-pox in anybody. We should all be well, if it werenot for me and my cough, which is better, but I am not quite well, norhave yet been out. 

A letter came to me from dear Miss Mitford a few days since, whichI 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 toweigh against the multitudinous ones of other people, but which seemsto be: 'He has the habit of walking in without giving notice. Hethinks it saves trouble, whereas in a small family, and at a distancefrom a town, the effect is that one takes care to be provided for thewhole 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, ifyou have not written to interrupt her in this process of indefiniteexpectation, the 'only fault' will, in her eyes, grow, as it ought, aslarge as fifty others. 

I do hope, dear Mr. Kenyon, soon to hear that you are better--andwell--and that your course of prophecy may not run smooth all throughnext 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 ofthis morning, but which interested me much in the reading. Do let himunderstand how obliged to him I am for permitting me to look, for amoment, according to his view of the question. Perhaps my poeticalsense is not convinced all through, and certainly my critical senseis not worth convincing, but I am delighted to be able to call bythe name of Aeschylus, under the authority of Mr. Burges, those nobleelectrical lines (electrical for double reasons) which had struckme twenty times as Aeschylean, when I read them among the recognisedfragments of Sophocles. You hear Aeschylus's footsteps and voice inthe lines. No other of the gods could tread so heavily, or speak solike thundering. 

I wrote all this to begin with, hesitating how else to begin. Myvery dear and kind friend, you understand--do you not?--through anexpression which, whether written or spoken, must remain imperfect, towhat 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 havefailed altogether without it, and in more than one way, and in adeeper 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 neverforget it, as long as I live to remember anything. The book may failsignally 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 piecesin nerves and spirits when you came to help me. I had only enoughinstinct left to be ashamed, a little, afterwards, of having sent you, in company, too, with Miss Martineau's heroic cheerfulness, that noteof weak because unavailing complaint. It was a long compressed feelingbreaking suddenly into words. Forgive and forget that I ever sotroubled you--no, 'troubled' is not the word for your kindness!--andremember, 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 MissBarrett 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 toarrange. 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 insome too safe a place; and then I shall have it. In the meantime hereare the other letters back again. You will think that I was keepingthem for a deposit, a security, till I 'had my ain again, ' but I haveonly been idle and busy together. They are the most interesting thatcan be, and have quite delighted me. By the way, _I_, who saw nothingto object to in the 'Life in the Sick Room, ' object very much to herargument in behalf of it--an argument certainly founded on a miserablemisapprehension of the special doctrine referred to in her letter. There is nothing so elevating and ennobling to the nature and mindof man as the view which represents it raised into communion with GodHimself, by the justification and purification of God Himself. Plato'sdream brushed by the gate of this doctrine when it walked highest, andwon for him the title of 'Divine. ' That it is vulgarised sometimes bynarrow-minded teachers in theory, and by hypocrites in action, mightbe an argument (if admitted at all) against all truth, poetry, andmusic!

On the other hand, I was glad to see the leaning on the Educationquestion; in which all my friends the Dissenters did appear to me sopainfully 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-daylife 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 Iwas bid; and was going to put Gabriel's speech, [93] only--with thepen in my hand to do it--I found that the angel was a little tooexclamatory altogether, and that he had cried out, 'O ruined earth!'and 'O miserable angel!' just before, approaching to the habit of amere caller of names. So I altered the passage otherwise; taking careof your full stop after 'despair. ' Thank you, my dear Mr. Kenyon. 

Also I sent enough manuscript for the first sheet, and a note toMoxon yesterday, last night, thanking him for his courtesy about LeighHunt's poems; and following your counsel in every point. 'Only lastnight, ' you will say! But I have had _such_ a headache--and some verypainful vexation in the prospect of my maid's leaving me, who has beenwith 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 isscarcely tolerable to me under my actual circumstances. 

The 'Palm Leaves'[94] are full of strong thought and goodthought--thought expressed excellently well; but of poetry, inthe true sense, and of imagination in any, I think them bare andcold--somewhat wintry leaves to come from the East, surely, surely!

May the change of air be rapid in doing you good--the weather seems tobe 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 (_PoeticalWorks_, 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 longa letter to you; I am aware that nine times too long a silence isscarcely the way to make up for it. Forgive me, however, as far as youcan, for every sort of fault. When I once begin to write to you, I donot know how to stop; and I have had so much to do lately as scarcelyto know how to begin to write to you. _Hence these_ faults--not quitetears--in spite of my penitence and the quotation. 

At last my book is in the press. My great poem (in the modestcomparative 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 thatother mystical exile of the Divine Being which was the means of thereturn homewards of my Adam and Eve. After the exultation of boldnessof composition, I fell into one of my deepest fits of despondency, andat last, at the end of most painful vacillations, determined not toprint 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 themidst 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 thekindest way he took it into his hands, and proposed to carry it homeand read it, and tell me his impression. 'You know, ' he said, 'I havea prejudice against these sacred subjects for poetry, but then I haveanother prejudice _for you_, and one may neutralise the other. ' Thenext day I had a letter from him with the returned manuscript--aletter which I was absolutely certain, before I opened it, wouldcounsel _against_ the publication. On the contrary! His impression isclearly in favour of the poem, and, while he makes sundry criticismson minor points, he considers it very superior as a whole to anythingI ever did before--more sustained, and fuller in power. So my nervesare 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 thinkof bringing out _two volumes of poems_ instead of one, by adviceof Mr. Moxon, the publisher. Also, the Americans have commanded anAmerican edition, to come out in numbers, either a little before orsimultaneously with the English one, and provided with a separatepreface for themselves. 

There now! I have told you all this, knowing your kindness, and thatyou 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 mayhave better news of her before long. 

But I don't mean to fall into another scrape to-day by writing toomuch. May God bless you, my very dear friend!

I am ever your affectionateE. B. B. 

[Footnote 95: There was, however, a still later last, when it becamethe 'Drama of Exile. ']

_To H. S. Boyd_April I, 1844. 

My very dear Friend, --Your kind letter I was delighted to receive. Youmistake 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 ofOssian) a good deal more than I do. He has written satires in themanner of Pope, which admirers of Pope have praised warmly anddeservedly. If I had hesitated about the conclusiveness of hisjudgments, it would have been because of his confessed indispositiontowards subjects religious and ways mystical, and his occasionalinsufficient indulgence for rhymes and rhythms which he calls'_Barrettian_. ' But these things render his favourable inclinationtowards 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 ofwhat your own thoughts of my poem, and poems in their two-volumedevelopment, may finally be. I am afraid of you. You will tell me thetruth as it appears to you--upon _that_ I may rely; and I should notwish you to suppress a single disastrous thought for the sake of theunpleasantness it may occasion to me. My own faith is that I have madeprogress since 'The Seraphim, ' only it is too possible (as I confessto myself and you) that your opinion may be exactly contrary to it. 

You are very kind in what you say about wishing to have someconversation, 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 uponyou on Friday, with Arabel, at about one o'clock. Friday is mentionedbecause it is a holiday, no work being done at Mr. Barry's. Otherwisehe is engaged every day (except, indeed, Sunday) from nine in themorning to five in the afternoon. May God bless you, dearest Mr. Boyd. I am ever

Your affectionateELIZABETH 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 utilitarianismin the notice on Carlyle, as I remember the writer of thatarticle leans somewhere--_I_, who am reproached withtrans-trans-transcendentalisms, and not without reason, or withinsufficient reason. 

Oh, and I should say also that Mr. Home, in his kindness, has enlargedconsiderably in his annotations and reflections on me personally. [97]My being in correspondence with all the Kings of the East, forinstance, is an exaggeration, although literary work in one way willbring with it, happily, literary association in others. .. . Still, I amnot 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 darkfor seven years by any manner of means. By the way, a barrister saidto my barrister brother the other day, 'I suppose your sister isdead?' 'Dead?' said he, a little struck; 'dead?' 'Why, yes. After Mr. Home's account of her being sealed up hermetically in the dark for somany 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 thatcelebrated gift of Cyprus wine which led to the composition of one ofMiss 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 yousay, Achilles did not drink of it, I am sorry for him. I supposeJupiter had it instead, just then--Hebe pouring it, and Juno's ox-eyesbellowing their splendour at it, if you will forgive me that brokenmetaphor, for the sake of Aeschylus's genius, and my own particularintoxication. 

Indeed, there _never was_, in modern days, such wine. Flush, to whomI offered the last drop in my glass, felt it was supernatural, andran away. I have an idea that if he had drunk that drop, he would havetalked 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 runaway, perhaps, like Flush. 

Still, the thought comes to me, ought I to take it from you? Is itright of me? are you not too kind in sending it? and should you beallowed to be too kind? In any case, you must, not think of sending memore than you have already sent. It is more than enough, and I am notless than very much obliged to you. 

I have passed the middle of my second volume, and I only hope thatcritics may say of the rest that it smells of Greek wine. Dearest Mr. Boyd's

Ever affectionateE. B. BARRETT. 

_To Mr. Westwood_June 28, 1844. 

My dear Mr. Westwood, --I have certainly and considerably increasedthe evidence of my own death by the sepulchral silence of the last fewdays. But after all I am not dead, not even _at heart_, so as to beinsensible to your kind anxiety, and I can assure you of this, uponvery fair authority, neither is the book dead yet. It has turned thecorner of the _felo de se_, and if it is to die, it will be by thecritics. The mystery of the long delay, it would not be very easy forme to explain, notwithstanding I hear Mr. Moxon says: 'I suppose MissBarrett is not in a hurry about her publication;' and _I_ say: 'Isuppose Moxon is not in a hurry about the publication. ' There may bea little fault on my side, when I have kept a proof a day beyond thehour, or when 'copy' has put out new buds in my hands as I passed itto the printer's. Still, in my opinion, it is a good deal more thefault of Mr. Moxon's not being in a hurry, than in the excessivevirtue of my patience, or vice of my indolence. Miss Mitford says, asyou 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 youvexed with me? I am a little ambitious of the first item--yet hopefulof an escape from the last. If you did but know how I am pressed fortime, and how I have too much to do every day, you would forgiveme for my negligence; even if you had sent me nectar instead ofmountain, [98] and I had neglected laying my gratitude at yourfeet. Last Saturday, upon its being discovered that my first volumeconsisted of only 208 pages, and my second of 280 pages, Mr. Moxonuttered a cry of reprehension, and wished to tear me to pieces by hisprinters, as the Bacchantes did Orpheus. Perhaps you might have heardmy head moaning all the way to St. John's Wood! He wanted to tear awayseveral poems from the end of the second volume, and tie them on tothe end of the first! I could not and would not hear of this, becauseI had set my mind on having 'Dead Pan' to conclude with. So there wasnothing for it but to finish a ballad poem called 'Lady Geraldine'sCourtship, ' which was lying by me, and I did so by writing, i. E. Composing, _one hundred and forty lines last Saturday!_[99] I seemedto be in a dream all day! Long lines too--with fifteen syllables ineach! I see you shake your head all this way off. Moreover it is a'romance of the age, ' treating of railroads, routes, and all mannerof 'temporalities, ' and in so radical a temper that I expect to bereproved for it by the Conservative reviews round. By the way, did Itell 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; andhaving been submitted to various chief critics of the country on itsway, was praised loudly and extravagantly. This was, however, by a_private reading_ only. A bookseller at Philadelphia had announced itfor publication--he intended to take it up when the English editionreached America; but upon its being represented to him that the NewYork publisher had proof sheets direct from the author and would givecopy money, he abandoned his intention to the other. I confess I feelvery much pleased at the kind spirit--the spirit of eager kindnessindeed--with which the Americans receive my poetry. It is not wrongto be pleased, I hope. In this country there may be mortificationswaiting for me; quite enough to keep my modesty in a state ofcultivation. 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 torestore the equilibrium of volumes, without dislocating 'Pan'? Oh, howanxious I shall be to hear your opinion! If you tell me that I havelost 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 privatereading, and perhaps I myself--are of opinion that I have madegreat progress since 'The Seraphim. ' It seems to me that I have more_reach_, whether in thought or language. But then, to _you_ it mayappear 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 youwill let me have it in its integrity. 

All the life and strength which are in me, seem to have passed into mypoetry. 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 ofthe second volume, called 'Cyprus Wine, ' which I have done myself thehonor and pleasure of associating with your name. I thought that youwould not be displeased by it, as a proof of grateful regard from me. 

Talking of wines, the Mountain has its attraction, but certainly isnot to be compared to the Cyprus. You will see how I have praised thelatter. Well, now I must say 'good-bye, ' which you will praise _me_for!

Dearest Mr. Boyd's affectionateE. B. B. 

P. S. --_Nota bene_--I wish to forewarn you that I have cut away in thetext none of my vowels by apostrophes. When I say 'To efface, 'wanting two-syllable measure, I do not write 'T' efface' as in the oldfashion, 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 whichis the result not of carelessness, but of _conviction_, and indeed ofmuch patient study of the great Fathers of English poetry--not meaningMr. Pope. Be as patient with me as you can. You shall have the volumesas soon as they are ready. 

[Footnote 98: Evidently a reference to the name of some wine (perhapsMontepulciano) sent her by Mr. Boyd. See the end of the letter. ]

[Footnote 99: It will be observed that this is not quite the same asthe 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; butas you never received the letter and I was in a continual press ofdifferent thoughts, the probability is that I did not write. TheCyprus wine in the second vial I certainly _did_ receive; and wasgrateful to you with the whole force of the aroma of it. And now Iwill 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 sucha face as sinned against Adam's image, and with a shudder of deepdisgust. 

'Why, ' he said, 'what most beastly and nauseous thing is this? Oh, ' hesaid, '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; butthat it was exceedingly beastly. '

I resumed, with persuasive argument, that 'it could scarcely bebeastly, inasmuch as the taste reminded one of oranges and orangeflower together, to say nothing of the honey of Mount Hymettus. '

He took me up with stringent logic, 'that any wine must positively bebeastly, which, pretending to be wine, tasted sweet as honey, andthat it was beastly on my own showing!' I send you this report as anevidence of a curious opinion. But drinkers of port wine cannot beexpected to judge of nectar--and I hold your 'Cyprus' to be purenectar. 

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 isBa--Elizabeth--Elzbeth--Ellie--any modification of my name you maycall me by--but I won't be called Miss Barrett by _you_. Do youunderstand? Arabel means to carry your copy of my book to you. And Ibeg you not to fancy that I shall be impatient for you to read thetwo volumes through. If you _ever_ read them through, it will bea sufficient compliment, and indeed I do not expect that you _everwill_. 

May God bless you, dearest Mr. Boyd. 

I remain, Your affectionate and gratefulELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

The date of this last letter marks, as nearly as need be, the date ofpublication of Miss Barrett's volumes. The letters which follow dealmainly with their reception, first at the hand of friends, and then bythe regular critics. The general verdict of the latter was extremelycomplimentary. Mr. Chorley, in the 'Athenaeum, '[100] described thevolumes as 'extraordinary, ' adding that 'between her [Miss Barrett's]poems and the slighter lyrics of most of the sisterhood, there is allthe difference which exists between the putting-on of "singing robes"for altar service, and the taking up lute or harp to enchant anindulgent circle of friends and kindred. ' In the 'Examiner, '[101] JohnForster declared that 'Miss Barrett is an undoubted poetess of a highand fine order as regards the first requisites of her art--imaginationand expression. .. . She is a most remarkable writer, and her volumescontain not a little which the lovers of poetry will never willinglylet die, ' a phrase then not quite so hackneyed as it has since become. The 'Atlas'[102] asserted that 'the present volumes show extraordinarypowers, and, abating the failings of which all the followers ofTennyson are guilty, extraordinary genius. ' More influential even thanthese, 'Blackwood'[103] paid her the compliment of a whole article, criticising her faults frankly, but declaring that 'her poeticalmerits 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, asMiss Barrett herself pointed out, this, in itself, was no greatpraise. [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 tothe 'Drama of Exile, ' and 'Blackwood' in particular criticised it atconsiderable length, calling it 'the least successful of her works. 'The subject, while half challenging comparison with Milton, lendsitself only too readily to fancifulness and unreality, which wereamong the most besetting sins of Miss Barrett's genius. The minorpoems were incomparably more popular, and the favourite of all wasthat masterpiece of rhetorical sentimentality, 'Lady Geraldine'sCourtship. ' It must have been a little mortifying to the authoress tofind this piece, a large part of which had been dashed off at a singleheat in order to supply the printers' needs, preferred to others onwhich she had employed all the labour of her deliberate art; but withthe general tone of all the critics she had every reason to be ascontent as her letters show her to have been. Only two criticismsrankled: the one that she was a follower of Tennyson, the other thather rhymes were slovenly and careless. And these appeared, in varyingshapes, in nearly all the reviews. 

The former of these allegations is of little weight. Whateverqualities Miss Barrett may have shared with Tennyson, her substantialindependence is unquestionable. It is a case rather of coincidencethan imitation; or if imitation, it is of a slight and unconsciouskind. The second criticism deserves fuller notice, because it isconstantly repeated to this day. The following letters show howstrongly Miss Barrett protested against it. As she told Horne, [105]with reference to this very subject: 'If I fail ultimately before thepublic--that is, before the people--for an ephemeral popularity doesnot appear to me to be worth trying for--it will not be because I haveshrunk from the amount of labour, where labour could do anything. Ihave _worked_ at poetry; it has not been with me reverie, but art. 'That her rhymes were inexact, especially in such poems as 'The DeadPan, ' she did not deny; but her defence was that the inexactness wasdue to a deliberate attempt to widen the artistic capabilities of theEnglish language. Partly, perhaps, as a result of her acquaintancewith Italian literature, she had a marked fondness for disyllabicrhymes; and since pure rhymes of this kind are not plentiful inEnglish, she tried the experiment of using assonances instead. Hencesuch rhymes as _silence_ and _islands_, _vision_ and _procession_, _panther_ and _saunter_, examples which could be indefinitelymultiplied if need were. Now it may be that a writer with a verysensitive ear would not have attempted such an experiment, and it is afact that public taste has not approved it; but the experiment itselfis as legitimate as, say, the metrical experiments in hexameters andhendecasyllabics of Longfellow or Tennyson, and whether approvedor not it should be criticised as an experiment, not as merecarelessness. That Mrs. Browning's ear was quite-capable of discerningtrue rhymes is shown by the fact that she tacitly abandoned herexperiment in assonances. Not only in the pure and high art of the'Sonnets from the Portuguese, ' but even in 'Casa Guidi Windows, ' therhetorical and sometimes colloquial tone of which might have beenthought to lend itself to such devices, imperfect rhymes occur butrarely not exceeding the limits allowed to himself by every poet whohas 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 acommonplace of criticism as regards Mrs. Browning; but we may now makeway 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 withwhich you have responded to a natural expression of feeling onmy part, and for all the pleasure of finding you pleased with theinscription of 'Cyprus Wine. ' Your note has given me much truepleasure. Yes; if my verses survive me, I should wish them to relatethe fact of my being your debtor for many happy hours. 

And now I must explain to you that most of the 'incorrectnesses' youspeak of may be 'incorrectnesses, ' but are not _negligences_. I havea theory about double rhymes for which--I shall be attacked by thecritics, but which I could justify perhaps on high authority, or atleast analogy. In fact, these volumes of mine have more double rhymesthan any two books of English poems that ever to my knowledge wereprinted; I mean of English poems _not comic_. Now, of double rhymesin use, which are perfect rhymes, you are aware how few there are, andyet you are also aware of what an admirable effect in making a rhythmvarious and vigorous, double rhyming is in English poetry. ThereforeI have used a certain licence; and after much thoughtful study of theElizabethan writers, have ventured it with the public. And do _you_tell me, _you_ who object to the use of a different _vowel_ in adouble rhyme, _why_ you rhyme (as everybody does, without blame fromanybody) '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 considerthe subject as _a point for consideration_ seriously, and not to blameme as a writer of careless verses. If I deal too much in licences, itis not because I am idle, but because I am speculative for freedom'ssake. It is possible, you know, to be wrong conscientiously; and Istand up for my conscience only. 

I thank you earnestly for your candour hitherto, and I beseech you tobe candid to the end. 

 It is tawny as Rhea's lion. 

I know (although you don't say so) you object to that line. Yetconsider its structure. Does not the final 'y' of 'tawny' suppose anapostrophe and apocope? Do you not run 'tawny as' into two syllablesnaturally? I want you to see my principle. 

With regard to blank verse, the great Fletcher admits sometimesseventeen syllables into his lines. 

I hope Miss Heard received her copy, and that you will not think mearrogant in writing freely to you. 

Believe me, I write only freely and not arrogantly; and I am impressedwith the conviction that my work abounds with far more faults than youin your kindness will discover, notwithstanding your acumen. 

Always your affectionate and gratefulELIBET. 

_To H. S. Boyd_Wednesday, August 14, 1844 [postmark]. 

My dearest Mr. Boyd, --I must thank you for the great great pleasurewith which I have this moment read your note, the more welcome, as (without hypocrisy) I had worked myself up into a nervousapprehension, from your former one, that I should seem so 'rudis atqueincomposita' to you, in consequence of certain licences, as to end bybeing intolerable. I know what an ear you have, and how you can hearthe 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--withsupererogatory 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 gratefulELZBETH. 

_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 persuasionthat the 'Drama' will have a majority of friends in the end, andperhaps deserve to have them. Nay, why should I throw perhapses overmy own impressions, and be insincere to you who have honoured me bybeing sincere? Why should I dissemble my own belief that the 'Drama'is worth two or three 'Seraphims'--_my own_ belief, you know, which isworth nothing, writers knowing themselves so superficially, and havingsuch a natural leaning to their last work. Still, I may say honestlyto you, that I have a far more modest value for 'The Seraphim' thanyour kindness suggests, and that I have seemed to myself to have aclear insight into the fact that that poem was only borne up by theminor poems published with it, from immediate destruction. There is awant of unity in it which vexes me to think of, and the other faultsmagnify themselves day by day, more and more, in my eyes. Thereforeit is not that I care _more_ for the 'Drama, ' but I care less for 'TheSeraphim. ' Both poems fall short of my aspiration and desire, but the'Drama' seems to me fuller, freer and stronger, and worth the otherthree times over. If it has anything new, I think it must be somethingnew into which I have lived, for certainly I wrote it sincerely andfrom an inner impulse. In fact, I never wrote any poem with so muchsense of pleasure in the composition, and so rapidly, with continuousflow--from fifty to a hundred lines a day, and quite in a glow ofpleasure and impulse all through. Still, you have not been used to seeme in blank verse, and there may be something in that. That the poemis full of faults and imperfections I do not in the least doubt. Ihave vibrated between exultations and despondencies in the correctingand printing of it, though the composition went smoothly to an end, and I am prepared to receive the bastinado to the critical degree, Ido assure you. The few opinions I have yet had are all to the effectthat my advance on the former publication is very great and obvious, but then I am aware that people who thought exactly the contrary wouldbe naturally backward in giving me their opinion. .. . Indeed, I thankyou most earnestly. Truth and kindness, how rarely do they cometogether! 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 secretwishes towards its extirpation, but other writers besides yourselfhave singled it out for praise in private letters to me. There hasbeen no printed review yet, I believe; and when I think of them, Itry to think of something else, for with no private friends amongthe critical body (not that I should desire to owe security in such amatter to private friendship) it is awful enough, this looking forwardto be reviewed. Never mind, the ultimate prosperity of the book liesfar above the critics, and can neither be mended nor made nor unmadeby _them_. 

_To John Kenyan_Wednesday morning [August 1844]. 

I return Mr. Chorley's[106] note, my dear cousin, with thankfulthoughts of him--as of you. I wish I could persuade you of therightness of my view about 'Essays on Mind' and such things, and howthe difference between them and my present poems is not merely thedifference between two schools, as you seemed to intimate yesterday, nor even the difference between immaturity and maturity; but that itis the difference between the dead and the living, between a copy andan individuality, between what is myself and what is not myself. Toyou who have a personal interest and--may I say? affection for me, the girl's exercise assumes a factitious value, but to the publicthe matter is otherwise and ought to be otherwise. And for the'psychological' side of the question, _do_ observe that I have notreputation enough to suggest a curiosity about _my legends_. Insteadof your 'legendary lore, ' it would be just a legendary bore. Now youunderstand what I mean. I do not underrate Pope nor his school, but I_do_ disesteem everything which, bearing the shape of a book, is notthe 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, mustbe valueless in itself, and if offered to the public directly orindirectly as a work of mine, highly injurious to me. Why, of the'Prometheus' volume, even, you know what I think and desire. 'TheSeraphim, ' with all its feebleness and shortcomings and obscurities, yet is the first utterance of my own individuality, and therefore theonly volume except the last which is not a disadvantage to me to havethought of, and happily for me, the early books, never having beenadvertised, nor reviewed, except by accident, once or twice, are assafe 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 enoughto ruin me in the new poems, without reviving juvenile ones, sinnedwhen I knew no better. Perhaps you would like to have the series ofepic poems which I wrote from nine years old to eleven. They mightillustrate some doctrine of innate ideas, and enrich (to that end) themyths of metaphysicians. 

And also agree with me in reverencing that wonderful genius _Keats_, who, rising as a grand exception from among the vulgar herd ofjuvenile versifiers, was an individual _man_ from the beginning, andspoke with his own voice, though surrounded by the yet unfamiliarmurmur 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 theprincipal members of the staff of the _Athenaeum_, especially inliterary and musical matters. Dr. Garnett (in the _Dictionary ofNational Biography_) says of him, shortly after his first joining thestaff in 1833, that 'his articles largely contributed to maintain thereputation the _Athenaeum_ had already acquired for impartiality at atime when puffery was more rampant than ever before or since, andwhen the only other London literary journal of any pretension wasnotoriously venal. ' He also wrote several novels and dramas, which metwith 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 replyto which should certainly, as you desired, have met you at Colwall;only, right or wrong, I have been flurried, agitated, put out of theway altogether, by Stormie's and Henry's plan of going to Egypt. Ah, now you are surprised. Now you think me excusable for being silenttwo days beyond my time--yes, and _they have gone_, it is no vaguespeculation. You know, or perhaps you don't know, that, a little timeback, papa bought a ship, put a captain and crew of his own in it, andbegan to employ it in his favourite 'Via Lactea' of speculations. Ithas been once to Odessa with wool, I think; and now it has gone toAlexandria with coals. Stormie was wild to go to both places; and withregard to the last, papa has yielded. And Henry goes too. This was allarranged weeks ago, but nothing was said of it until last Mondayto me; and when I heard it, I was a good deal moved of course, andalthough resigned now to their having their way in it, and their_pleasure_, which is better than their way, still I feel I haveentered a new anxiety, and shall not be quite at ease again till theyreturn. .. . 

And now to thank you, my ever-dearest Mrs. Martin, for your kind andwelcome letter from the Lakes. I knew quite at the first page, andlong before you said a word specifically, that dear Mr. Martin wasbetter, and think that such a scene, even from under an umbrella, musthave done good to the soul and body of both of you. I wish I couldhave looked through your eyes for once. But I suppose that neitherthrough yours, nor through my own, am I ever likely to behold thatsight. In the meantime it is with considerable satisfaction that Ihear of your _failure of Wordsworth_, which was my salvation in a veryawful sense. Why, if you had done such a thing, you would have put meto the shame of too much honor. The speculation consoles me entirelyfor your loss in respect to Rydal Hall and its poet. By the way, Iheard 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; andcan only give gestures to his worshippers, and no conversation to hisfriends. ' . .. 

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 tookcharge of, and promised to deliver or see delivered. When you haveread 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 onlyreview which has yet appeared or had time to appear has been a verykind and cordial one in the 'Athenaeum. ' . .. 

Your ever affectionateBA. 

_To Mr. Westwood_August 31, 1844. 

My dear Mr. Westwood, --I send you the manuscript you ask for, and alsomy certificate that, although I certainly was once a little girl, yet I never in my life had fair hair, or received lessons when youmention. I think a cousin of mine, now dead, may have done it. The'Barrett Barrett' seems to specify my family. I have a little cousinwith bright fair hair at this moment who is an Elizabeth Barrett (thesubject 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 whomakes serious affidavit that I have never changed (except by beingrather taller) since I was a year old. Altogether, you cannot make acase of identity out, and I am forced to give up the glory of being solong remembered for my cleverness. 

You do wrong in supposing me inclined to underrate Mr. Melville'spower. He is inclined to High-Churchism, and to such doctrines asapostolical succession, and I, who, am a Dissenter, and a believer ina universal Christianity, recoil from the exclusive doctrine. 

But then, that is not depreciatory of his power and eloquence--surelynot. 

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 thangladnesses, but I thank you earnestly for both in the letter I havethis moment received. [109] You have given me a quick sudden pleasurewhich goes deeper (I am very sure) than self-love, for it must besomething better than vanity that brings the tears so near the eyes. Ithank you, dear Mr. Chorley. 

After all, we are not quite strangers. I have had some earlyencouragement 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 excusefor my love of romance-reading from your grateful fancy. Then, as dearMiss Mitford's friend, you could not help being (however against yourwill!) a little my acquaintance; and this she daringly promised tomake 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 onemore word as a friend, and _that_ shall be the best word--'_May Godbless you_!' The trials with which He tries us all are different, butour faces may be turned towards the end in cheerfulness, for '_to_ theend He has loved us. ' I remain, Very faithfully, your obligedELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

You may trust me with the secret of your kindness to me. It shall notgo farther. 

[Footnote 109: A summary of its contents is given in the next letterbut one. ]

[Footnote 110: _Music and Manners in France and Germany: a Series ofTravelling Sketches of Art and Society_, published by Mr. Chorley in1841. ]

_To H. S. Boyd_Monday, September 1, 1844. 

My dearest Mr. Boyd, --I thank you for the Cyprus, and also for a stillsweeter amreeta--your praise. Certainly to be praised as you praiseme might well be supposed likely to turn a sager head than mine, butI feel that (with all my sensitive and grateful appreciation of suchwords) I am removed rather below than above the ordinary temptationsof vanity. Poetry is to me rather a passion than an ambition, andthe gadfly which drives me along that road pricks deeper than anexpectation of fame could do. 

Moreover, there will be plenty of counter-irritation to prevent mefrom growing feverish under your praises. And as a beginning, I hearthat 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 forthe 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 hadreceived from a professional critic, and I am sorry that she shouldhave told you so without binding you to secrecy on the point at thesame time. In fact, the writer of the letter begged me _not_ to speakof it, and I took an engagement to him _not_ to speak of it. Now itwould be very unpleasant to me, and dishonorable to me, if, afterentering into this engagement, the circumstance of the letter shouldcome to be talked about. Of course you will understand that I do notobject to your having been informed of the thing, only Arabel shouldhave remembered to ask you not to mention again the name of the criticwho wrote to me. 

May God bless you, my very dear friend. I drink thoughts of you inCyprus every day. 

Your ever affectionateELIBET. 

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 asecond article, which, however, never appeared. ]

_To Mrs. Martin_September 10, 1844. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --I will not lose a post in assuring you thatI was not silent because of any disappointment from your previousletter. I could only feel the _kindness_ of that letter, and this wascertainly the chief and uppermost feeling at the time of reading it, and since. Your preference of 'The Seraphim' one other person besidesyourself has acknowledged to me in the same manner, and although Imyself--perhaps from the natural leaning to last works, and perhapsfrom a wise recognition of the complete failure of the poem called'The Seraphim '--do disagree with you, yet I can easily forgive youfor such a thought, and believe that you see sufficient grounds forentertaining it. More and more I congratulate myself (at any rate)for the decision I came to at the last moment, and in the face ofsome persuasions, to call the book 'Poems, ' instead of trusting itsresponsibility 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 isever so little pleased with the 'Drama, ' fifty at least will like thesmaller poems. And perhaps they are right. The longer sustaining of asubject requires, of course, more power, and I may have failed in italtogether. 

Yes, I think I may say that I am satisfied so far with the aspect ofthings in relation to the book. You see there has scarcely been timeyet to give any except a sanguine or despondent judgment--I mean, there is scarcely room yet for forming a very rational inference ofwhat will ultimately be, without the presentiments of hope or fear. The book came out too late in August for any chance of a mention inthe September magazines, and at the dead time of year, when thevery critics were thinking more of holiday innocence than of theircarnivorous instincts. This will not hurt it ultimately, although itmight 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 bestof the newspapers for literary notices; and it spoke graciously onthe whole; though I do protest against being violently attached toa 'school. ' I have faults enough, I know; but it is just to say thatthey are at least my own. Well, then! It is true that the 'WestminsterReview' says briefly what is great praise, and promises to take theearliest opportunity of reviewing me 'at large. ' So that with regardto the critics, there seems to be a good prospect. Then I have hadsome very pleasant private letters--one from Carlyle; an oath fromMiss Martineau to give her whole mind to the work and tell me her freeand full opinion, which I have not received yet; an assurance from anacquaintance of Mrs. Jameson that she was much pleased. But the letterwhich 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 volumeswere so much better than any preceding them, and were such _livingbooks_, that they restored to him the impulses of his youth andconstrained him to thank me for the pleasant emotions they hadexcited. I cannot say the name of the writer of this letter, becausehe 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 notspeak of it; only I want (you see) to prove to you how faithfullyand gratefully I have a trust in your kindness and sympathy. It iscertainly the best kindness to speak the truth to me. I have writtenthose poems as well as I could, and I hope to write others better. Ihave not reached my own ideal; and I cannot expect to have satisfiedother people's expectation. But it is (as I sometimes say) the leastignoble part of me, that I love poetry better than I love my ownsuccesses in it. 

I am glad that you like 'The Lost Bower. ' The scene of that poem isthe wood above the garden at Hope End. 

It is very true, my dearest Mrs. Martin, all that you say about thevoyage to Alexandria. And I do not feel the anxiety I _thought Ishould_. 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 thesecond, the good news of dear Mr. Martin. Both he and you are veryvainglorious, I suppose, about O'Connell; but although I was delightedon every account at his late victory, [112] or rather at the latevictory of justice and constitutional law, he never was a hero of mineand is not likely to become one. If he had been (by the way) a hero ofmine, I should have been quite ashamed of him for being so unequal tohis grand position as was demonstrated by the speech from the balcony. Such poetry in the position, and such prose in the speech! He has notthe stuff in him of which heroes are made. There is a thread of cottoneverywhere 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 inIreland for conspiracy, which the English Court of Queen's Bench hadconfirmed. ]

_To Mrs. Martin_Wednesday [about September 1844]. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, . .. Did I tell you that Miss Martineau hadpromised and vowed to me to tell me the whole truth with respect tothe poems? Her letter did not come until a few days ago, and for afull month after the publication; and I was so fearful of the probablesentence that my hands shook as they broke the seal. But such apleasant letter! I have been overjoyed with it. She says that her'predominant impression is of the _originality_'--very pleasant tohear. I must not forget, however, to say that she complains of 'wantof variety' in the general effect of the drama, and that she 'likesLucifer less than anything in the two volumes. ' You see how you havehigh backers. Still she talks of 'immense advances, ' which consoles meagain. In fact, there is scarcely a word to _require_ consolationin her letter, and what did not please me least--nay, to do myselfjustice, what put all the rest out of my head for some minutes withjoy--is the account she gives of herself. For she is better and likelystill to be better; she has recovered appetite and sleep, and lost themost threatening symptoms of disease; she has been out for the firsttime 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 vainof me, but I cannot resist the temptation of writing it!) Andthe means--the means! Such means you would never divine! It is_mesmerism_. She is thrown into the magnetic trance twice a day; andthe 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 aweak-minded woman and a nervous affection; but of the most manlikewoman in the three kingdoms--in the best sense of man--a woman giftedwith admirable fortitude, as well as exercised in high logic, a womanof sensibility and of imagination certainly, but apt to carry herreason unbent wherever she sets her foot; given to utilitarianphilosophy and the habit of logical analysis; and suffering under adisease which has induced change of structure and yielded to no triedremedy! Is it not wonderful, and past expectation? She suggests thatI should try the means--but I understand that in cases like mine theremedy has done harm instead of good, by over-exciting the system. Buther experience will settle the question of the reality of magnetismwith a whole generation of infidels. For my own part, I have long beena believer, _in spite of papa_. Then I have had very kind letters fromMrs. Jameson, the 'Ennuyée'[113] and from Mr. Serjeant Talfourd andsome less famous persons. And a poet with a Welsh name wrote to meyesterday to say that he was writing a poem 'similar to my "Drama ofExile, "' and begged me to subscribe to it. Now I tell you all this tomake 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 yoursympathy. How could he think so of me? I am half vexed that he shouldthink so. Indeed--indeed I am not so morbidly vain. Why, if you hadtold me that the books were without any sort of value in your eyes, do you imagine that I should not have valued you, reverenced youever after for your truth, so sacred a thing in friendship? I reallybelieve it would have been my predominant feeling. But you proved yourtruth without trying me so hardly; I had _both_ truth and praise fromyou, and surely quite enough, and _more_ than enough, as many wouldthink, of the latter. 

My dearest papa left us this morning to go for a few days intoCornwall for the purpose of examining a quarry in which he has boughtor is about to buy shares, and he means to strike on for the Land'sEnd and to see Falmouth before he returns. It depresses me to thinkof his being away; his presence or the sense of his nearness havingso much cheering and soothing influence with me; but it will be anexcellent change for him, even if he does not, as he expects, dig animmense fortune out of the quarries. .. . 

Your affectionate and ever obligedBA. 

[Footnote 113: Mrs. Jameson's earliest book, and one which achievedconsiderable popularity, was her _Diary of an Ennuyée_. ]

_To Cornelius Mathews_London, 50 Wimpole Street: October 1, 1844. 

My dear Mr. Mathews, --I have just received your note, which, on theprinciple of single sighs or breaths being wafted from Indies to thepoles, arrived quite safely, and I was very glad to have it. I shallfall into monotony if I go on to talk of my continued warm sense ofyour wonderful kindness to me, a stranger according to the manner ofmen; and, indeed, I have just this moment been writing a note toa friend two streets away, and calling it 'wonderful kindness. 'I cannot, however, of course, allow you to run the tether of yourimpulse and furnish me with the reviews of my books and other thingsyou speak of at your own expense, and I should prefer, if you wouldhave the goodness to give the necessary direction to Messrs. Putnam& Co. , that they should send what would interest me to see, togetherwith a note of the pecuniary debt to themselves. I shall like to seethe reviews, of course; and that you should have taken the first wordof American judgment into your own mouth is a pleasant thought tome, and leaves me grateful. In England I have no reason so far tobe otherwise than well pleased. There has not, indeed, been much yetbesides newspaper criticisms--except 'Ainsworth's Magazine, ' whichis benignant!--there has not been time. The monthly reviews givethemselves 'pause' in such matters to set the plumes of their dignity, and I am rather glad than otherwise not to have the first fruits oftheir haste. The 'Atlas, ' the best newspaper for literary reviews, excepting always the 'Examiner, ' who does not speak yet, is generousto me, and I have reason to be satisfied with others. And our mostinfluential quarterly (after the 'Edinburgh' and right 'Quarterly'), the 'Westminster Review, ' promises an early paper with passing wordsof high praise. What vexed me a little in one or two of the journalswas an attempt made to fix me in a school, and the calling mea follower of Tennyson for my habit of using compound words, noun-substantives, which I used to do before I knew a page ofTennyson, and adopted from a study of our old English writers, andGreeks and even Germans. The custom is so far from being peculiar toTennyson, that Shelley and Keats and Leigh Hunt are all redolent ofit, and no one can read our old poets without perceiving the leaningof our Saxon to that species of coalition. Then I have had letters ofgreat kindness from 'Spirits of the Age, ' whose praises are so manycrowns, and altogether am far from being out of spirits about theprospect 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 thetitle-page and increasing its responsibility; for one person who likesthe 'Drama, ' ten like the other poems. Both Carlyle and Miss Martineauselect as favorite 'Lady Geraldine's Courtship, ' which amuses andsurprises me somewhat. In that poem I had endeavoured to throwconventionalities (turned asbestos for the nonce) into the fire ofpoetry, 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 ifyou have been very carnivorous with me! I tremble a little to think ofyour hereditary claim to an instrument called the tomahawk. Still, Iam 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 sufferor be glad by it. As for Mr. Horne, I cannot answer for what he hasreceived 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 hesaid 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 withhis 'Spirit of the Age;' the attacks on the book here being bitter inthe extreme. Your 'Democratic' does not comfort him for the rest, bythe way, and, indeed, he is almost past comfort on the subject. I hada letter the other day from Dr. Shelton Mackenzie, whom I do not knowpersonally, but who is about to publish a 'Living Author Dictionary, 'and who, by some association, talked of the effeminacy of 'theAmerican poets, ' so I begged him to read your poems on 'Man' andprepare an exception to his position. I wish to write more and mustnot. 

Most faithfully yours, E. B. B. 

Am I the first with the great and good news for America and Englandthat Harriet Martineau is better and likely to be better? She told meso 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 abouthaving caused you so much disturbance. I sometimes fancy that a littlevarying of the accents, though at the obvious expense of injuringthe smoothness of every line considered separately, gives varietyof cadence and fuller harmony to the general effect. But I do notquestion that I deserve a great deal of blame on this point as onothers. Many lines in 'Isobel's Child' are very slovenly and weak froma multitude of causes. I hope you will like 'The Lost Bower' betterwhen you try it again than you did at first, though I do not, ofcourse, expect that you will not see much to cry out against. Thesubject of the poem was an actual fact of my childhood. 

Oh, and I think I told you, when giving you the history of 'LadyGeraldine's Courtship, ' that I wrote the _thirteen_ last pages of itin one day. I ought to have said _nineteen_ pages instead. But don'ttell anybody; only keep the circumstance in your mind when you need itand see the faults. Nobody knows of it except you and Mr. Kenyon andmy own family for the reason I told you. I sent off that poem to thepress 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 firstwriters in 'Blackwood' and a man of very refined taste, adding anothername to the many of those who have preferred it to anything in thetwo volumes. He says that he has read it at least six times aloud tovarious persons, and calls it a 'beautiful _sui generis_ drama. ' Onwhich Mr. Kenyon observes that I am 'ruined for life, and shall besure never to take pains with any poem again. '

The American edition (did Arabel tell you?) was to be out in NewYork a week ago, and was to consist of fifteen hundred copies in twovolumes, as in England. 

She sends you the verses and asks you to make allowances for the delayin doing so. I cannot help believing that if you were better read inWordsworth you would appreciate him better. Ever since I knew whatpoetry is, I have believed in him as a great poet, and I do notunderstand how reasonably there can be a doubt of it. Will youremember that nearly all the first minds of the age have admittedhis power (without going to intrinsic evidence), and then say thathe _can_ be a mere Grub Street writer? It is not that he is only orchiefly admired by the _profanum vulgus_, that he is a mere popularand fashionable poet, but that men of genius in this and othercountries unite in confessing his genius. And is not this asignificant circumstance--significant, at least?. .. 

Believe me, yourself, your affectionate and gratefulELIBET B. B. 

How kind you are, far too kind, about the Cyprus wine; I thank youvery much. 

_To Mrs. Martin_October 5, 1844. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --. .. Well, papa came back from Cornwall justas I came back to my own room, and he was as pleased with his quarryas 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 onits 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 excellentharmony with the fall of my green damask curtains--new, since yousaw me last. Papa insults me with the analogy of a back window in aconfectioner's shop, but is obviously moved when the sunshine lightsup the castle, notwithstanding. And Mr. Kenyon and everybody inthe house grow ecstatic rather than otherwise, as they stand incontemplation before it, and tell me (what is obvious without theirevidence) that the effect is beautiful, and that the whole roomcatches a light from it. Well, and then Mr. Kenyon has given me a newtable, with a rail round it to consecrate it from Flush's paws, andlarge enough to hold all my varieties of vanities. 

I had another letter from Miss Martineau the other day, and she saysshe 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 ownsensations on being removed suddenly from the verge of the prospectof a most painful death--a most painful and lingering death--must bestrange 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 andyourself 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 bemore willing 'to take our politics' from 'Punch' than from any otherof the newspaper oracles. 'Punch' is very generous, and I like him foreverything, except for his rough treatment of Louis Philippe, whomI believe to be a great man--for a king. And then, it is well worthfourpence 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 Planché, Titmarsh, and the author of 'Little Peddlington, ' tosupport him. .. . 

Now I have written enough to tire you, I am sure. May God blessyou both! Did you read 'Coningsby, ' that very able book, withoutcharacter, story, or specific teaching? It is well worth reading, andworth wondering over. D'Israeli, who is a man of genius, has written, nevertheless, books which will live longer, and move deeper. Buteverybody should read 'Coningsby. ' It is a sign of the times. Believeme, my dearest Mrs. Martin, Your very affectionateBA. 

_To John Kenyon_Tuesday, October 8, 1844. 

Thank you, my dearest cousin, for your kind little note, which I runthe chance of answering by that Wednesday's post you think you maywait for. So (_via_ your table) I set about writing to you, and thefirst word, of course, must be an expression of my contentment withthe 'Examiner' review. Indeed, I am more than contented--delightedwith it. I had some dread, vaguely fashioned, about the 'Examiner';the very delay looked ominous. And then, I thought to myself, thoughI 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 isall the contrary, you see, and I am the more pleased for the want ofprevious expectation; and I must add that if _you_ were so kind as tobe 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 youlike--mind, I don't think it all so rough as the extracts appear tobe, and some variety is attained by that playing at ball withthe _pause_, which causes the apparent roughness--still you shallcriticise 'Geraldine' exactly as you like. I have a great fancy forwriting some day a longer poem of a like class--a poem comprehendingthe aspect and manners of modern life, and flinching at nothing of theconventional. I think it might be done with good effect. You said oncethat Tennyson had done it in 'Locksley Hall, ' and I half agreed withyou. But looking at 'Locksley Hall' again, I find that not much hasbeen done in that _way_, noble and passionate and _full_ as the poemis in other ways. But there is no story, no _manners_, no modernallusion, except in the grand general adjuration to the 'Mother-age, 'and no approach to the treatment of a conventionality. But Crabbe, asyou say, has done it, and Campbell in his 'Theodore' in a few toucheswas near to do it; but _Hayley_ clearly apprehends the species of poemin his 'Triumphs of Temper' and 'Triumphs of Music, ' and so did MissSeward, who called it the '_poetical novel_. ' Now I do think that atrue poetical novel--modern, and on the level of the manners of theday--might be as good a poem as any other, and much more popularbesides. Do you not think so?

I had a letter from dear Miss Mitford this morning, with yours, but Ican find nothing in it that you will care to hear again. She complainsof the vagueness of 'Coningsby, ' and praises the French writers--asympathy between us, that last, which we wear hidden in our sleevesfor the sake of propriety. Not a word of coming to London, though Iasked. 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 inexistence for three years at this time, which will account for thisapparently superfluous advice. ]

_To Mrs. Martin_October 15, 1844. 

. .. Not a word more have I heard from Miss Martineau; and shall notsoon, perhaps, as she is commanded not to write, not to read--to donothing, 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 structuralchange. Yes, I use the common phrase in respect to mesmerism, andthink 'there is something in it. ' Only I think, besides, that, if something, there must be a great deal in it. Clairvoyance hasprecisely the same evidence as the phenomenon of the trance has, andscientific 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 truthover and over, and round and round, makes it needful: 'I believe inmesmerism, but not in _mesmerists_. '

We have had no other letter from our Egyptians, but can wait a littlelonger without losing our patience. 

The blind rises in favour, and the ivy would not fall, if it would butlive. Alas! I am going to try _guano_ as a last resource. You see, inpainting the windows, papa was forced to have it taken down, and theivy that grows on ruins and oaks is not usually taken down 'for thenonce. ' I think I shall have a myrtle grove in two or three large potsinside the window. I have a mind to try it. 

I heard twice from dear Mr. Kenyon at Dover, where he was detained bythe weather, but not since his entrance into France. Which is grandenough word for the French Majesty itself--'entrance into France. ' Bythe way, I do hope you have some sympathy with me in my respect forthe King of the French--that right kingly king, Louis Philippe. IfFrance had _borne_ more liberty, he would not have withheld it, and, for the rest, and in all truly royal qualities, he is the noblestking, according to my idea, in Europe--the most royal king in theencouragement of art and literature, and in the honoring of artistsand men of letters. Let a young unknown writer accomplish a successfultragedy, and the next day he sits at the king's table--not in ametaphor, but face to face. See how different the matter is in ourcourt, where the artists are shown up the back stairs, and where nopoet (even by the back stairs) can penetrate, unless so fortunateas to be a banker also. What is the use of kings and queens in thesedays, 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 notpublished there until the fifth of this October. Still, a few copieshad preceded the publication, and made way among the critics, andseveral reviews were in the course of germinating very greenly. Yes, I was delighted with the 'Examiner, ' and all the more so from havinginterpreted the long delay of the notice, the gloomiest mannerpossible. My friends try to persuade me that the book is making someimpression, and I am willing enough to be convinced. Thank you for allyour kind sympathy, my dear friend. 

Now, do write to me soon again! Have you read Dr. Arnold's Life? Ihave not, but am very anxious to do so, from the admirable extractsin the 'Examiner' of last Saturday, and also from what I hear of it inother quarters. That Dr. Arnold must have been _a man_, in the largestand noblest sense. May God bless you, both of you! I think of you, dearest Mrs. Martin, much, and remain

Your very affectionateBA. 

_To John Kenyon_Saturday, October 29, 1844. 

The moral of your letter, my dearest cousin, certainly is that nogreen 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 toEngland (for I know not how to explain what she said to you, but bythe 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 hewrote was pleasanter to me than many of the kindnesses (apart fromyour own) occasioned by my book--and when you asked me once 'whatletters I had received, ' if ever a woman deserved to be canonisedfor her silence, _I_ did! But the effort was necessary--for heparticularly 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 youtell me, of his liking the poems better still, is delightful to hear;but he reviewed them in the 'Athenaeum' surely! The review we read inthe '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_; andthat I found it hard to eat and sleep as usual while he was in thehands of his enemies. It is a secret too. We would not tell papa ofit. Papa would have been angry with the unfortunate person who tookFlush out without a chain; and would have kicked against the pricks ofthe 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 convenientheadache 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 kindto talk daggers at them; and I feel no inclination to say 'Don't. ' Itis quite too bad and cruel. And think of their exceeding insolencein taking Flush away from this very door, while Arabel was waiting tohave the door opened on her return from her walk; and in observing (asthey gave him back for six guineas and a half) that they intended tohave him again at the earliest opportunity and that _then_ they musthave _ten_ guineas! I tell poor Flushie (while he looks very earnestlyin my face) that he and I shall be ruined at last, and that I shallhave no money to buy him cakes; but the worst is the anxiety! WhetherI am particularly silly, or not, I don't know; they say here, that Iam; but it seems to me impossible for anybody who really cares for adog, 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 broughthome, 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 Flushielost and won. '

But we are both recovered now, thank you; and intend to be veryprudent for the future. I am delighted to think of your being inEngland; it is the next best thing to your being in London. In regardto Miss Martineau, I agree with you word for word; but I cannotovercome an additional _horror_, which you do not express, or feelprobably. 

There is an excellent refutation of Puseyism in the 'EdinburghReview'--by whom? and I have been reading besides the admirablepaper by Macaulay in the same number. And now I must be done; havingresolved to let you hear without a post's delay. Otherwise I mighthave 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 howthe obscurities used to fly away before your cloud-compelling, whenyou were the Jove of the criticisms! That the books (I won't callthem _our_ books when I am speaking of the faults) are remarkable fordefects and superfluities of evil, I can see quite as well as another;but then I won't admit that ' it comes' of my carelessness, andrefusing to take pains. On the contrary, my belief is, that very fewwriters called ' correct ' who have selected classical models to workfrom, pay more laborious attention than I do habitually to the formsof thought and expression. ' Lady Geraldine ' was an exception in herwhole history. If I write fast sometimes (and the historical fact isthat what has been written fastest, has pleased most), l am not aptto print without consideration. I appeal to Philip sober, if I am!My dearest cousin, do remember! As to the faults, I do not think ofdefending them, be very sure. My consolation is, that I may try to dobetter in time, if I may talk of time. The worst fault of all, as faras expression goes (the adjective-substantives, whether in prose orverse, I cannot make up my mind to consider faulty), is that kind ofobscurity which is the same thing with inadequate expression. Be verysure--try to be very sure--that I am not obstinate and self-opiniatedbeyond measure. To _you_ in case, who have done so much for me, andwho think of me so more than kindly, I feel it to be both duty andpleasure to defer and yield. Still, you know, we could not, if we wereten years about it, alter down the poems to the terms of all thesereviewers. You would not desire it, if it were possible. I do notremember that you suggested any change in the verse on Aeschylus. Thecritic[115] mistakes my allusion, which was to the fact that in theacting 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 'duringcomposition. ' But I am very grateful to the reviewer whoever he maybe--very--and with need. See how the 'Sun' shines in response to'Blackwood' (thank you for sending me that notice), when previously wehad had but a wintry rag from the same quarter! No; if I am not spoiltby _your kindness_, I am not likely to be so by any of these exotericpraises, however beyond what I expected or deserved. And then I amlike a bird with one wing broken. Throw it out of the window; andafter the first feeling of pleasure in liberty, it falls heavily. Ihave had moments of great pleasure in hearing whatever good has beenthought of the poems; but the feeling of _elation_ is too strong orrather too _long_ for me. .. . 

Can it be true that Mr. Newman has at last joined the Church ofRome?[116] If it is true, it will do much to prove to the mostillogical minds the real character of the late movement. It will provewhat 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 havedone a good deed, but not at a right time. ' It can but be a questionof time, indeed, to the whole party; at least to such as arelogical--and honest. .. . [_Unsigned_]

[Footnote 115: In _Blackwood_. ]

[Footnote 116: Newman did not actually enter the Church of Rome untilnearly 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_ sawthat he couldn't have written the paper in question; we _both_ werepoets and prophets by that sign, but I hope he understands that Ishall gratefully remember what his intention was. As to his 'friend'who told him that I had 'imitated Tennyson, ' why I can only say andfeel that it is very particularly provoking to hear such things said, and that I wish people would find fault with my 'metre' in the placeof them. In the matter of 'Geraldine' I shall not be puffed up. Ishall take to mind what you suggest. Of course, if you find it hard toread, 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 ofthe most vainglorious of writers. You made me smile by your suggestionabout the aptitude of critics aforesaid for courting Lady Geraldines. Certes--however it may be--the poem has had more attention than itsdue. Oh, and I must tell you that I had a letter the other dayfrom Mr. Westwood (one of my correspondents unknown) referring to'Blackwood, ' and observing on the mistake about Goethe. 'Did you notmean "fell" the verb, ' he said, 'or do _I_ mistake?' So, you see, somepeople in the world did actually understand what I meant. I am eagerto prove that possibility sometimes. 

How full of life of mind Mr. Eagles's letter is. Such letters alwaysbring me to think of Harriet Martineau's pestilent plan of doing todestruction half of the intellectual life of the world, by suppressingevery mental breath breathed through the post office. She was not ina state of clairvoyance when she said such a thing. I have not heardfrom her, but you observed what the 'Critic' said of William Howitt'sbeing 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 tohave 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 uswhether Flush has a soul, and what is its 'future destination'? Asto the fact of his soul, I have long had a strong opinion on it. The'grand peut-être, ' to which 'without revelation' the human argument isreduced, covers dog-nature with the sweep of its fringes. 

Did you ever read Bulwer's 'Eva, or the Unhappy Marriage'? _That_ isa sort of poetical novel, with modern manners inclusive. But Bulwer, although a poet in prose, writes all his rhythmetical compositionssomewhat prosaically, providing an instance of that curious differencewhich exists between the poetical writer and the poet. It is easierto give the instance than the reason, but I suppose the cause of therhythmetical impotence must lie somewhere in the want of the power ofconcentration. For is it not true that the most prolix poet is capableof briefer expression than the least prolix prose writer, or am Iwrong?. .. 

Your ever affectionateE. B. B. 

[Footnote 117: Miss Martineau, besides having been cured by mesmerismherself, was blest with a housemaid who had visions under the sameinfluence, concerning which Miss Martineau subsequently wrote at greatlength 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 nothingto tell--only in guard of my gratitude, lest you should come tothink all manner of evil of me and of my supposed propensity to leteverything pass like Mr. Horne's copies of the American edition of hiswork, _sub silentio_. Therefore I must write, and you are to please tounderstand that I have not up to this moment received either letter orbook by the packet of October 10 which was charged, according to yourintimation, with so much. I, being quite out of patience and out ofbreath with expectation, have repeatedly sent to Mr. Putnam, and hereplies with undisturbed politeness that the ship has come in, andthat his part and lot in her, together with mine, remain at thedisposal of the Custom-house officers, and may remain some timelonger. So you see how it is. I am waiting--simply _waiting_, and itis better to let you know that I am not forgetting instead. 

In the meantime, your kindness will be glad to learn of the prosperityof my poems in my own country. I am more than satisfied in my mostsanguine hope for them, and a little surprised besides. The criticshave been good to me. 'Blackwood' and 'Tait' have this month both beengenerous, and the 'New Monthly' and 'Ainsworth's Magazine' did whatthey could. Then I have the 'Examiner' in my favor, and such heads andhearts as are better and purer than the purely critical, and I am veryglad altogether, and very grateful, and hope to live long enough toacknowledge, if not to justify, much unexpected kindness. Of course, some hard criticism is mixed with the liberal sympathy, as you willsee in 'Blackwood, ' but some of it I deserve, even in my own eyes; andall of it I am willing to be patient under. The strange thing is, thatwithout a single personal friend among these critics, they should haveexpended on me so much 'gentillesse, ' and this strangeness I feelvery sensitively. Mr. Horne has not returned to England yet, and in aletter which I received from him some fortnight ago he desired to havemy book sent to him to Germany, just as if he never meant to return toEngland again. I answered his sayings, and reiterated, in a waythat would make you smile, my information about your having sent theAmerican 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 yousend for _him_ must await his return from the east or the west orthe south, wherever he is. The new spirit of the age is a wanderingspirit. Mr. Dickens is in Italy. Even Miss Mitford _talks_ of going toFrance, which is an extreme case for _her_. Do you never feel inclinedto flash across the Atlantic to us, or can you really remain still inone place?

I must not forget to assure you, dear Mr. Mathews, as I mayconscientiously do, even before I have looked into or received the'Democratic Review, ' that whatever fault you may find with me, mystrongest feeling on reading your article will or must be _the senseof your kindness_. Of course I do not expect, nor should I wish, thatyour personal interest in me (proved in so many ways) would destroyyour critical faculty in regard to me. Such an expectation, if I hadentertained it, would have been scarcely honorable to either of us, and I may assure you that I never did entertain it. No; be atrest about the article. It is not likely that I shall think it'inadequate. ' And I may as well mention in connection with it thatbefore you spoke of reviewing me _I_ (in my despair of Mr. Horne'sabsence, and my impotency to assist your book) had thrown into mydesk, to watch for some opportunity of publication, a review of your'Poems on Man, ' from my own hand, and that I am still waiting andconsidering and taking courage before I send it to some currentperiodical. There is a difficulty--there is a feeling of shyness onmy part, because, as I told you, I have no personal friend orintroduction among the pressmen or the critics, and because the'Athenaeum, ' which I should otherwise turn to first, has alreadytreated of your work, and would not, of course, consent to reconsideran 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 evensuch poetical English publishers as Mr. Moxon, who can write sonnetshimself. Poetry is in their eyes just a desperate speculation. A poetmust 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 makeany effort you like to suggest for any work of yours; I only tell youhow _things are_. By the way, if I ever told you that Tennyson wasill, I may as rightly tell you now that he is well, again, or waswhen I last heard of him. I do not know him personally. Also HarrietMartineau can walk five miles a day with ease, and believes inmesmerism with all her strength. Mr. Putnam had the goodness to writeand 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 everyour friend, E. B. BARRETT. 

_To Mrs. Martin_November 16, 1844. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, . .. To-day I perceive in the 'contents' of thenew 'Westminster Review' that my poems are reviewed in it, and I hopethat you will both be interested enough in my fortunes to read at thelibrary 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 thebarrister? Well, Mr. Phillimore denies it altogether, has in factquarrelled with Christopher North, and writes no more for him, so thatI 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 seriesand second; and Mrs. Jameson's 'Visits and Sketches' and 'Lifein Mexico. ' Do you know the 'Santa Fé Expedition, ' and Custine's'Russia, ' and 'Forest Life' by Mrs. Clavers? You will think that myassociative process is in a most disorderly state, by all this runningup and down the stairs of all sorts of subjects, in the naming ofbooks. I would write a list, more as a list should be written, if Icould 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 everyromance now-a-days sets about pulling the joints of one's heart andsoul out, as a process of course. 'Ellen Middleton' (which I havenot read yet) is said to be very painful. Do you know Leigh Hunt'sexquisite essays called 'The Indicator and Companion' &c. , publishedby Moxon? I hold them at once in delight and reverence. May God blessyou both. 

I am ever your affectionateBA. 

_To Mrs. Martin_50 Wimpole Street:Tuesday, November 26, 1844 [postmark]. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --I thank you much for your little notes; andyou know too well how my sympathy answers you, 'as face to face in aglass, ' for me to assure you of it here. Your account of yourselvesaltogether I take to be satisfactory, because I never expected anybodyto gain strength very _rapidly_ while in the actual endurance of hardmedical discipline. I am glad you have found out a trustworthy adviserat Dover, but I feel nevertheless that you may _both trust_ and _hope_in Dr. Bright, of whom I heard the very highest praises the otherday. .. . 

Now really I don't know why I should fancy you to be so deeplyinterested in Dr. Bright, that all this detail should be necessary. What I _do_ want you to be interested in, is in Miss Martineau'smesmeric experience, [118] for a copy of which, in the last'Athenaeum, ' I have sent ever since yesterday, in the intention ofsending it to you. You will admit it to be curious as philosophy, andbeautiful as composition; for the rest, I will not answer. Believingin mesmerism as an agency, I hesitate to assent to the necessaryconnection between Miss Martineau's cure and the power; and also I amof opinion that unbelievers will not very generally become convertsthrough her representations. There is a tone of exaltation whichwill be observed upon, and one or two sentences are suggestive toscepticism. I will send it to you when I get the number. I understandthat an intimate friend of hers (a lady) travelled down from thesouth of England to Tynemouth, simply to try to prevent the publicexposition, but could not prevail. Mr. Milnes has, besides, been hervisitor. He is fully a believer, she says, and affirms to having seenthe same phenomena in the East, but regards the whole subject with_horror_. This still appears to be Mrs. Jameson's feeling, as youknow it is mine. Mrs. Jameson came again to this door with a note, andovercoming by kindness, was let in on Saturday last; and sate with mefor nearly an hour, and so ran into what my sisters call 'one of mysudden intimacies' that there was an embrace for a farewell. Of courseshe won my affections through my vanity (Mr. Martin will be sure tosay, so I hasten to anticipate him) and by exaggerations about mypoetry; but really, and although my heart beat itself almost to piecesfor fear of seeing her as she walked upstairs, I do think I shouldhave liked her _without the flattery_. She is very light--has thelightest of eyes, the lightest of complexions; no eyebrows, and whatlooked to me like very pale red hair, and thin lips of no colour atall. But with all this indecision of exterior the expression israther acute than soft; and the conversation in its principalcharacteristics, analytical and examinative; throwing out no thoughtwhich is not as clear as glass--critical, in fact, in somewhat ofan austere sense. I use 'austere, ' of course, in its intellectualrelation, for nothing in the world could be kinder, or more graciouslykind, than her whole manner and words were to me. She is coming againin two or three days, she says. Yes, and she said of Miss Martineau'spaper in the 'Athenaeum, ' that she very much doubted the wisdom ofpublishing it now; and that for the public's sake, if not for her own, Miss M. Should have waited till the excitement of recovered healthhad a little subsided. She said of mesmerism altogether that she wasinclined to believe it, but had not finally made up her convictions. She used words so exactly like some I have used myself that I mustrepeat them, 'that if there was _anything_ in it, there was _so much_, it became scarcely possible to limit consequences, and the subjectgrew awful to contemplate. ' . .. 

On Saturday I had some copies of my American edition, which dazzle theEnglish one; and one or two reviews, transatlantically transcendentalin 'oilie flatterie. ' And I heard yesterday from the English publisherMoxon, and he was 'happy to tell me that the work was selling verywell, ' and this without an inquiry on my part. To say the truth, Iwas _afraid_ to inquire. It is good news altogether. The 'WestminsterReview' won't be out till next month. 

Wordsworth is so excited about the railroad that his wife persuadedhim to go away to recover his serenity, but he has returned ragingworse than ever. He says that fifty members of Parliament havepromised him their opposition. He is wrong, I think, but I alsoconsider that if the people remembered his genius and his age, andsuspended 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 ofa series of articles by Miss Martineau, giving her experiences ofmesmerism. ]

_To James Martin_December 10, 1844. 

I have been thinking of you, my dear Mr. Martin, more and more thecolder it has been, and had made up my mind to write to-day, let mefeel as dull as I might. So, the vane only turns to _you_ insteadof to dearest Mrs. Martin in consequence of your letter--your lettermakes _that_ difference. I should have written to Dover in anycase. .. . 

You are to know that Miss Martineau's mesmeric experience is onlypeculiar as being Harriet Martineau's, otherwise it exhibits the merecommonplaces of the agency. You laugh, I see. I wish I could laughtoo. I mean, I seriously wish that I could disbelieve in the realityof 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 itif she were _more credulous_. The agency seems to me like the shakingof the flood-gates placed by the Divine Creator between the unpreparedsoul and the unseen world. Then--the subjection of the will and vitalpowers of one individual to those of another, to the extent of theapparent solution of the very identity, is abhorrent from me. And then(as to the expediency of the matter, and to prove how far believersmay be carried) there is even now a religious sect at Cheltenham, ofpersons who call themselves advocates of the 'third revelation, ' andprofess to receive their system of theology entirely from patients inthe sleep. 

In the meantime, poor Miss Martineau, as the consequence of her desireto speak the truth as she apprehends it, is overwhelmed with atrociousinsults from all quarters. For my own part I would rather fall intothe 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 hassingular strength of mind, and calmly continues her testimony. 

Miss Mitford writes to me: 'Be sure it is _all true_. I see it everyday in my Jane'--her maid, who is mesmerised for deafness, but not, I believe, with much success curatively. As a remedy, the successhas been far greater in the Martineau case than in others. WithMiss Mitford's maid, the sleep is, however, produced; and the girlprofessed, at the third _séance_, 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 havethought it. Pincher will help to reconcile me to the Law Lordsperhaps. 

And, to turn from Tory legislators, I am vainglorious in announcing toyou that the Anti-Corn-Law League has taken up my poems on the top ofits pikes as antithetic to 'War and Monopoly. ' Have I not had a sonnetfrom Gutter Lane? And has not the journal called the 'League' reviewedme into the third heaven, high up--above the pure ether of the fivepoints? Yes, indeed. Of course I should be a (magna) chartist forevermore, even without the previous predilection. 

And what do you and Mrs. Martin say about O'Connell? Did you readlast Saturday's 'Examiner'? Tell her that I welcomed her kind letterheartily, and that this is an answer to both of you. My best loveto her always. May God bless you, dear Mr. Martin! Probably I havewritten 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 bootswith more than the warmth of the worsted, and feel all their merits tomy soul (each sole) while I thank you. A pair of boots or shoeswhich 'can't be kicked off' is something highly desirable for me, inWilson's opinion; and this is the first thing which struck _her_. But the 'great idea' 'à propos des bottes, ' which occurred to myself, ought to be unspeakable, like Miss Martineau's great ideas--for I dobelieve 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 lastedI should have been dumb in a day or two more, and as it was, I wasforced to refuse to see Mrs. Jameson (who had the goodness to comeagain) because I couldn't speak much above my breath. But I wastolerably well and brave upon the whole. Oh, these murderous Englishwinters. The wonder is, how anybody can live through them. .. . 

Did I tell you, or Mr. Martin, that Rogers the poet, at eighty-threeor four years of age, bore the bank robbery[119] with thelight-hearted bearing of a man 'young and bold, ' went out to dinnertwo or three times the same week, and said witty things on his owngriefs. One of the other partners went to bed instead, and was notlikely, I heard, to 'get over it. ' I felt quite glad and proud forRogers. 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 thingto my mind. Then, there are other noble characteristics about thisRogers. A common friend said the other day to Mr. Kenyon, 'Rogershates me, I know. He is always saying bitter speeches in relation tome, and yesterday he said so and so. _But_, ' he continued, 'if I werein distress, there is one man in the world to whom I would go withoutdoubt 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 whohated me; but it is an illustration of the fact that if Rogers isbitter in his words, which we all know he is, he is always benevolentand generous in his deeds. He makes an epigram on a man, and giveshim a thousand pounds; and the deed is the truer expression of his ownnature. An uncommon development of character, in any case. 

May God bless you both!

Your most affectionateBA. 

I am going to tell you, in an antithesis, of the popularising of mypoems. I had a sonnet the other day from Gutter Lane, Cheapside, andI heard that Count d'Orsay had written one of the stanzas of 'Crownedand Buried' at the bottom of an engraving of Napoleon which hangs inhis room. Now I allow you to laugh at my vaingloriousness, and thenyou may pin it to Mrs. Best's satisfaction in the dedication toDowager Majesty. By the way--no, out of the way--it is whispered thatwhen Queen Victoria goes to Strathfieldsea[120] (how do you spell it?)she means to visit Miss Mitford, to which rumour Miss Mitford (beingthat 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, 000£ worth of notes, besidesspecie 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 beforeyesterday, when you were kind enough to bring me the review and writethe good news in pencil. I should be delighted to see you (this is tocertify) notwithstanding the frost; only my voice having suffered, andbeing the ghost of itself, you might find it difficult to _hear_ mewithout inconvenience. Which is for _you_ to consider, and notfor _me_. And indeed the fog, in addition to the cold, makes itinexpedient for anyone to leave the house except upon business andcompulsion. 

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. ' Inever heard of Barnes. [121]

Were you aware that the review you brought was in a newspaper calledthe 'League, ' and laudatory to the utmost extravagance--praising ustoo for courage in opposing 'war and monopoly'?--the 'corn ships inthe offing' being duly named. I have heard that it is probably writtenby Mr. Cobden himself, who writes for the journal in question, and isan 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 asort of (magna) chartist--only going a little farther!

Flush was properly ashamed of himself when he came upstairs again forhis most ungrateful, inexplicable conduct towards you; and I lecturedhim well; and upon asking him to 'promise never to behave ill to youagain, ' he kissed my hands and wagged his tail most emphatically. Italtogether amounted to an oath, I think. The truth is that Flush'snervous system rather than his temper was in fault, and that, in thatgreat cloak, he saw you as in a cloudy mystery. And then, when youstumbled 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 toforgive him and me--for his ingratitude seems to 'strike through' tome; 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 whichI 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 questionis 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 ofwhose _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 Ihave 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 itis worth--not much!) that many of the subjects of these drawingsare unfit for graphic representation. What we can bear to see in thepoet's vision, and sustained on the wings of his divine music, weshrink from a little when brought face to face with, as drawn outin black and white. You will understand what I mean. The horror andterror preponderate in the drawings, and what is sublime in thepoet is apt to be extravagant in the artist--and this, not from adeficiency of power in the latter, but from a treading on groundforbidden except to the poet's foot. I may be wrong, perhaps--I donot pretend to be right. I only tell you (as you ask for them) what myimpressions are. 

I need not say that I wish all manner of success to your friend theartist, and laurels of the weight of gold while of the freshness ofgrass--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--whichoptative aorist I am not sure of being either grammatical orreasonable! Perhaps you have expected to hear from _me_ with morereason. .. . 

I fancied that you would be struck by Miss Martineau's lucid and ablestyle. She is a very admirable woman--and the most logical intellectof the age, for a woman. On this account it is that the men throwstones at her, and that many of her own sex throw dirt; but if Ibegin on this subject I shall end by gnashing my teeth. A righteousindignation fastens on me. I had a note from her the other day, written in a noble spirit, and saying, in reference to the insultslavished on her, that she was prepared from the first for _publicity_, and ventured it all for the sake of what she considered the truth--shewas sustained, she said, by the recollection of Godiva. 

Do you remember who Godiva was--or shall I tell you? Think ofit--Godiva of Coventry, and peeping Tom. The worst and basest is, thatin this nineteenth century there are thousands of Toms to one. 

I think, however, myself, and with all my admiration for MissMartineau, that her statement and her reasonings on it are not freefrom vagueness and apparent contradictions. She writes in a state ofenthusiasm, and some of her expressions are naturally coloured by hermood of mind and nerve. 

May this Christmas give you ease and pleasantness, in various ways, mydearest friend! My Christmas wish for myself is to hear that you arewell. 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 poemsgo into a second edition within the twelvemonth? I am surprised atyour not being satisfied. Consider what poetry is, and that fourmonths have not passed since the publication of mine; and that, wherepoems have to make their way by force of _themselves_, and not of namenor of fashion, the first three months cannot present the periodof the quickest sale. That must be for afterwards. Think of me onChristmas Day, as of one who gratefully loves you. 

ELIBET. 

A passing reference in a previous letter (above, p. 217) has told ofthe beginning of another friendship, which was to hold a large placein Miss Barrett's later life; and the next letter is the first nowextant which was written to this new friend, Anna Jameson. Mrs. Jameson had not at this time written the works on sacred art withwhich her name is now chiefly associated; but she was already engagedin her long struggle to earn her livelihood by her pen. Her firstwork, 'The Diary of an Ennuyée' (1826), written before her marriage, had attracted considerable attention. Since then she had writtenher 'Characteristics of Women, ' 'Essays on Shakespeare's FemaleCharacters, ' 'Visits and Sketches, ' and a number of compilationsof less importance. Quite recently she had been engaged to writehandbooks to the public and private art galleries of London, and hadso embarked on the career of art authorship in which her best work wasdone. 

The beginning and end of the following letter are lost. The subject ofit 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--inthe very first rank--both in ability and integrity; and knowing Mr. Dilke _is_ the 'Athenaeum, ' I could make no mistake in my estimationof himself. I have personal reasons for gratitude to both him and hisjournal, and I have always felt that it was honorable to me to havethem. 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 arenain literature and philosophy. I think no such thing. Logical chivalrywould be still more radically debasing to us than any other. It is nottherefore at all as a Harriet Martineau, but as a thinking and feelingMartineau (now _don't_ laugh), that I hold her to have been hardlyused in the late controversy. And, if you don't laugh at _that_, don'tbe too grave either, with the thought of your own share and positionin the matter; because, as must be obvious to everyone (yourselfincluded), you did everything possible to you to prevent thecatastrophe, and no man and no friend could have done better. Mybrother George told me of his conversation with you at Mr. Lough's, but _are_ you not mistaken in fancying that she blames you, thatshe is cold with you? I really think you must be. Why, if she isdispleased with you she must be unjust, _and is she ever unjust_? Iask you. _I_ should imagine not, but then, with all my insolence oftalking 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, andin living womanhood at all. She wrote to me once, and since we havecorresponded; and as in her kindness she has called me her friend, Ileap hastily at an unripe fruit, perhaps, and echo back the word. Sheis your friend in a completer, or, at least, a more ordinary sense;and indeed it is impossible for me to believe without strong evidencethat she could cease to be your friend on such grounds as areapparent. Perhaps she does not write because she cannot contain herwrath against Mr. Dilke (which, between ourselves, she cannot, verywell), 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 youmy impression about mesmerism, lest I seem reserved and 'afraid ofcommitting myself, ' as prudent people are. I will confess, then, that my _impression_ is in favour of the reality of mesmerism to someunknown extent. I particularly dislike believing it, I would ratherbelieve most other things in the world; but the evidence of the 'cloudof witnesses' does thunder and lightning so in my ears and eyes, that I believe, while my blood runs cold. I would not be practisedupon--no, not for one of Flushie's ears, and I hate the wholetheory. It is hideous to my imagination, especially what is calledphrenological mesmerism. After all, however, truth is to be accepted;and testimony, when so various and decisive, is an ascertainer oftruth. Now do not tell Mr. Dilke, lest he excommunicate me. 

But I will not pity you for the increase of occupation produced by anincrease of such comfort as your mother's and sister's presence mustgive. 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 muchagainst the etiquette of journalism, or against the individualdelicacy which is of more consequence to both of us, if I ventureto thank you by one word for the pages which relate to me in yourexcellent article in the 'New Quarterly. ' It is not my habit to thankor to remonstrate with my reviewers, and indeed I believe I may tellyou that I never wrote to thank anyone before on these grounds. Icould not thank anyone for praising me--I would not thank him forpraising me against his conscience; and if he praised me to themeasure of his conscience only, I should have little (as far as thepraise went) to thank him for. Therefore I do not thank you for thepraise in your article, but for the kind cordial spirit which pervadesboth praise and blame, for the willingness in praising, and for thegentleness in finding fault; for the encouragement without unseemlyexaggeration, and for the criticisms without critical scorn. Allow meto thank you for these things and for the pleasure I have received bytheir means. I am bold to do it, because I hear that you confess thereviewership; and am the bolder, because I recognised your hand inan act of somewhat similar kindness in the 'Athenaeum' at the firstappearance of the poems. 

While I am writing of the 'New Quarterly, ' I take the liberty ofmaking a remark, not of course in relation to myself--I know too wellmy duty to my judges--but to your view of the Vantage ground of thepoetesses of England. It is a strong impression with me that previousto 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 thatparticular 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 withChaucer's for true poetic sweetness, and in Italy a Vittoria Colonnasang her noble sonnets. But in England, where is our poetess beforeJoanna Baillie--poetess in the true sense? Lady Winchilsea had an_eye_, as Wordsworth found out; but the Duchess of Newcastle hadmore poetry in her--the comparative praise proving the negativeposition--than Lady Winchilsea. And when you say of the French, thatthey 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 _versde société_. 

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 firstfemale poet in all senses in England; and I fell with the whole weightof fact and theory against the edge of your article. 

I recall myself now to my first intention of being simply, but notsilently, grateful to you; and entreating you to pardon this lettertoo 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 myimpertinences, and not to be disgusted by my defamations of 'thegrandmothers, ' and (to diminish my perversity in your eyes) I am readyto admit at once that we are generally too apt to run into prematureclassification--the error of all imperfect knowledge; and intounreasonable exclusiveness--the vice of it. We spoil the shiningsurface of life by our black lines drawn through and through, asif ominously for a game of the fox and goose. For my part, howeverimperfect my practice may be, I am intimately convinced--and more andmore since my long seclusion--that to live in a house with windows onevery side, so as to catch both the morning and evening sunshine, isthe best and brightest thing we have to do--to say nothing about thejustest and wisest. Sympathies are our opportunities of good. 

Moreover, I know nothing of your 'sweet mistress Anne. '[122] I neverread a verse of hers. Ignorance goes for much, you see, in all ourmal-criticisms, and my ignorance goes to this extent. I cannot writeto you of your Anglo-American poetess. 

Also, in my sweeping speech about the grandmothers, I should havestopped before such instances as the exquisite ballad of 'Auld RobinGray, ' which is attributed to a woman, and the pathetic 'Ballow myBabe, ' which tradition calls 'Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament. ' I havecertain doubts of my own, indeed, in relation to both origins, andwith regard to 'Robin Gray' in particular; but doubts are not worthystuff 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 tojoin our sympathies, and receive the 'choir' (ah! but you are verycunningly subtle in your distinctions; I am afraid I was too simplefor 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, strictlyso called. England has had many learned women, not merely readersbut writers of the learned languages, in Elizabeth's time andafterwards--women of deeper acquirements than are common now in thegreater diffusion of letters; and yet where were the poetesses? Thedivine breath which seemed to come and go, and, ere it went, filled the land with that crowd of true poets whom we call the olddramatists--why did it never pass, even in the lyrical form, over thelips of a woman? How strange! And can we deny that it was so? I lookeverywhere for grandmothers and see none. It is not in the filialspirit I am deficient, I do assure you--witness my reverent love ofthe grandfathers!

Seriously, I do not presume to enter into argument with you, and thisin relation to a critical paper which I admire in so many ways andam grateful for in some; but is not the poet a different man from thecleverest versifier, and is it not well for the world to be taughtthe difference? The divineness of poetry is far more to me than eitherpride of sex or personal pride, and, though willing to acknowledge thelowest breath of the inspiration, I cannot the 'powder and patch. ' Aspowder and patch I may, but not as poetry. And though I in turn maysuffer 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. Itappears to me that she had the gift--though in certain respects shedishonored the art--and her latter lyrics are, many of them, of greatbeauty 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 tellyou 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'scharacter and mind, and we are not to wonder at it. 

It is very pleasant to me to have your approbation of the sonnets onGeorge Sand, on the points of feeling and lightness, on which all myreaders have not absolved me equally, I have reason to know. I am morea latitudinarian in literature than it is generally thought expedientfor women to be; and I have that admiration for _genius_, which dearMr. Kenyon calls my 'immoral sympathy with power;' and if MadameDudevant[123] is not the first female genius of any country orage, I really do not know who is. And then she has certainnoblenesses--granting all the evil and 'perilous stuff'--noblenessesand royalnesses which make me loyal. Do pardon me for intruding allthis on you, though you cannot justify me--_you_, who are occupiedbeyond measure, and _I_, who know it! I have been under the delusion, too, during this writing, of having something like a friend's claimto write and be troublesome. I have lived so near your friends that Ikeep the odour of them! A mere delusion, alas! my only personalright in respect to you being one that I am not likely to forget orwaive--the right of being grateful to you. 

But so, and looking again at the last words of your letter, I see thatyou 'wish, ' in the kindest of words, 'to do something more for me. 'I hope some day to take this 'something more' of your kindness outin the pleasure of personal intercourse; and if, in the meantime, youshould consent to flatter my delusion by letting me hear from you nowand then, if ever you have a moment to waste and inclination to wasteit, 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. Inany case I remain

Truly and faithfully yours, ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

[Footnote 122: Probably Miss Anne Seward, a minor poetess who enjoyedconsiderable popularity at the end of the eighteenth century. Herelegies on Captain Cook and Major André went through several editions, as did her _Louisa_, a poetical novel, a class of composition inwhich she was the predecessor of Mrs. Browning herself. Her collectedpoetical 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 readinga novel or caring for the story of it (_proh pudor!_), that I amprobably, not to say certainly, the most complete and unscrupulousromance reader within your knowledge. Never was a child who cared morefor 'a story' than I do; never even did I myself, _as_ a child, caremore for it than I do. My love of fiction began with my breath, andwill end with it; and goes on increasing; and the heights and depthsof 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 butslowly. On my tombstone may be written '_Ci-gît_ the greatest novelreader in the world, ' and nobody will forbid the inscription; and Iapprove of Gray's notion of paradise more than of his lyrics, when hesuggests the reading of romances ever new, [Greek: _eis tous aiônas_. ]Are you shocked at me? Perhaps so. And you see I make no excuses, asan 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 loveof fiction, which is another. And then, I am not fastidious, as Mrs. Hemans was, in her high purity, and therefore the two loves have arace-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 ittwice as much for the sake of what you say. Only I hope I may care forthe story. I shall try. 

And for the _rococo_, I have more feeling for it, in a sense, than Ionce had, for, some two years ago, I passed through a long dynastyof French memoirs, which made me feel quite differently about thelittlenesses of greatnesses. I measured them all from the heightsof the 'tabouret, '[125] and was a good Duchess, in the 'non-natural'meaning, for the moment. Those memoirs are charming of their kind, andif life were cut in filagree paper would be profitable reading to thesoul. Do you not think so? And you mean besides, probably, that youcare for _beauty in detail_, which we all should do if our senses werebetter educated. 

So the confession is not a dreadful one, after all, and mine mayinvolve more evil, and would to ninety-nine out of a hundred 'sensibleand cultivated people. ' Think what Mrs. Ellis would say to the 'Womenof 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 neverthought of _expecting_ to hear from you. I understand that when youwrite it is pure grace, and never to be expected. You have too much todo, 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 thewhole crooked alphabet?

[Footnote 124: By Hans Andersen; an English translation by Mary Howittwas published in 1845. ]

[Footnote 125: Duchesses in the French court had the privilege ofseating themselves on a _tabouret_ or stool while the King took hismeals; hence the _droit du tabouret_ comes to mean the rank of aduchess. ]

_To Mrs. Martin_Saturday, January 1844 [should be 1845]. [126]

I must tell you, my dearest Mrs. Martin, Mr. Kenyon has read to me anextract from a private letter addressed by H. Martineau to Moxon thepublisher, to the effect that Lord Morpeth was down on his kneesin the middle of the room a few nights ago, in the presence of thesomnambule J. , and conversing with her in Greek and Latin, that thefour Miss Liddels were also present, and that they five talked toher during one _séance_ 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 ofbeing addressed to her, she translates into English word for wordwhat is said; but when the organ of _language_ is touched, she simplyanswers in English what is said. 

My 'few words of comment' upon this are, that I feel to be more andmore standing on my head--which does not mean, you will be pleased toobserve, that I understand. 

Well, and how are you both going on? My voice is quite returned; andpapa continues, I am sorry to say, to have a bad cold and cough. Hemeans 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 beforesailing, and he and Stormie are bringing home, as a companion toFlushie, a beautiful little gazelle. What do you think of it? I wouldrather have it than the 'babby, ' though the flourish of trumpets onthe part of the possessors seems quite in favor of the latter. 

And I had a letter from Browning the poet last night, which threw meinto ecstasies--Browning, the author of 'Paracelsus, ' and king of themystics. 

[_The rest of this letter is missing_. ]

[Footnote 126: The mention of her brothers being at Alexandria issufficient 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 wemight draw lots for the turn of receiving one, so that you are to takeit for supererogatory virtue in me altogether if I begin to write toyou as 'at these presents. ' But I want to know how you both are, andif your last account may continue to be considered the true one. Youhave been poising yourself on the equal balance of letters, as weakconsciences 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 havea strong and grateful trust in your affection for me, and thereforein your interest in all that concerns me, it is not that it is lessstrong and grateful. What I said or sang of Miss Martineau's letterwas no consequence of a distrust of _you_, but of a feeling withinmyself that for me to show about such a letter was scarcely becoming, and, in the matter of modesty, nowise discreet. I suppose I waswriting excuses to myself for showing it to you. I cannot otherwiseaccount for the saying and singing. And, for the rest, nobody can sayor sing that I am not frank enough to you--to the extent of tellingall manner of nonsense about myself which can only be supposed to beinteresting on the ground of your being presupposed to care a littlefor the person concerned. Now am I not frank enough? And by the way, Isend 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 beginwith--an imperfect fossil letter, which no comparative anatomy willbring much sense out of--except the plain fact _that you were notforgotten_. .. . 

From Alexandria we heard yesterday that they sailed from thence on thefirst of January, and the home passage may be long. 

The _changes_ in Mary Minto on account of mesmerism were merelyimaginary as far as I can understand. Nobody here observed any changein her. Oh no. These things will be fancied sometimes. That she is anenthusiastic girl, and that the subject took strong hold upon her, istrue enough, and not the least in the world--according to my mind--tobe wondered at. By the way, I had a letter and the present of a workon mesmerism--Mr. Newnham's--from his daughter, who sent it to me theother day, in the kindest way, 'out of gratitude for my poetry, ' asshe says, and from a desire that it might do me physical good in thematter of health. I do not at all know her. I wrote to thank her, ofcourse, for the kindness and sympathy which, as she expressed them, quite touched me; and to explain how I did not stand in reach justnow of the temptations of mesmerism. I might have said that I shranknearly as much from these 'temptations' as from Lord Bacon's stew ofinfant children for the purposes of witchcraft. 

Well, then, I am getting deeper and deeper into correspondence withRobert Browning, poet and mystic, and we are growing to be the truestof friends. If I live a little longer shut up in this room, I shallcertainly know everybody in the world. Mrs. Jameson came againyesterday, and was very agreeable, but tried vainly to convince methat the 'Vestiges of Creation, ' which I take to be one of the mostmelancholy books in the world, is the most comforting, and that LadyByron was an angel of a wife. I persisted (in relation to the formerclause) in a 'determinate counsel' not to be a fully developed monkeyif I could help it, but when Mrs. J. Assured me that she knew allthe circumstances of the separation, though she could not betray aconfidence, and entreated me 'to keep my mind open' on a subject whichwould one day be set in the light, I stroked down my feathers as wellas 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 lifelong--_Lady Byron and Marie Louise_. To prove how false the publiceffigy of the former is, however, Mrs. Jameson told me that she knew_nothing of mathematics, nothing of science_, and that the elementpreponderating in her mind is the _poetical_ element--that she caresmuch for _my_ poetry! How deep in the knowledge of the depths ofvanity must Mrs. J. Be, to tell me _that_--now mustn't she? But therewas--yes, and is--a strong adverse feeling to work upon, and it is notworked away. 

Then, I have seen a copy of a note of Lord Morpeth to H. Martineau, tothe 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 thatno use should be made of this letter . .. And now no more for to-day. 

With love to Mr. Martin, ever believe meYour affectionateBA. 

[Footnote 127: A copy of the 1838 volume for which Mrs. Martin hadasked. ]

_To John Kenyan_Saturday, February 8, 1845. 

I return to you, dearest Mr. Kenyon, the two numbers of JeroldDouglas's[128] magazine, and I wish 'by that same sign' I could invokeyour presence and advice on a letter I received this morning. Younever would guess what it is, and you will wonder when I tell you thatit offers a request from the _Leeds Ladies' Committee_, authorised andbacked by the London _General Council of the League_, to your cousinBa, that she would write them a poem for the Corn Law Bazaar to beholden at Covent Garden next May. Now my heart is with the cause, andmy vanity besides, perhaps, for I do not deny that I am pleased withthe request so made, and if left to myself I should be likely at onceto say 'yes, ' and write an agricultural-evil poem to complete thefactory-evil poem into a national-evil circle. And I do not myselfsee how it would be implicating my name with a political party to theextent of wearing a badge. The League is not a party, but 'the meetingof the waters' of several parties, and I am trying to persuade papa'sWhiggery that I may make a poem which will be a fair exponent of theactual grievance, leaving the remedy free for the hands of fixed-dutymen like him, or free-trade women like myself. As to wearing the badgeof a party, either in politics or religion, I may say that never in mylife was I so far from coveting such a thing. And then poetry breathesin another outer air. And then there is not an existent set ofany-kind-of-politics I could agree with if I tried--_I_, who am asort of fossil republican! You shall see the letters when youcome. Remember what the 'League' newspaper said of the 'Cry of theChildren. '

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 appearto remember you as I never have ceased to do in reality, and at a timewhen sympathy of friends is generally acceptable, to offer you mineas if I had some right of friendship to do so. And I am encouraged themore to attempt this because I never shall forget that in the hour ofthe 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 yetshown the outside of some months afterwards and enabled to appreciatethe sympathy fully. Such a kindness could not fail to keep alive inme (if the need of keeping alive _were_!) the memory of the variouskindnesses received by me and mine from all your family, nor fail toexcite me to desire to impress upon you my remembrance of _you_ andmy regard, and the interest with which I hear of your joys and sorrowswhenever they are large enough to be seen from such a distance. Tryto believe this of me, dear Miss Commeline, yourself, and let yoursisters and your brother believe it also. If sorrow in its reactionmakes us think of our friends, let my name come among the list ofyours to you, and with it let the thought come that I am not thecoldest and least sincere. May God bless and comfort you, I say, witha full heart, knowing what afflictions like yours are and must be, but confident besides that 'we know not what we do' in weeping for thedearest. In our sorrow we see the rough side of the stuff; in our joysthe 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 sorrowsare heavy, and that sometimes the conditions of life (which sorrowsare) seem hard to us and overcoming, and I believe that much sufferingis necessary before we come to learn that the world is a good place tolive in and a good place to die in for even the most affectionate andsensitive. 

How glad I should be to hear from you some day, when it is notburdensome for you to write at length and fully concerning all ofyou--of your sister Maria, and of Laura, and of your brother, andof all your occupations and plans, and whether it enters into yourdreams, not to say plans, ever to come to London, or to follow thetrack 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 notthink him altered. He has perpetual youth like the gods, and I maymake affidavit to your brother nevertheless that we never boiled himup to it. Also his spirits are good and his 'step on the stair' solight as to comfort me for not being able to run up and down themmyself. I am essentially better in health, but remain weak andshattered and at the mercy of a breath of air through a crevice; andthus the unusually severe winter has left me somewhat lower than usualwithout surprising anybody. Henrietta and Arabel are quite well and athome; George on circuit, always obliged by your proffered hospitality;and Charles John and Henry returning from a voyage to Alexandria inpapa's own vessel, the 'Statira. ' I set you an imperfect example ofegotism, and hope that you will double my _I's_ and _we's_, and kindlytrust to me for being interested in yours. .. . 

Yours affectionately, E. B. BARRETT. 

_To H. S. Boyd_Saturday, March 3, 1845. 

My dearest Friend, --I am aware that I should have written to youbefore, but the cold weather is apt to disable me and to make me feelidle when it does not do so quite. Now I am going to write about yourremarks on the 'Dublin Review. '

Certainly I agree with you that there can be no necessity forexplaining anything about the tutorship if you do not kick against thepricks of the insinuation yourself, and especially as I consider thatyou _were_ in a sense my 'tutor, ' inasmuch as I may say, both thatnobody ever taught me so much Greek as you, and also that without youI should have probably lived and died without any knowledge of theGreek Fathers. The Greek classics I should have studied by loveand instinct; but the Fathers would probably have remained in theirsepulchres, as far as my reading them was concerned. Therefore, verygratefully do I turn to you as my 'tutor' in the best sense, and themore persons call you so, the better it is for the pleasures of mygratitude. The review amused me by hitting on the right meaning there, and besides by its percipiency about your remembering me during yourtravels in the East, and sending me home the Cyprus wine. Some ofthese reviewers have a wonderful gift at inferences. The 'MetropolitanMagazine' for March (which is to be sent to you when papa has readit) contains a flaming article in my favour, calling me 'the friend ofWordsworth, ' and, moreover, a very little lower than the angels. Youshall see it soon, and it is only just out, of course, being the Marchnumber. The praise is beyond thanking for, and then I do not know whomto thank--I cannot at all guess at the writer. 

I have had a kind note from Lord Teynham, whose oblivion I had ceasedto doubt, it seemed so _proved_ to me that he had forgotten me. Buthe writes kindly, and it gave me pleasure to have some sign ofrecollection, if not of regard, from one whom I consider withunalterable and grateful respect, and shall always, although I amaware that he denies all sympathy to my works and ways in literatureand the world. In fact, and to set my poetry aside, he has joined that'strait sect' of the Plymouth Brethren, and, of course, has straitenedhis views since we met, and I, by the reaction of solitude andsuffering, have broken many bands which held me at that time. He wasalways straiter than I, and now the difference is immense. For I thinkthe world wider than I once thought it, and I see God's love broaderthan I once saw it. To the 'Touch not, taste not, handle not' of thestrict religionists, I feel inclined to cry, 'Touch, taste, handle, _all things are pure_. ' But I am writing this for you and not forhim, and you probably will agree with me, if you think as you used tothink, at least. 

But I do not agree with _you_ on the League question, nor on the womanquestion connected with it, only we will not quarrel to-day, and Ihave written enough already without an argument at the end. 

Can you guess what I have been doing lately? Washing out myconscience, effacing the blot on my escutcheon, performing anexpiation, translating over again from the Greek the 'Prometheus' ofAeschylus. 

Yes, my very dear friend, I could not bear to let that frigid, rigidexercise, called a version and called mine, cold as Caucasus, andflat as the neighbouring plain, stand as my work. A palinodia, arecantation was necessary to me, and I have achieved it. Do you blameme or not? Perhaps I may print it in a magazine, but this is notdecided. How delighted I am to think of your being well. It makes mevery happy. 

Your ever affectionate and gratefulELIBET. 

_To Mr. Westwood_March 4, 1845. 

I reproach myself, dear Mr. W. , for my silence, and began to do sobefore your kind note reminded me of its unkindness. I had indeedmy pen in my hand three days ago to write to you, but a cross fateplucked at my sleeve for the ninety-ninth time, and left me guilty. And you do not write to reproach me! You only avenge yourself softlyby keeping back all news of your health, and by not saying a wordof the effect on you of the winter which has done its spiritingso ungently. Which brings me down to myself. For somebody has beendreaming of me, and dreams, you know, must go by contraries. Andhow could it be otherwise? Although I am on the whole essentiallybetter--on the whole!--yet the peculiar severity of the winter hasacted on me, and the truth is that for the last month, preciselythe last month, I have been feeling (off and on, as people say)very uncomfortable. Not that I am essentially worse, but essentiallybetter, on the contrary, only that the feeling of discomfort andtrouble at the heart (physically) _will_ come with the fall of thethermometer, and the voice will go!. .. 

And then I have another question to enunciate--will the oracle answer?

Do you know _who wrote the article in the 'Metropolitan'_? Beseechyou, answer me. I have a suspicion, true, that the critics have beensupernaturally kind to me, but the kindness of this 'Metropolitan'critic so passes the ordinary limit of kindness, metropolitan orcritical, that I cannot but look among my personal friends for thewriter of the article. Coming to personal friends, I reject one on oneground and one on another--for one the graciousness is too graceful, and for another the grace almost too gracious. I am puzzled and dizzywith doubt; and--is it you? Answer me, will you? If so, I should oweso much gratitude to you. Suffer me to pay it!--permit the pleasure tome of paying it!--for I know too much of the pleasures of gratitude tobe willing to lose one of them. 

_To John Kenyan_March 6, [1845]. 

Thank you, dearest Mr. Kenyon--they are very fine. The poetry is in_them_, rather than in Blair. And now I send them back, and Cunninghamand Jerrold, with thanks on thanks; and if you will be kind enough notto insist on my reading the letters to Travis[129] within the 'hour, 'they shall wait for the 'Responsibility, ' and the two go to youtogether. 

And as to the tiring, it has not been much, and the happy day was wellworth being tired _for_. It is better to be tired with pleasure thanwith frost; and if I have the last fatigue too, why it is March, and it is the hour of my martyrdom always. But I am not ill--onlyuncomfortable. 

Ah, the 'relenting'! it is rather a bad sign, I am afraid;notwithstanding the subtilty of your consolations; but I stroke downmy philosophy, to make it shine, like a cat's back in the dark. The argument from more deserving poets who prosper less is not verycomforting, is it? I trow not. 

But as to the review, be sure--be very sure that it is not Mr. Browning's. How you could _think_ even of Mr. Browning, surprises me. Now, as for me, I know as well _as he does himself_ that he has hadnothing to do with it. 

I should rather suspect Mr. Westwood, the author of some fugitivepoems, who writes to me sometimes; and the suspicion having occurredto me, I have written to put the question directly. You shall hear, ifI hear in reply. 

May God bless you always. I have heard from dear Miss Mitford. 

Ever affectionately yours, E. B. B. 

[Footnote 129: By Porson, on the authenticity of I John v. 7. ]

_To H. S. Boyd_March 29, 1845 [postmark]. 

My dearest Mr. Boyd, --As Arabel has written out for you theglorification of 'Peter of York, '[130] I shall use an edge of the samepaper to 'fall on your sense' with my gratitude about the Cyprus wine. Indeed, I could almost upbraid you for sending me another bottle. Itis most supererogatory kindness in you to think of such a thing. AndI accept it, nevertheless, with thanks instead of remonstrances, andpromise you to drink your health in and the spring in together, andthe east wind out, if you do not object to it. I have been better forseveral days, but my heart is not yet very orderly--not being able torecover the veins, I suppose, all in a moment. 

For the rest, you always mean what is right and affectionate, and I amnot apt to mistake your meanings in this respect. Be indulgent to meas far as you can, when it appears to you that I sink far below yourreligious standard, as I am sure I must do oftener than you remindme. Also, it certainly does appear, to my mind, that we are not, asChristians, called to the exclusive expression of Christian doctrine, either in poetry or prose. All truth and all beauty and all musicbelong to God--He is in all things; and in speaking of all, we speakof Him. In poetry, which includes all things, 'the diapason closethfull in God. ' I would not lose a note of the lyre, and whatever He hasincluded in His creation I take to be holy subject enough for _me_. That I am blamed for this view by many, I know, but I cannot see itotherwise, and when you pay your visit to 'Peter of York' and me, andare able to talk everything over, we shall agree tolerably well, I donot doubt. 

Ah, what a dream! What a thought! Too good even to come true!

I did not think that you would much like the 'Duchess May;' but amongthe _profanum vulgus_ you cannot think how successful it has been. There was an account in one of the fugitive reviews of a lady fallinginto hysterics on the perusal of it, although _that_ was nothing tothe gush of tears of which there is a tradition, down the Plutoniancheeks of a lawyer unknown, over 'Bertha in the Lane. ' But thesethings should not make anybody vain. It is the _story_ that has powerwith people, just what _you_ do not care for!

About the reviews you ask a difficult question; but I suppose thebest, as reviews, are the 'Dublin Review, ' 'Blackwood, ' the 'NewQuarterly, ' and the last 'American, ' I forget the title at thismoment, the _Whig_ 'American, ' _not_ the Democratic. The mostfavorable to me are certainly the American unremembered, and the late'Metropolitan, ' which last was written, I hear, by Mr. Charles Grant, a voluminous writer, but no poet. I consider myself singularlyhappy in my reviews, and to have full reason for gratitude to theprofession. 

I forgot to say that what the Dublin reviewer did me the honor ofconsidering an Irishism was the expression 'Do you mind' in 'CyprusWine. ' But he was wrong, because it occurs frequently among our elderEnglish writers, and is as British as London porter. 

Now see how you throw me into figurative liquids, by your last Cyprus. It is the true celestial, this last. But Arabel pleased me most bybringing back so good an account of _you_. 

Your ever affectionate and gratefulELIBET. 

[Footnote 130: A monster bell for York Minster, then being exhibitedat the Baker Street Bazaar. Mr. Boyd was an enthusiast on bells andbell ringing. ]

_To John Kenyan_Friday [about January-March 1845]. 

Dearest Mr. Kenyon, --If your good nature is still not at ease, throughdoubting about how to make Lizzy happy in a book, you will liketo hear perhaps that I have thought of a certain 'Family RobinsonCrusoe, ' translated from the _German_, I think, _not_ a Robinson_purified_, mind, but a Robinson multiplied and compounded. [131]Children like reading it, I believe. And then there is a 'MastermanReady, ' or some name like it, by Captain Marryat, also popular withyoung readers. Or 'Seaward's Narrative, ' by Miss Porter, would delighther, as it did _me_, not so many years ago. 

I mention these books, but know nothing of their price; and onlybecause you asked me, I do mention them. The fact is that she is nothard to please as to literature, and will be delighted with anything. 

To-day Mr. Poe sent me a volume containing his poems and talescollected, so now I _must_ write and thank him for his dedication. What is to be said, I wonder, when a man calls you the 'noblest ofyour sex'? 'Sir, you are the most discerning of yours. ' Were youthanked for the garden ticket yesterday? No, everybody was ungrateful, down to Flush, who drinks day by day out of his new purple cup, andhad it properly explained how _you_ gave it to him (_I_ explained_that_), and yet never came upstairs to express to you his sense ofobligation. 

Affectionately yours always, E. B. B. 

[Footnote 131: No doubt _The Swiss Family Robinson_. ]

_To John Kenyan_Saturday [beginning of April 1845]. 

My dearest Cousin, --After all _I_/ said to _you_, said the other day, about Apuleius, and about what couldn't, shouldn't, and mustn't bedone in the matter, I ended by trying the unlawful art of translatingthis prose into verse, and, one after another, have done all thesubjects of the Poniatowsky gems Miss Thompson sent the list of, except _two_, which I am doing and shall finish anon. [132] In themeantime it comes into my head that it is just as well for you to lookover my doings, and judge whether anything in them is to the purpose, or at all likely to be acceptable. Especially I am anxious to impresson you that, if I could think for a moment _you would hesitate aboutrejecting the whole in a body_, from any consideration for _me_, Ishould not merely be vexed but pained. Am I not your own cousin, to beordered about as you please? And so take notice that I will not _bear_the remotest approach to ceremony in the matter. What is wrong? whatis right? what is too much? those are the only considerations. 

Apuleius is _florid_, which favored the poetical design on hissentences. Indeed he is more florid than I have always liked to makemy verses. It is not, of course, an absolute translation, but as arunning commentary on the text it is sufficiently faithful. 

But probably (I say to myself) you do not want so many illustrations, and all too from one hand?

The two I do not send are 'Psyche contemplating Cupid asleep, ' and'Psyche and the Eagle. '

And I wait to hear how Polyphemus is to _look_--and also Adonis. 

The Magazine goes to you with many thanks. The sonnet is full of forceand expression, and I like it as well as ever I did--better even!

Oh--such happy news to-day! The 'Statira' is at Plymouth, and mybrothers quite well, notwithstanding their hundred days on the sea!_It makes me happy_. 

Yours most affectionately, BA. 

You shall have your 'Radical' almost immediately. I am ashamed. _Insuch haste_. 

[Footnote 132: These versions were not published in Mrs. Browning'slifetime, but were included in the posthumous _Last Poems_ (1862). They now appear in the _Poetical Works_, v. 72-83. ]

_To H. S. Boyd_April 3, 1845. 

My very dear Friend, --I have been intending every day to write to tellyou that the Cyprus wine is as nectareous as possible, so fit for thegods, in fact, that I have been forced to leave it off as unfit for_me_; it made me so feverish. But I keep it until the sun shall havemade me a little less mortal; and in the meantime recognise thankfullyboth its high qualities and _your_ kind ones. How delightful it is tohave this sense of a summer at hand. _Shall_ I see you this summer, Iwonder. That is a question among my dreams. 

By the last American packet I had two letters, one from a poet ofMassachusetts, and another from a poetess: the _he_, Mr. Lowell, andthe _she_, Mrs. Sigourney. She says that the sound of my poetry isstirring the 'deep green forests of the New World;' which soundspleasantly, does it not? And I understand from Mr. Moxon that a newedition will be called for before very long, only not immediately. .. . 

Your affectionate and grateful friend, ELIBET. 

Arabel and Mr. Hunter talk of paying you a visit some day. 

_To Mrs. Martin_April 3, 1845. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --I wrote to you not many days ago, but I musttell you that our voyagers are safe in Sandgate break in 'an uglyhulk' (as poor Stormie says despondingly), suffering three or fourdays of quarantine agony, and that we expect to see them on Monday orTuesday in the full bloom of their ill humour. I am happy to think, according to the present symptoms, that the mania for sea voyagesis considerably abated. 'Nothing could be more miserable, ' exclaimsStorm; 'the only comfort of the whole four months is the safety ofthe beans, tell papa'--and the safety of the beans is rather aPythagoraean[133] equivalent for four months' vexation, though nota bean of them all should have lost in freshness and value! He couldscarcely write, he said, for the chilblains on his hands, and was inutter destitution of shirts and sheets. Oh! I have very good hopesthat for the future Wimpole Street may be found endurable. 

Well, and you are at once angry and satisfied, I suppose, aboutMaynooth; just as I am! satisfied with the justice as far as it goes, and angry and disgusted at the hideous shrieks of intolerance andbigotry which run through the country. The dissenters have very nearlydisgusted me, what with the Education clamour, and the Presbyterianchapel cry, and now this Maynooth cry; and certainly it is wonderfulhow people can see rights as rights in their own hands, and as wrongsin the hands of their opposite neighbours. Moreover it seems to meatrocious that we who insist on seven millions of Catholics supportinga church they call heretical, should _dare_ to talk of our scruples(conscientious scruples forsooth!) about assisting with a poorpittance of very insufficient charity their 'damnable idolatry. ' Why, every cry of complaint we utter is an argument against the wrong wehave been committing for years and years, and must be so interpretedby every honest and disinterested thinker in the world. Of course Ishould prefer the Irish establishment coming down, to any endowmentat all; I should prefer a trial of the voluntary system throughoutIreland; but as it is adjudged on all hands impossible to attempt thisin the actual state of parties and countries, why this Maynooth grantand subsequent endowment of the Catholic Church in Ireland seem thesimple alternative, obviously and on the first principles of justice. Macaulay was very great, was he not? He appeared to me _conclusive_ inlogic and sentiment. The sensation everywhere is extraordinary, I amsorry really to say!

Wordsworth is in London, having been commanded up to the Queen's ball. He went in Rogers's court dress, or did I tell you so the other day?And I hear that the fair Majesty of England was quite 'fluttered' atseeing him. 'She had not a word to say, ' said Mrs. Jameson, who cameto see me the other day and complained of the omission as 'unqueenly;'but I disagreed with her and thought the being '_fluttered_' far thehighest compliment. But she told me that a short time ago the Queenconfessed she never had read Wordsworth, on which a maid of honourobserved, 'That is a pity, he would do your Majesty a great deal ofgood. ' Mrs. Jameson declared that Miss Murray, a maid of honour, verydeeply attached to the Queen, assured her (Mrs. J. ) of the answerbeing quite as abrupt as _that_; as direct, and to the purpose; andno offence intended or received. I like Mrs. Jameson better the moreI see her, and with grateful reason, she is so kind. Now do writedirectly, and let me hear of you [in d]etail. And tell Mr. Martin tomake a point of coming home to us, with no grievances but politicalones. The Bazaar is to be something sublime in its degree, and I shallhave a sackcloth feeling all next week. All the rail carriages willbe wound up to radiate into it, I hear, and the whole country is to beshot into the heart of London. 

May God bless you. 

Your ever affectionateBA. 

I hear that Guizot suffers intensely, and that there are fears lest hemay sink. Not that the complaint is mortal. 

[Footnote 133: Referring to the Pythagorean doctrine of the sanctityof beans. ]

_To Mr. Westwood_Wimpole Street: April 9, 1845. 

Poor Hood! Ah! I had feared that the scene was closing on him. And Iam glad that a little of the poor gratitude of the world is laid downat his door just now to muffle to his dying ear the harsher soundsof life. I forgive much to Sir Robert for the sake of thatletter--though, after all, the minister is not high-hearted, or madeof heroic stuff. [134]

I am delighted that you should appreciate Mr. Browning's highpower--very high, according to my view--very high, and various. Yes, 'Paracelsus' you _should_ have. 'Sordello' has many fine things init, but, having been thrown down by many hands as unintelligible, andretained in mine as certainly of the Sphinxine literature, with allits power, I hesitate to be imperious to you in my recommendations ofit. Still, the book _is_ worth being _studied_--study is necessaryto it, as, indeed, though in a less degree, to all the works of thispoet; study is peculiarly necessary to it. He is a true poet, and apoet, I believe, of a large '_future in-rus, about to be_. ' He is onlygrowing to the height he will attain. 

_To Mr. Westwood_April 1845. 

The sin of Sphinxine literature I admit. Have I not struggled hard torenounce it? Do I not, day by day? Do you know that I have beentold that _I_ have written things harder to interpret than Browninghimself?--only I cannot, cannot believe it--he is so very hard. Tellme honestly (and although I attributed the excessive good nature ofthe 'Metropolitan' criticism to you, I _know_ that you can speak thetruth _truly_!) if anything like the Sphinxineness of Browning, youdiscover in me; take me as far back as 'The Seraphim' volume andanswer! As for Browning, the fault is certainly great, and thedisadvantage scarcely calculable, it is so great. He cuts his languageinto bits, and one has to join them together, as young children dotheir dissected maps, in order to make any meaning at all, and tostudy hard before one can do it. Not that I grudge the study or thetime. The depth and power of the significance (when it is apprehended)glorifies the puzzle. With you and me it is so; but with the majorityof readers, even of readers of poetry, it is not and cannot be so. 

The consequence is, that he is not read except in a peculiar circlevery strait and narrow. He will not die, because the principle oflife is in him, but he will not live the warm summer life which ispermitted to many of very inferior faculty, because he does not comeout into the sun. 

Faithfully your friend, E. B. BARRETT. 

[Footnote 134: Hood died on May 3, 1845; while on his deathbed hereceived from Sir Robert Peel the notification that he had conferredon him a pension of 100£ a year, with remainder to his wife. ]

The following letter relates to the controversy raging round MissMartineau and her mesmerism. Miss Barrett had evidently referred to itin a letter to Mr. Chorley, which has not been preserved. 

_To Mr. Chorley_50 Wimpole Street: April 28, 1845. 

Dear Mr. Chorley, --I felt quite sure that you would take my postscriptfor a womanish thing, and a little doubtful whether you would nottake the whole allusion (in or out of a postscript) for an impertinentthing; but the impulse to speak was stronger than the fear ofspeaking; and from the peculiarities of my position, I have come towrite by impulses just as other people talk by them. Still, if I hadknown that the subject was so painful to you, I certainly would nothave touched on it, strong as my feeling has been about it, and fulland undeniable as is my sympathy with our noble-minded friend, both asa woman and a thinker. Not that I consider (of course I cannot) thatshe has made out anything like a '_fact_' in the Tynemouth story--notthat I think the evidence offered in any sort sufficient; take it asit was in the beginning and unimpugned--not that I have been otherwisethan of opinion throughout that she was precipitate and indiscreet, however generously so, in her mode and time of advocating the mesmericquestion; but that she is at liberty as a thinking being (in my mind)to hold an opinion, the grounds of which she cannot yet justify tothe world. Do you not think she may be? Have you not opinions yourselfbeyond what you can prove to others? Have we not all? And because someof the links of the outer chain of a logical argument fail, or seem tofail, are we therefore to have our 'honours' questioned, because wedo not yield what is suspended to an inner uninjured chain of at oncesubtler and stronger formation? For what I venture to object to in theargument of the 'Athenaeum' is the making a _moral obligation_ of an_intellectual act_, which is the first step and gesture (is it not?)in all persecution for opinion; and the involving of the 'honour' ofan opponent in the motion of recantation she is invited to. This I doventure to exclaim against. I do cry aloud against this; and I do saythis, that when we call it 'hard, ' we are speaking of it softly. Why, consider how it is! The 'Athenaeum' has done quite enough to _disprovethe proving_ of the wreck story, [135] and no more at all. Thedisproving of the proof of the wreck story is indeed enough todisprove the wreck story and to disprove mesmerism itself (as far asthe proof of mesmerism depends on the proof of the wreck story, andno farther) with all doubters and undetermined inquirers; but with thevery large class of previous _believers_, this disproof of a proofis a mere accident, and cannot be expected to have much logicalconsequence. Believing that such things may be as this revelation ofa wreck, they naturally are less exacting of the stabilities of theproving process. What we think probable we do not call severely forthe proof of. Moreover Miss Martineau is not only a believer in themysteries of mesmerism (and she wrote to me the other day that inBirmingham, where she is, she has present cognisance of _three casesof clairvoyance_), but she is a believer in the personal integrityof her witnesses. She has what she has well called an 'incommunicableconfidence. ' And this, however incommunicable, is sufficientlycomprehensible to all persons who know what personal faith is, toplace her 'honour, ' I do maintain, high above any suspicion, anycharge with the breath of man's lips. I am sure you agree with me, dear Mr. Chorley--ah! it will be a comfort and joy together. Dear MissMitford and I often quarrel softly about literary life and its toilsand sorrows, she against and I in favour of; but we never could differabout the worth and comfort of domestic affection. 

Ever sincerely yours, ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

I am delighted to hear of the novel. And the comedy?

[Footnote 135: One of the visions of Miss Martineau's 'apocalyptichousemaid' related to the wreck of a vessel in which the Tynemouthpeople were much interested. Unfortunately it appeared that news ofthe wreck had reached the town shortly before her vision, and that shehad been out of doors immediately before submitting to the mesmerictrance. ]

_To Mr. Chorley_50 Wimpole Street: April 28, 1845. 

Dear Mr. Chorley, --. .. For Miss Martineau, is it not true that she_has_ admitted her wreck story to have no proof? Surely she has. Surely she said that the evidence was incapable, at this point oftime, of justification to the _exoteric_, and that the question hadsunk now to one of character, to which her opponent answered that ithad always _been_ one of character. And you must admit that the directand unmitigated manner of depreciating the reputation, not merelyof Jane Arrowsmith, but of Mrs. Wynyard, a personal friend of MissMartineau's to whom she professes great obligations, could not beotherwise than exasperating to a woman of her generous temper, andthis just in the crisis of her gratitude for her restoration to lifeand enjoyment by the means (as she considers it) of this friend. Notthat I feel at all convinced of her having been cured by mesmerism;I have told her openly that I doubt it a little, and she is not angrywith me for saying so. Also, the wreck story, and (as you suggest)the three new cases of clairvoyance; why, one _cannot_, you know, giveone's specific convictions to general sweeping testimonies, with amist all round them. Still, I do lean to believing this _class_ ofmysteries, and I see nothing more incredible in the apocalypse ofthe wreck and other marvels of clairvoyance, than in that singularadaptation of another person's senses, which is a common phenomenonof the simple forms of mesmerism. If it is credible that a person ina mesmeric sleep can taste the sourness of the vinegar onanother person's palate, I am ready to go the whole length of thetransmigration of senses. But after all, except from hearing so much, I am as ignorant as you are, in my own experience. One of my sisterswas thrown into a sort of swoon, and could not open her eyelids, though she heard what passed, once or twice or thrice; and she mighthave been a prophetess by this time, perhaps, if, partly from her ownfeeling on the subject, and partly from mine, she had not determinednever to try the experiment again. It is hideous and detestable to myimagination; as I confessed to you, it makes my blood run backwards;and if I were _you_, I would not (with the nervous weakness you speakof) throw myself into the way of it, I really would not. Think of afemale friend of mine begging me to give her a lock of my hair, orrather begging my sister to 'get it for her, ' that she might sendit to a celebrated prophet of mesmerism in Paris, to have an oracleconcerning me. Did you ever, since the days of the witches, hear amore ghastly proposition? It shook me so with horror, I had scarcelyvoice to say 'no, ' hough I _did_ say it very emphatically at last, Iassure you. A lock of my hair for a Parisian prophet? Why, if I hadyielded, I should have felt the steps of pale spirits treading asthick as snow all over my sofa and bed, by day and night, and pullinga corresponding lock of hair on my head at awful intervals. _I_, whowas born with a double set of nerves, which are always out oforder; the most excitable person in the world, and nearly the mostsuperstitious. I should have been scarcely sane at the end of afortnight, I believe of myself! Do you remember the little spirit ingold shoe-buckles, who was a familiar of Heinrich Stilling's? Well, I should have had a French one to match the German, with Balzac'ssuperfine boot-polish in place of the buckles, as surely as I lie herea mortal woman. 

I congratulate you (amid all cares and anxieties) upon the viewof Naples in the distance, but chiefly on your own happy and justestimate of your selected position in life. It does appear to mewonderfully and mournfully wrong, when men of letters, as it is toomuch the fashion for them to do, take to dishonoring their professionby fruitless bewailings and gnashings of teeth; when, all the time, it must be their own fault if it is not the noblest in the world. MissMitford treats me as a blind witness in this case; because I have seennothing of the literary world, or any other sort of world, and yet cryagainst her 'pen and ink' cry. It is the cry I least like to hear fromher lips, of all others; and it is unworthy of them altogether. On thelips of a woman of letters, it sounds like jealousy (which itcannot be with _her_), as on the lips of a woman of the world, likeingratitude. Madame Girardin's 'Ecole des Journalistes' deserved JulesJanin's reproof of it; and there is something noble and touching inthat feeling of brotherhood among men of letters, which he invokes. I am so glad to hear you say that I am right, glad for your sake andglad for mine. In fact, there is something which is attractive to_me_, and which has been attractive ever since I was as high as thistable, even in the old worn type of Grub Street authors and garretpoets. Men and women of letters are the first in the whole world tome, and I would rather be the least among them, than 'dwell in thecourts of princes. '

Forgive me for writing so fast and far. Just as if you had nothing todo but to read me. Oh, for patience for the novel. 

I am, faithfully yours, ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

_To Miss Thomson_[136]50 Wimpole Street: Friday, May 16, 1845 [postmark]. 

I write one line to thank you, dear Miss Thomson, for _your_translation (so far too liberal, though true to the spirit of myintention) of my work for your album. How could it _not_ be a pleasureto me to work for you?

As to my using those manuscripts otherwise than in your service, Ido not at all think of it, and I wish to say this. Perhaps I do not(also) partake quite your 'divine fury' for converting our sex intoGreek scholarship, and I do not, I confess, think it as desirable asyou do. Where there is a love for poetry, and thirst for beauty strongenough to justify labour, let these impulses, which are noble, beobeyed; but in the case of the multitude it is different; and themere _fashion of scholarship_ among women would be a disagreeable vainthing, and worse than vain. You, who are a Greek yourself, know thatthe Greek language is not to be learnt in a flash of lightning andby Hamiltonian systems, but that it swallows up year after year ofstudious life. Now I have a 'doxy' (as Warburton called it), thatthere is no exercise of the mind so little profitable to the mindas the study of languages. It is the nearest thing to a passiverecipiency--is it not?--as a mental action, though it leaves one asweary as ennui itself. Women want to be made to _think actively_:their apprehension is quicker than that of men, but their defect liesfor the most part in the logical faculty and in the higher mentalactivities. Well, and then, to remember how our own English poetsare neglected and scorned; our poets of the Elizabethan age! I wouldrather that my countrywomen began by loving _these_. 

Not that I would blaspheme against Greek poetry, or depreciate theknowledge of the language as an attainment. I congratulate _you_ onit, though I never should think of trying to convert other women intoa desire for it. Forgive me. 

To think of Mr. Burges's comparing my Nonnus to the right Nonnus makesmy hair stand on end, and the truth is I had flattered myself thatnobody would take such trouble. I have not much reverence for Nonnus, and have pulled him and pushed him and made him stand as I chose, never fearing that my naughty impertinences would be brought to light. For the rest, I thank you gratefully (and may I respectfully andgratefully thank Miss Bayley?) for the kind words of both of you, bothin this letter and as my sister heard them. It is delightful to meto find such grace in the eyes of dearest Mr. Kenyon's friends, and Iremain, dear Miss Thomson, Truly yours, and gladly, E. B. B. 

If there should be anything more at any time for me to do, I trust toyour trustfulness. 

[Footnote 136: Afterwards Mdme. Emil Braun; see the letter ofJanuary 9, 1850. At this time she was engaged in editing an albumor anthology, to which she had asked Miss Barrett to contribute someclassical translations. ]

_To Miss Thomson_50 Wimpole Street: Monday [1845]. 

My dear Miss Thomson, --Believe of me that it can only give me pleasurewhen you are affectionate enough to treat me as a friend; and forthe rest, nobody need apologise for taking another into thevineyards--least Miss Bayley and yourself to _me_. At the firstthought I felt sure that there must be a great deal about vines inthese Greeks of ours, and am surprised, I confess, in turning from oneto another, to find how few passages of length are quotable, and howthe images drop down into a line or two. Do you know the passage inthe seventh 'Odyssey' where there is a vineyard in different stages ofripeness?--of which Pope has made the most, so I tore up what Ibegan to write, and leave you to him. It is in Alcinous' gardens, andbetween the first and second hundred lines of the book. The one fromthe 'Iliad, ' open to Miss Bayley's objection, is yet too beautifuland appropriate, I fancy, for you to throw over. Curious it is thatmy first recollection went from that shield of Achilles to Hesiod's'Shield of Hercules, ' from which I send you a version--leaving outof it what dear Miss Bayley would object to on a like ground with theother:

 Some gathered grapes, with reap-hooks in their hands, While others bore off from the gathering hands Whole baskets-full of bunches, black and white, From those great ridges heaped up into fight, With vine-leaves and their curling tendrils. So They bore the baskets . .. 

 . .. Yes! and all were saying Their jests, while each went staggering in a row Beneath his grape-load to the piper's playing. The grapes were purple-ripe. And here, in fine, Men trod them out, and there they drained the wine. 

In the 'Works and Days' Hesiod says again, what is not worth yourlistening to, perhaps:

 And when that Sinus and Orion come To middle heaven, and when Aurora--she O' the rosy fingers--looks inquiringly Full on Arcturus, straightway gather home The general vintage. And, I charge you, see All, in the sun and open air, outlaid Ten days and nights, and five days in the shade. The sixth day, pour in vases the fine juice-- The gift of Bacchus, who gives joys for use. 

Anacreon talks to the point so well that you must forgive him, Ithink, for being Anacreontic, and take from his hands what is notdefiled. The translation you send me does not 'smell of Anacreon, ' norplease me. Where did you get it? Would this be at all fresher?

 Grapes that wear a purple skin, Men and maidens carry in, Brimming baskets on their shoulders, Which they topple one by one Down the winepress. Men are holders Of the place there, and alone Tread the grapes out, crush them down, Letting loose the soul of wine-- Praising Bacchus as divine, With the loud songs called his own!

You are aware of the dresser of the vine in Homer's 'Hymn to Mercury'translated so exquisitely by Shelley, and of a very beautiful singlefigure in Theocritus besides. Neither probably would suit yourpurpose. In the 'Pax' of Aristophanes there is an idle 'Chorus' whotalks of looking at the vines and watching the grapes ripen, andeating them at last, but there is nothing of vineyard work in it, so Idismiss the whole. 

For 'Hector and Andromache, ' would you like me to try to do it foryou? It would amuse me, and you should not be bound to do more withwhat I send you than to throw it into the fire if it did not meetyour wishes precisely. The same observation applies, remember, to thislittle sheet, which I have _kept_--delayed sending--just because Iwanted to let you have a trial of my strength on 'Andromache' in thesame envelope; but the truth is that it is not _begun_ yet, partlythrough other occupation, and partly through the lassitude which thecold wind of the last few days always brings down on me. Yesterday Imade an effort, and felt like a broken stick--not even a bent one!So wait for a warm day (and what a season we have had! I have beenwalking up and down stairs and pretending to be quite well), and Iwill promise to do my best, and certainly an inferior hand may getnearer to touch the great Greek lion's mane than Pope's did. 

Will you give my love to dear Miss Bayley? She shall hear from me--and_you_ shall, in a day or two. And do not mind Mr. Kenyon. He 'roars assoftly as a sucking dove;' nevertheless he is an intolerant monster, as I half told him the other day. 

Believe me, dear Miss Thomson, Affectionately yours, E. B. B. 

_To Mr. Westwood_50 Wimpole Street: May 22, 1845. 

Did you persevere with 'Sordello'? I hope so. Be sure that we may alllearn (as poets) much and deeply from it, for the writer speaks trueoracles. When you have read it through, then read for relaxationand recompense the last 'Bell and Pomegranate' by the same poet, his'Colombo's Birthday, ' which is exquisite. Only 'Pippa Passes' I leanto, or kneel to, with the deepest reverence. Wordsworth has been intown, and is gone. Tennyson is still here. He likes London, I hear, and hates Cheltenham, where he resides with his family, and he smokespipe after pipe, and does not mean to write any more poems. Are we tosing a requiem?

Believe me, faithfully yours, ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT. 

_To H. S. Boyd_Saturday, July 21, 1845 [postmark]. 

My very dear Friend, --You are kind to exceeding kindness, and I am asgrateful as any of your long-ago kind invitations ever found me. It issomething pleasant, indeed, and like a return to life, to be asked byyou to spend two or three days in your house, and I thank you for thispleasantness, and for the goodness, on your own part, which inducedit. You may be perfectly sure that no Claypon, though he should livein Arcadia, would be preferred by me to _you_ as a host, and I wonderhow you could entertain the imagination of such a thing. Mr. Kenyon, indeed, has asked me repeatedly to spend a few hours on a sofa in hishouse, and, the Regent's Park being so much nearer than you are, Ihad promised to think of it. But I have not yet found it possible toaccomplish even that quarter of a mile's preferment, and my ambitionis forced to be patient when I begin to think of St. John's Wood. I amconsiderably stronger, and increasing in strength, and in time, witha further advance of the summer, I may do 'such things--what they areyet, I know not. ' Yes, I _know_ that they relate to _you_, and that Ihave a hope, as well as an earnest, affectionate desire, to sit faceto face with you once more before this summer closes. Do, in themeantime, believe that I am very grateful to you for your kind, considerate proposal, and that it is not made in vain for my wishes, and that I am not likely willingly 'to spend two or three days' withanybody in the world before I do so with yourself. 

Mr. Hunter has not paid us his usual Saturday's visit, and thereforeI have no means of answering the questions you put in relation to him. We will ask him about 'times and seasons' when next we see him, andyou shall hear. 

Did you ever hear much of Robert Montgomery, commonly called SatanMontgomery because the author of 'Satan, ' of the 'Omnipresence of theDeity, ' and of various poems which pass through edition afteredition, nobody knows how or _why_? I understand that his pew (he isa clergyman) is sown over with red rosebuds from ladies of thecongregation, and that the same fair hands have made and presented tohim, in the course of a single season, one hundred pairs of slippers. Whereupon somebody said to this Reverend Satan, 'I never knew before, Mr. Montgomery, that you were a _centipede_'

Dearest Mr. Boyd's affectionate and gratefulELIBET. 

Through the summer of 1845, Miss Barrett, as usual, recoveredstrength, but so slightly that her doctor urged that she should notface the winter in England. Plans were accordingly made for hergoing abroad, to which the following letters refer, but the schemeultimately broke down before the prohibition of Mr. Barrett--aprohibition for which no valid reason was put forward, and which, tosay the least, bore the colour of unaccountable indifference to hisdaughter's health and wishes. The matter is of some importance onaccount of its bearing on the action taken by Miss Barrett in theautumn of the following year. 

_To Mrs. Martin_Monday, July 29, 1845 [postmark]. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --I am ashamed not to have written before, andyet have courage enough to ask you to write to me as soon as youcan. Day by day I have had good intentions enough (the fact is)about writing, to seem to deserve some good deeds from you, whichis contrary to all wisdom and reason, I know, but is rather natural, after all. What _my_ deeds have been, you will be apt to ask. Why, allmanner of idleness, which is the most interrupting, you know, ofall things. The Hedleys have been flitting backwards and forwards, staying, some of them, for a month at a time in London, and thengoing, and then coming again; and I have had other visitors, few butengrossing 'after their kind. ' And I have been _getting well_--whichis a process--going out into the carriage two or three times a week, abdicating my sofa for my armchair, moving from one room to anothernow and then, and walking about mine quite as well as, and withconsiderably more complacency than, a child of two years old. Altogether, I do think that if you were kind enough to be glad to seeme looking better when you were in London, you would be kind enough tobe still gladder if you saw me now. Everybody praises me, and Ilook in the looking-glass with a better conscience. Also, it is animproving improvement, and will be, until, you know, the last hem ofthe garment of summer is lost sight of, and then--and then--I musteither follow to another climate, or be ill again--_that_ I know, andam prepared for. It is but dreary work, this undoing of my Penelopeweb in the winter, after the doing of it through the summer, and themore progress one makes in one's web, the more dreary the prospect ofthe undoing of all these fine silken stitches. But we shall see. .. . 

Ever your affectionateBA. 

_To Mrs. Martin_Tuesday [October 1845]. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --Do believe that I have not been, as I haveseemed, perhaps, forgetful of you through this silence. This lastproof of your interest and affection for me--in your letter toHenrietta--quite rouses me to _speak out_ my remembrance of you, andI have been remembering you all the time that I did not speak, only Iwas so perplexed and tossed up and down by doubts and sadnesses asto require some shock from without to force the speech from me. Yourverses, in their grace of kindness, and the ivy from Wordsworth'scottage, just made me think to myself that I would write to you beforeI left England, but when you talk really of coming to see me, why, Imust speak! You overcome me with the sense of your goodness to me. 

Yet, after all, I will not have you come! The farewells are bad enoughwhich come to us, without our going to seek them, and I would ratherwait and meet you on the Continent, or in England again, than see younow, just to part from you. And you cannot guess how shaken I am, andhow I cling to every plank of a little calm. Perhaps I am going on the17th or 20th. Certainly I have made up my mind to do it, and shall doit as a bare matter of duty; and it is one of the most painful actsof duty which my whole life has set before me. The road is as rough aspossible, as far as I can see it. At the same time, being absolutelyconvinced from my own experience and perceptions, and the unhesitatingadvice of two able medical men (Dr. Chambers, one of them), that toescape the English winter will be _everything for me_, and that itinvolves the comfort and usefulness of the rest of my life, I haveresolved to do it, let the circumstances of the doing be as painfulas they may. If you were to see me you would be astonished to see thework of the past summer; but all these improvements will ebb away withthe sun--while I am assured of permanent good if I leave England. Thestruggle with me has been a very painful one; I cannot enter on thehow and wherefore at this moment. I had expected more help than I havefound, and am left to myself, and thrown so on my own sense of duty asto feel it right, for the sake of future years, to make an effort tostand by myself as I best can. At the same time, I will not tell youthat at the last hour something may not happen to keep me at home. _That_ is neither impossible nor improbable. If, for instance, I findthat I cannot have one of my brothers with me, why, the going in thatcase would be out of the question. Under ordinary circumstances Ishall go, and if the experiment of going fails, why, then I shall havehad the satisfaction of having tried it, and of knowing that it isGod's will which keeps me a prisoner, and makes me a burden. As it is, I have been told that if I had gone years ago I _should be wellnow_; that one lung is very slightly affected, but the nervous system_absolutely shattered_, as the state of the pulse proves. I am in thehabit of taking forty drops of laudanum a day, and _cannot do withless_, that is, the medical man _told me_ that I could not do withless, saying so with his hand on the pulse. The cold weather, theysay, acts on the lungs, and produces the weakness indirectly, whereasthe necessary shutting up acts on the _nerves_ and prevents them fromhaving a chance of recovering their tone. And thus, without any mortaldisease, or any disease of equivalent seriousness, I am thrown out oflife, out of the ordinary sphere of its enjoyment and activity, andmade a burden to myself and to others. Whereas there is a means ofescape from these evils, and God has opened the door of escape, aswide as I see it!

In all ways, for my own _happiness's sake_ I do need _a proof_ thatthe evil is irremediable. And this proof (or the counter-proof) I amabout to seek in Italy. 

Dr. Chambers has advised _Pisa_, and I go in the direct steamer fromthe Thames to Leghorn. I have good courage, and as far as my ownstrength goes, sufficient means. 

Dearest Mrs. Martin, more than I thought at first of telling you, Ihave told you. Much beside there is, painful to talk of, but I hopeI have determined to do what is right, and that the determinationhas not been formed ungently, unscrupulously, nor unaffectionately inrespect to the feelings of others. I would die for some of those, butthere, has been affection opposed to affection. 

This in confidence, of course. May God bless both of you! Pray for me, dearest Mrs. Martin. Make up your mind to go somewhere soon--shall younot?--before the winter shuts the last window from which you see thesun. 

Dr. Chambers said that he would 'answer for it' that the voyage wouldrather do me good than harm. Let me suffer sea sickness or not, hesaid, he would answer for its doing me no harm. 

I hope to take Arabel with me, and either Storm or Henry. This is myhope. 

Gratefully and affectionately I think of all your kindness andinterest. May dear Mr. Martin lose nothing in this coming winter! Ishall think of you, and not cease to love you. Moreover, you shallhear again from

Your ever affectionateBA. 

_To H. S. Boyd_October 27, 1845 [postmark]. 

My very dear Friend, --It is so long since I wrote that I must write, Imust ruffle your thoughts with a little breath from my side. Listento me, my dear friend. That I have not written has scarcely been myfault, but my misfortune rather, for I have been quite unstrung andovercome by agitation and anxiety, and thought that I should be ableto tell you at last of being calmer and happier, but it was all invain. I do not leave England, my dear friend. It is decided that Iremain on in my prison. It was my full intention to go. I consideredit to be a clear duty, and I made up my mind to perform it, let thecircumstances be ever so painfully like obstacles; but when themoment came it appeared impossible for me to set out alone, and alsoimpossible to take my brother and sister with me without involvingthem in difficulties and displeasure. Now what I could risk for myselfI could not risk for others, and the very kindness with which theydesired me not to think of them only made me think of them more, aswas natural and just. So Italy is given up, and I fall back into thehands of God, who is merciful, trusting Him with the time that shallbe. 

Arabel would have gone to tell you all this a fortnight since, but oneof my brothers has been ill with fever which was not exactly typhus, but of the typhoid character, and we knew that you would rathernot see her under the circumstances. He is very much better (it isOctavius), and has been out of bed to-day and yesterday. 

Do not reproach me either for not writing or for not going, my verydear friend. I have been too heavy-hearted for words; and as to thedeeds, you would not have wished me to lead others into difficulties, the extent and result of which no one could calculate. It would nothave been just of me. 

And _you_, how are you, and what are you doing?

May God bless you, my dear dear friend!

Ever yours I am, affectionately and gratefully, E. B. B. 

_To Mr. Chorley_50 Wimpole Street: November 1845. 

I must trouble you with another letter of thanks, dear Mr. Chorley, now that I have to thank you for the value of the work as well asthe kindness of the gift, for I have read your three volumes of'Pomfret'[137] with interest and moral assent, and with great pleasurein various ways: it is a pure, true book without effort, which, inthese days of gesture and rolling of the eyes, is an uncommon thing. Also you make your 'private judgment' work itself out quietly as asimple part of the love of truth, instead of being the loud heroicvirtue it is so apt in real life to profess itself, seldom movingwithout drums and trumpets and the flying of party colours. All theseyou have put down rightly, wisely, and boldly, and it was, in my mind, no less wise than bold of you to let in that odour of Tyrrwhitism intothe folds of the purple, and so prevent the very possibility of any'prestige. ' If I complained it might be that your 'private judgment'confines its reference to 'public opinion, ' and shuns, too proudlyperhaps, the higher and deeper relations of human responsibility. Butthere are difficulties, I see, and you choose your path advisedly, ofcourse. The best character in the book I take to be _Rose_; Icannot hesitate in selecting him. He is so lifelike with the world'sconventional life that you hear his footsteps when he walks, and, indeed, I think his boots were apt to creak just the _soupçon_ ofa creak, just as a gentleman's boots might, and he is excellentlyconsistent, even down to the choice of a wife whom he could patronise. I hope you like your own Mr. Rose, and that you will forgive me forjilting Grace for Helena, which I could not help any more than Waltercould. But now, may I venture to ask a question? Would it not havebeen wise of you if, on the point of _reserve_, you had thrown adeeper shade of opposition into the characters or rather manners ofthese women? Helena sits like a statue (and could Grace have donemore?) when she wins Walter's heart in Italy. Afterwards, and by fitsat the time, indeed, the artist fire bursts from her, but there was agreat deal of smouldering when there should have been a clear heat tojustify Walter's change of feeling. And then, in respect to _that_, do you really think that your Grace was generous, heroic (with theevidence she had of the change) in giving up her engagement? For herown sake, could she have done otherwise? I fancy not; the positionseems surrounded by its own necessities, and no room for a doubt. I write on my own doubts, you see, and you will smile at them, orunderstand all through them that if the book had not interested melike a piece of real life, I should not find myself _backbiting_ as ifall these were 'my neighbours. ' The pure tender feeling of the closingscenes touched me to better purpose, believe me, and I applaud frommy heart and conscience your rejection of that low creed of 'poeticaljustice' which is neither justice nor poetry which is as degradingto virtue as false to experience, and which, thrown from your book, raises it into a pure atmosphere at once. 

I could go on talking, but remind myself (I do hope in time) that Imight show my gratitude better. With sincere wishes for the successof the work (for just see how practically we come to trust to poeticaljustices after all our theories--_I_, I mean, and _mine_!), and withrespect and esteem for the writer, I remain very truly yours, ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT. 

[Footnote 137: A novel by Mr. Chorley, a copy of which he hadpresented to Miss Barrett. ]

_To Mrs. Jameson_50 Wimpole Street: December 1, 1845. 

My dear Mrs. Jameson, --I receive your letter, as I must do every signof your being near and inclined to think of me in kindness, gladly, and assure you at once that whenever you can spend a half-hour on meyou will find me enough myself to have a true pleasure in welcomingyou, say any day except next Saturday or the Monday immediatelyfollowing. 

As soon as I heard of your return to England I ventured to hope thatsome good might come of it to me in my room here, besides the generalgood, which I look for with the rest of the public, when the censerswings back into the midst of us again. And how good of you, dear Mrs. Jameson, to think of me there where the perfumes were set burning; itmakes me glad and grand that you should have been able to do so. Alsothe kind wishes which came with the thoughts (you say) were not invain, for I have been very idle and very _well_; the angel of thesummer has done more for me even than usual, and till the last wave ofhis wing I took myself to be quite well and at liberty, and even nowI am as well as anyone can be who has heard the prison door shut for awhole winter at least, and knows it to be the only English alternativeof a grave. Which is a gloomy way of saying that I am well but forcedto shut myself up with disagreeable precautions all round, and I oughtto be gratified instead of gloomy. Believe me that I _shall_ be sowhen you come to see me, remaining in the meanwhile

Most truly yours, ELIZABETH BARRETT. 

_To Mrs. Martin_Friday [about December 1845]. 

I am the guilty person, dearest Mrs. Martin! You would have heard fromHenrietta at least yesterday, only I persisted in promising to writeinstead of her; and so, if there are reproaches, let them fall. Notthat I am audacious and without shame! But I have grown familiar withan evil conscience as to these matters of not writing when I ought;and long ago I grew familiar with your mercy and power of pardoning;and then--and then--if silence and sulkiness are proved crimes of mineto ever such an extreme, why it would not be unnatural. Do you think Iwas born to live the life of an oyster, such as I _do_ live here? Andso, the moaning and gnashing of teeth are best done alone and withouttaking anyone into confidence. And so, this is all I have to say formyself, which perhaps you will be glad of; for you will be readyto agree with me that next to such faults of idleness, negligence, silence (call them by what names you please!) as I have been guiltyof, is the repentance of them, if indeed the latter be not the mostunpardonable of the two. 

And what are you doing so late in Herefordshire? Is dear Mr. Martintoo well, and tempting the demons? I do hope that the next news of youwill be of your being about to approach the sun and visit us on theroad. You do not give your wisdom away to your friends, all of it, Ihope and trust--not even to Reynolds. 

Tell Mr. Martin that a new great daily newspaper, professing'_ultraism_' at the right end (meaning his and mine), is making'mighty preparation, ' to be called the 'Daily News, '[138] to beedited by Dickens and to combine with the most liberal politics suchliterature as gives character to the French journals--the objectsbeing both to help the people and to give a _status_ to men ofletters, socially and politically--great objects which will notbe attained, I fear, by any such means. In the first place, I havemisgivings as to Dickens. He has not, I think, _breadth_ of mindenough for such work, with all his gifts; but we shall see. An immensecapital has been offered and actually advanced. Be good patriotsand order the paper. And talking of papers, I hope you read in the'Morning Chronicle' Landor's verses to my friend and England's poet, Mr. Browning. [139] They have much beauty. 

You know that Occy has been ill, and that he is well? I hope you arenot so behindhand in our news as not to know. For me, I am not yetundone by the winter. I still sit in my chair and walk about the room. But the prison doors are shut close, and I could dash myselfagainst them sometimes with a passionate impatience of the need-lesscaptivity. I feel so intimately and from evidence, how, with air andwarmth together in any fair proportion, I should be as well and happyas the rest of the world, that it is intolerable--well, it is betterto sympathise quietly with Lady--and other energetic runaways, thanamuse you with being riotous to no end; and it is _best_ to writeone's own epitaph still more quietly, is it not?. .. 

And oh how lightly I write, and then sigh to think of what differentcolours my spirits and my paper are. Do you know what it is tolaugh, that you may not cry? Yet I hold a comfort fast. .. . Your veryaffectionate

BA. 

[Footnote 138: The first number of the _Daily News_ appeared onJanuary 2l, 1846, under the editorship of Charles Dickens. ]

[Footnote 139: The well-known lines beginning, 'There is delight insinging. ' They appeared in the _Morning Chronicle_ for November 22, 1845. ]

_To Mrs. Martin_Saturday [February-March 1846]. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --Indeed it has been tantalising and provokingto have you close by without being able to gather a better advantagefrom it than the knowledge that you were suffering. So passes theworld and the glory of it. I have been vexed into a high state ofmorality, I assure you. Now that you are gone away I hear from youagain; and it does seem to me that almost always it happens so, andthat you come to London to be ill and leave it before you can be wellagain. It is a comfort in every case to know of your being better, andHastings is warm and quiet, and the pretty country all round (mind yougo and see the 'Rocks' _par excellence_)! will entice you into verygentle exercise. At the same time, don't wish me into the house youspeak of. I can lose nothing here, shut up in my prison, and thenightingales come to my windows and sing through the sooty panes. IfI were at Hastings I should risk the chance of recovering liberty, andthe consolations of slavery would not reach me as they do here. Also, if I were to set my heart upon Hastings, I might break it at leisure;there would be exactly as much difficulty in turning my face that wayas towards Italy--ah, you do not understand! And _I do, at last_, I amsorry to say; and it has been very long, tedious and reluctant work, the learning of the lesson. .. . 

Did Henrietta tell you that I heard at last from Miss Martineau, whothought me in Italy, she said, and therefore was silent? She has sentme her new work (have you read it?) and speaks of her strength and ofbeing able to walk fifteen miles a day, which seems to me like a fairytale, or the 'Three-leagued Boots' at least. 

What am I doing, to tell you of? Nothing! The winter is kind, andthis divine 'muggy' weather (is _that_ the technical word and spellingthereof?), which gives all reasonable people colds in their heads, leaves _me_ the hope of getting back to the summer without muchinjury. A friend of mine--one of the greatest poets in Englandtoo--brought me primroses and polyanthuses the other day, as they aregrown in Surrey![140] Surely it must be nearer spring than we think. 

Dearest Mrs. Martin, write and say how you are. And say, God blessyou, both the yous, and mention Mr. Martin particularly, and what yourplans are. 

Ever your affectionateBA. 

[Footnote 140:

 Beloved, them hast brought me many flowers Plucked in the garden, all the summer through, And winter, and it seemed as if they grew In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers. 

_Sonnets from the Portuguese_, xliv. ]

_To Mrs. Martin_Tuesday [end of June 1846]. 

So, my dearest Mrs. Martin, you are quite angry with all of us andwith me chiefly. Oh, you need not say no! I see it, I understand it, and shall therefore take up my own cause precisely as if I were aninjured person. In the first place, dearest Mrs. Martin, when youwrote to me (at last!) to say that we were both guilty correspondents, you should have spoken in the singular number; for I was not guiltyat all, I beg to say, while you were on the Continent. You wereuncertain, you said, on going, where you should go and how longyou should stay, and you promised to write and give me some sort ofaddress--a promise never kept--and where was I to write to you? Iheard for the first time, from the Peytons, of your being at Pau, andthen you were expected at home. So innocent I am, and because it isa pleasure rather rare to make a sincere profession of innocence, Imeant to write to you at least ten days ago; and then (believe me youwill, without difficulty) the dreadful death of poor Mr. Haydon, [141]the artist, quite upset me, and made me disinclined to write a wordbeyond necessary ones. I thank God that I never saw him--poor giftedHaydon--but, a year and a half ago, we had a correspondence whichlasted through several months and was very pleasant while it lasted. Then it was dropped, and only a few days before the event he wrotethree or four notes to me to ask me to take charge of some papersand pictures, which I acceded to as once I had done before. He wasconstantly in pecuniary difficulty, and in apprehension of the seizureof goods; and nothing of _fear_ suggested itself to my mind--nothing. The shock was very great. Oh! I do not write to you to write of this. Only I would have you understand the real case, and that it is not anexcuse, and that it was natural for me to be shaken a good deal. Noartist is left behind with equal largeness of poetical conception! Ifthe hand had always obeyed the soul, he would have been a genius ofthe first order. As it is, he lived on the _slope_ of greatnessand could not be steadfast and calm. His life was one long agony ofself-assertion. Poor, poor Haydon! See how the world treats those whotry too openly for its gratitude! 'Tom Thumb for ever' over the headsof the giants. 

So you heard that I was quite well? Don't believe everything you hear. But I am really in _a way_ to be well, if I could have such sunshineas we have been burning in lately, and a fair field of peace besides. Generally, I am able to go out every day, either walking or inthe carriage--'_walking_' means as far as Queen Anne's Street. Thewonderful winter did not cast me down, and the hot summer helps me uphigher. Now, to _keep in the sun_ is the problem to solve; and ifI can do it, I shall be 'as well as anybody. ' If I can't, as ill asever. Which is the _résumé_ of me, without a word more. .. . 

Your ever affectionateBA. 

[Footnote 141: He committed suicide on June 22, under the influenceof the disappointment caused by the indifference of the public to hispictures, the final instance of which was its flocking to see GeneralTom Thumb and neglecting Haydon's large pictures of 'Aristides'and 'Nero, ' which were being exhibited in an adjoining room of theEgyptian Hall. ]

_To H. S. Boyd_June 27, 1846 [postmark]. 

Dearest Mr. Boyd, --Let me be clear of your reproaches for not goingto you this week. The truth is that I have been so much shocked andshaken by the dreadful suicide of poor Mr. Haydon, the artist, I hadnot spirits for it. He was not personally my friend. I never saw himface to face. But we had corresponded, and one of his last acts was anact of _trust_ towards me. Also I admired his genius. And all to end_so_! It has naturally affected me much. 

So I could not come, but in a few days I _will_ come; and in themeantime, I have had the sound of your voice to think of, more thanI could think of the deep melodious bells, though they made the rightand solemn impression. How I felt, to be under your roof again!

 May God bless you, my very dear friend. These words in the greatest haste. 

From your ever affectionateELIBET

CHAPTER V

1846-1849

It is now time to tell the story of the romance which, during the lasteighteen months, had entered into Elizabeth Barrett's life, and wasdestined to divert its course into new and happier channels. It isa story which fills one of the brightest pages in English literaryhistory. 

The foregoing letters have shown something of Miss Barrett'sadmiration for the poetry of Robert Browning, and contain allusionsto the beginning of their personal acquaintance. Her knowledge of hispoetry dates back to the appearance of 'Paracelsus, ' not to 'Pauline, 'of which there is no mention in her letters, and which had beenpractically withdrawn from circulation by the author. Her personalacquaintance with him was of much later date, and was directly dueto the publication of the 'Poems' in 1844. Chancing to express hisadmiration of them to Mr. Kenyon, who had been his friend since 1839and his father's school-fellow in years long distant, Mr. Browningwas urged by him to write to Miss Barrett himself, and tell her ofhis pleasure in her work. Possibly the allusion to him in 'LadyGeraldine's Courtship' may have been felt as furnishing an excuse foraddressing her; however that may be, he took Mr. Kenyon's advice, and in January 1845 we find Miss Barrett in 'ecstasies' over a letter(evidently the first) from 'Browning the poet, Browning the author of"Paracelsus" and king of the mystics' (see p. 236, above). 

The correspondence, once begun, continued to flourish, and in thecourse of the same month Miss Barrett tells Mrs. Martin that she is'getting deeper and deeper into correspondence with Robert Browning, poet and mystic; and we are growing to be the truest of friends. ' Atthe end of May, when the return of summer brought her a renewal ofstrength, they met face to face for the first time; and from that timeRobert Browning was included in the small list of privileged friendswho were admitted to visit her in person. 

How this friendship ripened into love, and love into courtship, it isnot for us to inquire too closely. Something has been told already inMrs. Orr's 'Life of Robert Browning;' something more is told in thelong and most interesting letter which stands first in the presentchapter. More precious than either is the record of her fluctuatingfeelings which Mrs. Browning has enshrined for ever in her 'Sonnetsfrom the Portuguese, ' and in the handful of other poems--'Lifeand Love, ' 'A Denial, ' 'Proof and Disproof, ' 'Inclusions, ''Insufficiency, '[142] which likewise belong to this period anddescribe its hesitations, its sorrows and its overwhelming joys. Inthe difficult circumstances under which they were placed, the conductof both was without reproach. Mr. Browning knew that he was asking tobe allowed to take charge of an invalid's life--believed indeedthat she was even worse than was really the case, and that she washopelessly incapacitated from ever standing on her feet--but was sureenough of his love to regard that as no obstacle. Miss Barrett, forher part, shrank from burdening the life of the man she loved witha responsibility so trying and perhaps so painful, and refused hisunchanging devotion for his sake, not for her own. 

[Footnote 142: _Poetical Works_, iv. 20-32. ]

The situation was complicated by the character of Mr. Barrett, and bythe certainty--for such it was to his daughter--that he would refuseto entertain the idea of her marriage, or, indeed, that of any of hischildren. The truth of this view was absolutely vindicated not only inthe case of Elizabeth, but also in those of two others of the familyin later years. The reasons for his feeling it is probable he couldnot have explained to himself. He was fond of his family after his ownfashion--proud, too, of his daughter's genius; but he could not, it would seem, regard them in any other light than as belonging tohimself. The wish to leave his roof and to enter into new relationswas looked upon as unfilial treachery; and no argument or persuasioncould shake him from his fixed idea. So long as this disposition couldbe regarded as the result of a devoted love of his children, itcould be accepted with respect, if not with full acquiescence; butcircumstances brought the proof that this was not the case, andthereby ultimately paved the way to Elizabeth's marriage. 

These circumstances are stated in several of her letters, and alludedto in several others, but it may help to the understanding of themif a brief summary be given here. In the autumn of 1845, as describedabove, Miss Barrett's doctors advised her to winter abroad. Theadvice was strongly pressed, as offering a good prospect of a realimprovement of health, and as the only way of avoiding the annualrelapse brought on by the English winter. One or more of her brotherscould have gone with her, and she was willing and able to try theexperiment; but in face of this express medical testimony, Mr. Barrettinterposed a refusal. This indifference to her health naturallywounded Miss Barrett very deeply; but it also gave her the right oftaking her fate into her own hands. Convinced at last that no refusalon her part could alter Mr. Browning's devotion to her, and thatmarriage with him, so far from being an increase of risk to herhealth, offered the only means by which she might hope for animprovement in it, she gave him the conditional promise that if shecame safely through the then impending winter, she would consent to adefinite engagement. 

The winter of 1845-6 was an exceptionally mild one, and she sufferedless than usual; and in the spring of 1846 her lover claimed herpromise. Throughout the summer she continued to gain strength, beingable, not only to drive out, but even to walk short distances, and tovisit a few of her special friends such as Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Boyd. Accordingly it was agreed that at the end of the summer they shouldbe married, and leave England for Italy before the cold weather shouldreturn. The uselessness of asking her father's consent was so evident, and the certainty that it would only result in the exclusion of Mr. Browning from the house so clear, that no attempt was made to obtainit. Only her two sisters were aware of what was going on; but eventhey were not informed of the final arrangements for the marriage, inorder that they might not be involved in their father's anger when itshould become known. For the same reason the secret was kept from soclose a friend of both parties as Mr. Kenyon; though both he and Mr. Boyd, and possibly also Mrs. Jameson, had suspicions amounting todifferent degrees of certainty as to the real state of affairs. It hadbeen intended that they should wait until the end of September, buta project for a temporary removal of the family into the countryprecipitated matters; and on September 12, accompanied only by hermaid, Wilson, Miss Barrett slipped from the house and was married toRobert Browning in Marylebone Church. [143] The associations which thatponderous edifice has gained from this act for all lovers of Englishpoetry tempt one to forgive its unromantic appearance, and to rememberrather the pilgrimages which Robert Browning on his subsequent visitsto England never failed to pay to its threshold. 

[Footnote 143: Mrs. Sutherland Orr says that the marriage took placein St. Pancras Church; but this is a mistake, as the parish registerof St. Marylebone proves. ]

For a week after the marriage Mrs. Browning--by which more familiarname we now have the right to call her--remained in her father'shouse; her husband refraining from seeing her, since he could not nowask for her by her proper name without betraying their secret. Then, on September 19, accompanied once more by her maid and theever-beloved Flushie, she left her home, to which she was neverto return, crossed the Channel with her husband to Havre, and sotravelled on to Paris. Her father's anger, if not loud, was deep andunforgiving. From that moment he cast her off and disowned her. Hewould not read or open her letters; he would not see her when shereturned to England. Even the birth of her child brought no relenting;he expressed no sympathy or anxiety, he would not look upon its face. He died as he lived, unrelenting, cut off by his own unbending angerfrom a daughter who could with difficulty bring herself to speak aharsh word of him, even to her most intimate friends. 

It was a more unexpected and consequently an even more bitter blow tofind that her brothers at first disapproved of her action; themore so, since they had sympathised with her in the struggle of theprevious autumn. This disapprobation was, however, less deep-seated, resting partly upon doubts as to the practical prudence of the match, partly, no doubt, upon a natural annoyance at having been kept in thedark. Such an estrangement could only be temporary, and as time wenton was replaced by a full renewal of the old affection towards herselfand a friendly acceptance of her husband. With her sisters, on theother hand, there was never a shadow of difference or estrangement. That love remained unaffected; and almost the only circumstance thatcaused Mrs. Browning to regret her enforced absence from England wasthe separation which it entailed from her two sisters. 

In Paris the fugitives found a friend who proved a friend indeed. Afew weeks earlier Mrs. Jameson, knowing of the needs of Miss Barrett'shealth, had offered to take her to Italy; but her offer had beenrefused. Her astonishment may be imagined when, after this shortinterval of time, she found her invalid friend in Paris as the wife ofRobert Browning. The prospect filled her with almost as much dismay aspleasure. 'I have here, ' she wrote to a friend from Paris, 'a poetand a poetess--two celebrities who have run away and married undercircumstances peculiarly interesting, and such as to render imprudencethe height of prudence. Both excellent; but God help them! for I knownot how the two poet heads and poet hearts will get on through thisprosaic world. '[144] Mrs. Jameson, who was travelling with her youngniece, Miss Geraldine Bate, [145] lent her aid to smooth the path ofher poet friends, and it was in her company that, after a week's restin Paris, the Brownings proceeded on their journey to Italy. It iseasy to imagine what a comfort her presence must have been to theinvalid wife and her naturally anxious husband; and this journeysealed a friendship of no ordinary depth and warmth. Mrs. Browningbore the journey wonderfully, though suffering much from fatigue. During a rest of two days at Avignon, a pilgrimage was made toVaucluse, in honour of Petrarch and his Laura; and there, as Mrs. Macpherson has recorded in an often quoted passage of her biography ofher aunt, 'there, at the very source of the "chiare, fresche e dolciacque, " Mr. Browning took his wife up in his arms, and carrying heracross the shallow, curling water, seated her on a rock that rosethrone-like in the middle of the stream. Thus love and poetry tooka new possession of the spot immortalised by Petrarch's lovingfancy. '[146]

[Footnote 144: _Memoirs of Anna Jameson_, by G. Macpherson, p. 218. ]

[Footnote 145: Afterwards Mrs. Macpherson, and Mrs. Jameson'sbiographer. ]

[Footnote 146: _Memoirs_, p. 231. ]

So at the beginning of October the party reached Pisa; and therethe newly wedded pair settled for the winter. Here first since thedeparture from London was there leisure to renew the intercourse withfriends at home, to answer congratulations and good wishes, to explainwhat might seem strange and unaccountable. From this point Mrs. Browning's correspondence contains nearly a full record of her life, and can be left to tell its own story in better language than thebiographer's. The first letter to Mrs. Martin is an 'apologia proconnubio suo' in fullest detail; the others carry on the story fromthe point at which that leaves it. 

With regard to this first letter, full as it is of the most intimatepersonal and family revelations, it has seemed right to give itentire. The marriage of Robert and Elizabeth Browning has passed intoliterary history, and it is only fair that it should be set, once forall, in its true light. Those who might be pained by any expressionsin it have passed away; and those in whose character and reputationthe lovers of English literature are interested have nothing to fearfrom the fullest revelation. If anything were kept back, false andinjurious surmises might be formed; the truth leaves little room forcontroversy, and none for slander. 

_To Mrs. Martin_Collegio Ferdinando, Pisa; October 20(?), 1846. [147]

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --Will you believe that I began a letter to youbefore I took this step, to give you the whole story of the impulsestowards it, feeling strongly that I owed what I considered myjustification to such dear friends as yourself and Mr. Martin, thatyou might not hastily conclude that you had thrown away upon onewho was quite unworthy the regard of years? I had begun such aletter--when, by the plan of going to Little Bookham, my plans wereall hurried forward--changed--driven prematurely into action, and thelast hours of agitation and deep anguish--for it was the deepestof its kind, to leave Wimpole Street and those whom I tenderlyloved--_so_ would not admit of my writing or thinking: only I was ableto think that my beloved sisters would send you some account of mewhen I was gone. And now I hear from them that your generosity has notwaited for a letter from me to do its best for me, and that insteadof being vexed, as you might well be, at my leaving England withouta word sent to you, you have used kind offices in my behalf, youhave been more than the generous and affectionate friend I alwaysconsidered you. So my first words must be that I am deeply gratefulto you, my very dear friend, and that to the last moment of my life Ishall remember the claim you have on my gratitude. Generous people areinclined to acquit generously; but it has been very painful to me toobserve that with all my mere friends I have found more sympathy and_trust_, than in those who are of my own household and who havebeen daily witnesses of my life. I do not say this for papa, who ispeculiar and in a peculiar position; but it pained me that----, who_knew_ all that passed last year--for instance, about Pisa--who knewthat the alternative of making a single effort to secure my healthduring the winter was the severe displeasure I have incurred now, andthat the fruit of yielding myself a prisoner was the sense of being ofno use nor comfort to any soul; papa having given up coming to seeme except for five minutes, a day; ==--, who said to me with his ownlips, 'He does not love you--do not think it' (said and repeated ittwo months ago)--that ---- should now turn round and reproach me forwant of affection towards my family, for not letting myself droplike a dead weight into the abyss, a sacrifice without an object andexpiation--this did surprise me and pain me--pained me more than allpapa's dreadful words. But the personal feeling is nearer with most ofus than the tenderest feeling for another; and my family had been soaccustomed to the idea of my living on and on in that room, that whilemy heart was eating itself, their love for me was consoled, and atlast the evil grew scarcely perceptible. It was no want of love inthem, and quite natural in itself: we all get used to the thought of atomb; and I was buried, that was the whole. It was a little thing evenfor myself a short time ago, and really it would be a pneumatologicalcuriosity if I could describe and let you see how perfectly for yearstogether, after what broke my heart at Torquay, I lived on the outsideof my own life, blindly and darkly from day to day, as completely deadto hope of any kind as if I had my face against a grave, never feelinga personal instinct, taking trains of thought to carry out as anoccupation absolutely indifferent to the _me_ which is in every humanbeing. Nobody quite understood this of me, because I am not morallya coward, and have a hatred of all the forms of audible groaning. ButGod knows what is within, and how utterly I had abdicated myself andthought it not worth while to put out my finger to touch my share oflife. Even my poetry, which suddenly grew an interest, was a thing onthe outside of me, a thing to be done, and then done! What people saidof it did not touch _me_. A thoroughly morbid and desolate state itwas, which I look back now to with the sort of horror with which onewould look to one's graveclothes, if one had been clothed in them bymistake during a trance. 

[Footnote 147: The date at the head of the letter is October 2, but that is certainly a slip of the pen, since at that date, as thefollowing letter to Miss Mitford shows, they had not reached Pisa. See also the reference to 'six weeks of marriage' on p. 295. The Pisapostmark appears to be October 20 (or later), and the English postmarkis November 5. ]

And now I will tell you. It is nearly two years ago since I have knownMr. Browning. Mr. Kenyon wished to bring him to see me five years ago, as one of the lions of London who roared the gentlest and was bestworth my knowing; but I refused then, in my blind dislike to seeingstrangers. Immediately, however, after the publication of my lastvolumes, he wrote to me, and we had a correspondence which ended in myagreeing to receive him as I never had received any other man. Idid not know why, but it was utterly impossible for me to refuse toreceive him, though I consented against my will. He writes the mostexquisite letters possible, and has a way of putting things which Ihave not, a way of putting aside--so he came. He came, and withour personal acquaintance began his attachment for me, a sort of_infatuation_ call it, which resisted the various denials which weremy plain duty at the beginning, and has persisted past them all. Ibegan with--a grave assurance that I was in an exceptional positionand saw him just in consequence of it, and that if ever he recurred tothat subject again I never could see him again while I lived; andhe believed me and was silent. To my mind, indeed, it was a bareimpulse--a generous man of quick sympathies taking up a suddeninterest with both hands! So I thought; but in the meantime theletters and the visits rained down more and more, and in every onethere was something which was too slight to analyse and notice, buttoo decided not to be understood; so that at last, when the 'proposedrespect' of the silence gave way, it was rather less dangerous. So then I showed him how he was throwing into the ashes his bestaffections--how the common gifts of youth and cheerfulness were behindme--how I had not strength, even of _heart_, for the ordinary dutiesof life--everything I told him and showed him. 'Look at this--andthis, ' throwing down all my disadvantages. To which he did not answerby a single compliment, but simply that he had not then to choose, and that I might be right or he might be right, he was not there todecide; but that he loved me and should to his last hour. He saidthat the freshness of youth had passed with him also, and that hehad studied the world out of books and seen many women, yet had neverloved one until he had seen me. That he knew himself, and knew that, if ever so repulsed, he should love me to his last hour--it should befirst and last. At the same time, he would not tease me, he would waittwenty years if I pleased, and then, if life lasted so long for bothof us, then when it was ending perhaps, I might understand him andfeel that I might have trusted him. For my health, he had believedwhen he first spoke that I was suffering from an incurable injury ofthe spine, and that he never could hope to see me stand up before hisface, and he appealed to my womanly sense of what a pure attachmentshould be--whether such a circumstance, if it had been true, wasinconsistent with it. He preferred, he said, of free and deliberatechoice, to be allowed to sit only an hour a day by my side, to thefulfilment of the brightest dream which should exclude me, in anypossible world. 

I tell you so much, my ever dear friend, that you may see the mannerof man I have had to do with, and the sort of attachment which fornearly two years has been drawing and winning me. I know better thanany in the world, indeed, what Mr. Kenyon once unconsciously saidbefore me--that 'Robert Browning is great in everything. ' Then, whenyou think how this element of an affection so pure and persistent, cast into my dreary life, must have acted on it--how little by littleI was drawn into the persuasion that something was left, and thatstill I could do something to the happiness of another--and he what hewas, for I have deprived myself of the privilege of praising him--thenit seemed worth while to take up with that unusual energy (for me!), expended in vain last year, the advice of the physicians that I shouldgo to a warm climate for the winter. Then came the Pisa conflictof last year. For years I had looked with a sort of indifferentexpectation towards Italy, knowing and feeling that I should escapethere the annual relapse, yet, with that _laisser aller_ manner whichhad become a habit to me, unable to form a definite wish about it. Butlast year, when all this happened to me, and I was better thanusual in the summer, I _wished_ to make the experiment--to live theexperiment out, and see whether there was hope for me or not hope. Then came Dr. Chambers, with his encouraging opinion. 'I wanted simplya warm climate and _air_, ' he said; 'I might be well if I pleased. 'Followed what you know--or do not precisely know--the pain of it wasacutely felt by me; for I never had doubted but that papa would catchat any human chance of restoring my health. I was under the delusionalways that the difficulty of making such trials lay in _me_, and notin _him_. His manner of acting towards me last summer was one of themost painful griefs of my life, because it involved a disappointmentin the affections. My dear father is a very peculiar person. He isnaturally stern, and has exaggerated notions of authority, but thesethings go with high and noble qualities; and as for feeling, the wateris under the rock, and I had faith. Yes, and have it. I admire suchqualities as he has--fortitude, integrity. I loved him for his couragein adverse circumstances which were yet felt by him more literallythan I could feel them. Always he has had the greatest power over myheart, because I am of those weak women who reverence strong men. By aword he might have bound me to him hand and foot. Never has he spokena gentle word to me or looked a kind look which has not made in melarge results of gratitude, and throughout my illness the sound of hisstep on the stairs has had the power of quickening my pulse--I haveloved him so and love him. Now if he had said last summer that he wasreluctant for me to leave him--if he had even allowed me to think_by mistake_ that his affection for me was the motive of suchreluctance--I was ready to give up Pisa in a moment, and I told himas much. Whatever my new impulses towards life were, my love for him(taken so) would have resisted all--I loved him so dearly. But hiscourse was otherwise, quite otherwise, and I was wounded to thebottom of my heart--cast off when I was ready to cling to him. In themeanwhile, at my side was another; I was driven and I was drawn. Thenat last I said, 'If you like to let this winter decide it, you may. Iwill allow of no promises nor engagement. I cannot go to Italy, and Iknow, as nearly as a human creature can know any fact, that I shall beill again through the influence of this English winter. If I am, youwill see plainer the foolishness of this persistence; if I am not, Iwill do what you please. ' And his answer was, 'If you are ill and keepyour resolution of not marrying me under those circumstances, I willkeep mine and love you till God shall take us both. ' This was in lastautumn, and the winter came with its miraculous mildness, as you know, and I was saved as I dared not hope; my word therefore was claimedin the spring. Now do you understand, and will you feel for me? Anapplication to my father was certainly the obvious course, if it hadnot been for his peculiar nature and my peculiar position. But thereis no speculation in the case; it is a matter of _knowledge_ that ifRobert had applied to him in the first instance he would have beenforbidden the house without a moment's scruple; and if in the last (asmy sisters thought best as a respectable _form_), I should have beenincapacitated from any after-exertion by the horrible scenes to which, as a thing of course, I should have been exposed. Papa will not bearsome subjects, it is a thing _known_; his peculiarity takes thatground to the largest. Not one of his children will ever marry withouta breach, which we all know, though he probably does not--deceivinghimself in a setting up of _obstacles_, whereas the real obstacle isin his own mind. In my case there was, or would have been, a greatdeal of apparent reason to hold by; my health would have been motiveenough--ostensible motive. I see that precisely as others may seeit. Indeed, if I were charged now with want of generosity for castingmyself so, a dead burden, on the man I love, nothing of the sort couldsurprise me. It was what occurred to myself, that thought was, andwhat occasioned a long struggle and months of agitation, and whichnothing could have overcome but the very uncommon affection of a veryuncommon person, reasoning out to me the great fact of love making itsown level. As to vanity and selfishness blinding me, certainly Imay have made a mistake, and the future may prove it, but still morecertainly I was not blinded _so_. On the contrary, never have I beenmore humbled, and never less in danger of considering any personalpitiful advantage, than throughout this affair. You, who are generousand a woman, will believe this of me, even if you do not comprehendthe _habit_ I had fallen into of casting aside the consideration ofpossible happiness of my own. But I was speaking of papa. Obvious itwas that the application to him was a mere form. I knew the result ofit. I had made up my mind to act upon my full right of taking my ownway. I had long believed such an act (the most strictly personal actof one's life) to be within the rights of every person of mature age, man or woman, and I had resolved to exercise that right in my own caseby a resolution which had slowly ripened. All the other doors of lifewere shut to me, and shut me in as in a prison, and only beforethis door stood one whom I loved best and who loved me best, and whoinvited me out through it for the good's sake which he thought Icould do him. Now if for the sake of the mere form I had applied tomy father, and if, as he would have done directly, he had set up his'curse' against the step I proposed to take, would it have been doingotherwise than placing a knife in his hand? A few years ago, merelythrough the reverberation of what he said to another on a subject likethis, I fell on the floor in a fainting fit, and was almost deliriousafterwards. I cannot bear some words. I would much rather have blowswithout them. In my actual state of nerves and physical weakness, itwould have been the sacrifice of my whole life--of my convictions, of my affections, and, above all, of what the person dearest to mepersisted in calling _his_ life, and the good of it--if I had observedthat 'form. ' Therefore, wrong or right, I determined not to observeit, and, wrong or right, I did and do consider that in not doing so Isinned against no duty. That I was _constrained_ to act clandestinely, and did not _choose_ to do so, God is witness, and will set it down asmy heavy misfortune and not my fault. Also, up to the very last act westood in the light of day for the whole world, if it pleased, to judgeus. I never saw him out of the Wimpole Street house; he came twice aweek to see me--or rather, three times in the fortnight, openly inthe sight of all, and this for nearly two years, and neither morenor less. Some jests used to be passed upon us by my brothers, and Iallowed them without a word, but it would have been infamous in me tohave taken any into my confidence who would have suffered, as a directconsequence, a blighting of his own prospects. My secrecy towards themall was my simple duty towards them all, and what they call want ofaffection was an affectionate consideration for them. My sisters didindeed know the truth to a certain point. They knew of the attachmentand engagement--I could not help that--but the whole of the event Ikept from them with a strength and resolution which really I did notknow to be in me, and of which nothing but a sense of the injury tobe done to them by a fuller confidence, and my tender gratitudeand attachment to them for all their love and goodness, could haverendered me capable. Their faith in me, and undeviating affection forme, I shall be grateful for to the end of my existence, and tothe extent of my power of feeling gratitude. My dearestsisters!--especially, let me say, my own beloved Arabel, who, withno consolation except the exercise of a most generous tenderness, haslooked only to what she considered my good--never doubting me, neverswerving for one instant in her love for me. May God reward her as Icannot. Dearest Henrietta loves me too, but loses less in me, and hasreasons for not misjudging me. But both my sisters have been faultlessin their bearing towards me, and never did I love them so tenderly asI love them now. 

The only time I met R. B. Clandestinely was in the parish church, wherewe were married before two witnesses--it was the first and only time. I looked, he says, more dead than alive, and can well believe it, forI all but fainted on the way, and had to stop for sal volatile at achemist's shop. The support through it all was _my trust in him_, for no woman who ever committed a like act of trust has had strongermotives to hold by. Now may I not tell you that his genius, and allbut miraculous attainments, are the least things in him, the moralnature being of the very noblest, as all who ever knew him admit? Thenhe has had that wide experience of men which ends by throwing the mindback on itself and God; there is nothing incomplete in him, exceptas all humanity is incompleteness. The only wonder is how such a man, whom any woman could have loved, should have loved _me_; but men ofgenius, you know, are apt to love with their imagination. Then thereis something in the sympathy, the strange, straight sympathy whichunites us on all subjects. If it were not that I look up to him, weshould be too alike to be together perhaps, but I know my place betterthan he does, who is too humble. Oh, you cannot think how well weget on after six weeks of marriage. If I suffer again it will not bethrough _him_. Some day, dearest Mrs. Martin, I will show you and dearMr. Martin how his _prophecy was fulfilled_, saving some picturesqueparticulars. I did not know before that Saul was among the prophets. 

My poor husband suffered very much from the constraint imposed on himby my position, and did, for the first time in his life, for my sakedo that in secret which he could not speak upon the housetops. _Meaculpa_ all of it! If one of us two is to be blamed, it is I, at whoserepresentation of circumstances he submitted to do violence to hisown self-respect. I would not suffer him to tell even our dear commonfriend Mr. Kenyon. I felt that it would be throwing on dear Mr. Kenyona painful responsibility, and involve him in the blame ready to fall. And dear dear Mr. Kenyon, like the noble, generous friend I love sodeservedly, comprehends all at a word, sends us _not_ his forgiveness, but his sympathy, his affection, the kindest words which can bewritten! I cannot tell you all his inexpressible kindness to us both. He justifies us to the uttermost, and, in that, all the gratefulattachment we had, each on our side, so long professed towards him. Indeed, in a note I had from him yesterday, he uses this strongexpression after gladly speaking of our successful journey: 'Iconsidered that you had _perilled your life_ upon this undertaking, and, reflecting upon your last position, I thought that _you had donewell_. ' But my life was not perilled in the journey. The agitation andfatigue were evils, to be sure, and Mrs. Jameson, who met us in Parisby a happy accident, thought me 'looking horribly ill' at first, andpersuaded us to rest there for a week on the promise of accompanyingus herself to Pisa to help Robert to take care of me. He, who was ina fit of terror about me, agreed at once, and so she came with us, sheand her young niece, and her kindness leaves us both very grateful. Sokind she was, and is--for still she is in Pisa--opening her arms tous and calling us 'children of light' instead of ugly names, anddeclaring that she should have been 'proud' to have had anything todo with our marriage. Indeed, we hear every day kind speeches andmessages from people such as Mr. Chorley of the 'Athenaeum, ' who 'hastears in his eyes, ' Monckton Milnes, Barry Cornwall, and other friendsof my husband's, but who only know _me_ by my books, and I want thelove and sympathy of those who love me and whom I love. I was talkingof the influence of the journey. The change of air has done mewonderful good notwithstanding the fatigue, and I am renewed to thepoint of being able to throw off most of my invalid habits; and ofwalking quite like a woman. Mrs. Jameson said the other day, 'You arenot _improved_, you are _transformed_. ' We have most comfortable roomshere at Pisa and have taken them for six months, in the best situationfor health, and close to the Duomo and Leaning Tower. It is abeautiful, solemn city, and we have made acquaintance with ProfessorFerucci, who is about to admit us to [a sight][148] of the [UniversityLib]rary. We shall certainly [spend] next summer in Italy _somewhere_, and [talk] of Rome for the next winter, but, of course, this is all inair. Let me hear

from you, dearest Mrs. Martin, and direct, 'M. Browning, PosteRestante, Pisa'--it is best. Just before we left Paris I wrote to myaunt Jane, and from Marseilles to Bummy, but from neither have I heardyet. 

With best love to dearest Mr. Martin, ever both my dear kind friends, Your affectionate and gratefulBA. 

[Footnote 148: The original is torn here. ]

_To Miss Mitford_[149]Moulins: October 2, 1846. 

I began to write to you, my beloved friend, earlier, that I mightfollow your kindest wishes literally, and also to thank you at oncefor your goodness to me, for which may God bless you. But the fatigueand agitation have been very great, and I was forced to break off--asnow I dare not revert to what is behind. I will tell you more anotherday. At Orleans, with your kindest letter, I had one from my dearest, gracious friend Mr. Kenyon, who, in his goodness, does more thanexculpate--even _approves_--he wrote a joint letter to both of us. But oh, the anguish I have gone through! You are good, you are kind. Ithank you from the bottom of my heart for saying to me that you wouldhave gone to the church with me. _Yes, I know you would_. And forthat very reason I forbore involving you in such a responsibility anddrawing you into such a net. I took Wilson with me. I had courage tokeep the secret to my sisters for their sakes, though I will tell youin strict confidence that it was known to them _potentially_, thatis, the attachment and engagement were known, the necessity remainingthat, for stringent reasons affecting their own tranquillity, theyshould be able to say at last, 'We were not instructed in this andthis. ' The dearest, fondest, most affectionate of sisters they are tome, and if the sacrifice of a life, or of all prospect of happiness, would have worked any lasting good to them, it should have been madeeven in the hour I left them. I knew _that_ by the anguish I sufferedin it. But a sacrifice, without good to anyone--I shrank from it. Andalso, it was the sacrifice of _two_. And _he_, as you say, had doneeverything for me, had loved me for reasons which had helped to wearyme of myself, loved me heart to heart persistently--in spite of my ownwill--drawn me back to life and hope again when I had done with both. My life seemed to belong to him and to none other at last, and I hadno power to speak a word. Have faith in me, my dearest friend, tillyou can know him. The intellect is so little in comparison to all therest, to the womanly tenderness, the inexhaustible goodness, the highand noble aspiration of every hour. Temper, spirits, manners: there isnot a flaw anywhere. I shut my eyes sometimes and fancy it all a dreamof my guardian angel. Only, if it had been a dream, the pain of someparts of it would have awakened me before now; it is not a dream. Ihave borne all the emotion of fatigue miraculously well, though, ofcourse, a good deal exhausted at times. We had intended to hurry onto the South at once, but at Paris we met Mrs. Jameson, who opened herarms to us with the most literal affectionateness, _kissed us both_, and took us by surprise by calling us 'wise people, wild poets ornot. ' Moreover, she fixed us in an apartment above her own in theHôtel de la Ville de Paris, that I might rest for a week, and crownedthe rest of her goodnesses by agreeing to accompany us to Pisa, whereshe was about to travel with her young niece. Therefore we are fivetravelling, Wilson being with me. Oh, yes, Wilson came; her attachmentto me never shrank for a moment. And Flush came and I assure you thatnearly as much attention has been paid to Flush as to me from thebeginning, so that he is perfectly reconciled, and would be happyif the people at the railroads were not barbarians, and immovable intheir evil designs of shutting him up in a box when we travel thatway. 

You understand now, ever dearest Miss Mitford, how the pause hascome about writing. The week at Paris! Such a strange week it was, altogether like a vision. Whether in the body or out of the body Icannot tell scarcely. Our Balzac should be flattered beyond measureby my thinking of him at all. Which I did, but of _you_ more. I willwrite and tell you more about Paris. You should go there indeed. Andto our hotel, if at all. Once we were at the Louvre, but we kept verystill of course, and were satisfied with the _idea_ of Paris. Icould have borne to live on there, it was all so strange and full ofcontrast. .. . 

Now you will write--I feel my way on the paper to write this. Nothing is changed between us, nothing can ever interfere with sacredconfidences, remember. I do not show letters, you need not fear myturning traitress. .. . Pray for me, dearest friend, that the bitternessof old affections may not be too bitter with me, and that God may turnthose salt waters sweet again. 

Pray for your grateful and lovingE. B. B. 

[Footnote 149: This letter is of earlier date than the last, havingbeen written _en route_ between Orleans and Lyons; but it has seemedbetter to place the more detailed narrative first. ]

_To Mrs. Martin_[Pisa:] November 5, [1846]. 

It was pleasant to me, my dearest friend, to think while I was readingyour letter yesterday, that almost by that time you had received mine, and could not even seem to doubt a moment longer whether I admittedyour claim of hearing and of speaking to the uttermost. I recognisedyou too entirely as my friend. Because you had put faith in me, somuch the more reason there was that I should justify it as far as Icould, and with as much frankness (which was a part of my gratitude toyou) as was possible from a woman to a woman. Always I have felt thatyou have believed in me and loved me; and, for the sake of the pastand of the present, your affection and your esteem are more to me thanI could afford to lose, even in these changed and happy circumstances. So I thank you once more, my dear kind friends, I thank you both--Inever shall forget your goodness. I feel it, of course, the moredeeply, in proportion to the painful disappointment in otherquarters. .. . Am I, bitter? The feeling, however, passes while I writeit out, and my own affection for everybody will wait patiently tobe 'forgiven' in the proper form, when everybody shall be at leisureproperly. Assuredly, in the meanwhile, however, my case is not to beclassed with other cases--what happened to me could not have happened, perhaps, with any other family in England. .. . I hate and loatheeverything too which is clandestine--we _both_ do, Robert and I; andthe manner the whole business was carried on in might have instructedthe least acute of the bystanders. The flowers standing perpetuallyon my table for the last two years were brought there by one hand, as everybody knew; and really it would have argued an excess ofbenevolence in an unmarried man with quite enough resources in London, to pay the continued visits he paid to me without some strong motiveindeed. Was it his fault that he did not associate with everybody inthe house as well as with me? He desired it; but no--that was not tobe. The endurance of the pain of the position was not the least proofof his attachment to me. How I thank you for believing in him--howgrateful it makes me! He will justify to the uttermost that faith. Wehave been married two months, and every hour has bound me to him moreand more; if the beginning was well, still better it is now--that iswhat he says to me, and I say back again day by day. Then it is an'advantage, ' to have an inexhaustible companion who talks wisdom ofall things in heaven and earth, and shows besides as perpetual agood humour and gaiety as if he were--a fool, shall I say? or aconsiderable quantity more, perhaps. As to our domestic affairs, it isnot to _my_ honour and glory that the 'bills' are made up every weekand paid more regularly 'than hard beseems, ' while dear Mrs. Jamesonlaughs outright at our miraculous prudence and economy, and declaresthat it is past belief and precedent that we should not burn thecandles at both ends, and the next moment will have it that we remindher of the children in a poem of Heine's who set up housekeeping ina tub, and inquired gravely the price of coffee. Ah, but she hasleft Pisa at last--left it yesterday. It was a painful parting toeverybody. Seven weeks spent in such close neighbourhood--a month ofit under the same roof and in the same carriages--will fastenpeople together, and then travelling _shakes_ them together. A moreaffectionate, generous woman never lived than Mrs. Jameson, and itis pleasant to be sure that she loves us both from her heart, and notonly _du bout des lèvres_. Think of her making Robert promise (as hehas told me since) that in the case of my being unwell he would writeto her instantly, and she would come at once if anywhere in Italy. Sokind, so like her. She spends the winter in Rome, but an intermediatemonth at Florence, and we are to keep tryst with her somewhere in thespring, perhaps at Venice. If not, she says that she will come backhere, for that certainly she will see us. She would have stayedaltogether perhaps, if it had not been for her book upon art which sheis engaged to bring out next year, and the materials for which are tobe _sought_. As to Pisa, she liked it just as we like it. Oh, it is sobeautiful and so full of repose, yet not _desolate_: it is rather therepose of sleep than of death. Then after the first ten days of rain, which seemed to refer us fatally to Alfieri's 'piove e ripiove, ' cameas perpetual a divine sunshine, such cloudless, exquisite weather thatwe ask whether it may not be June instead of November. Every day I amout walking while the golden oranges look at me over the walls, andwhen I am tired Robert and I sit down on a stone to watch the lizards. We have been to your seashore, too, and seen your island, only heinsists on it (Robert does) that it is not Corsica but Gorgona, andthat Corsica is not in sight. _Beautiful_ and blue the island was, however, in any case. It might have been Romero's instead of either. Also we have driven up to the foot of mountains, and seen themreflected down in the little pure lake of Ascuno, and we have seen thepine woods, and met the camels laden with faggots all in a line. Sonow ask me again if I enjoy my liberty as you expect. My head goesround sometimes, that is all. I never was happy before in my life. Ah, but, of course, the painful thoughts recur!

There are some whom I love too tenderly to be easy under theirdispleasure, or even under their injustice. Only it, seems to methat with time and patience my poor dearest papa will be melted intoopening his arms to us--will be melted into a clearer understanding ofmotives and intentions; I cannot believe that he will forget me, as hesays he will, and go on thinking me to be dead rather than alive andhappy. So I manage to hope for the best, and all that remains, allmy life here, _is_ best already, could not be better or happier. Andwillingly tell dear Mr. Martin I would take him and you for witnessesof it, and in the meanwhile he is not to send me tantalising messages;no, indeed, unless you really, really, should let yourselves be waftedour way, and could you do so much better at Pau? particularly if FannyHanford should come here. Will she really? The climate is described bythe inhabitants as a 'pleasant spring throughout the winter, ' and ifyou were to see Robert and me threading our path along the shady sideeverywhere to avoid the 'excessive heat of the sun' in this November(!) it would appear a good beginning. We are not in the warm orthodoxposition by the Arno because we heard with our ears one of the bestphysicians of the place advise against it. 'Better, ' he said, 'to havecool rooms to live in and warm walks to go out along. ' The rooms wehave are rather over-cool perhaps; we are obliged to have a littlefire in the sitting-room, in the mornings and evenings that is; butI do not fear for the winter, there is too much difference to myfeelings between this November and any English November I ever knew. We have our dinner from the Trattoria at two o'clock, and can dine ourfavorite way on thrushes and chianti with a miraculous cheapness, andno trouble, no cook, no kitchen; the prophet Elijah or the lilies ofthe field took as little thought for their dining, which exactly suitsus. It is a continental fashion which we never cease commending. Thenat six we have coffee, and rolls of milk, made of milk, I mean, and atnine our supper (call it supper, if you please) of roast chestnuts andgrapes. So you see how primitive we are, and how I forget to praisethe eggs at breakfast. The worst of Pisa is, or would be to somepersons, that, socially speaking, it has its dullnesses; it is notlively like Florence, not in that way. But we do not want society, weshun it rather. We like the Duomo and the Campo Santo instead. Thenwe know a little of Professor Ferucci, who gives us access to theUniversity library, and we subscribe to a modern one, and we haveplenty of writing to do of our own. If we can do anything for FannyHanford, let us know. It would be too happy, I suppose, to have to doit for yourselves. Think, however, I am quite well, quite well. I canthank God, too, for being alive and well. Make dear Mr. Martin keepwell, and not forget himself in the Herefordshire cold--draw him intothe sun somewhere. Now write and tell me everything of your plans andof you both, dearest friends. My husband bids me say that he desiresto have my friends for his own friends, and that he is grateful to youfor not crossing that feeling. Let him send his regards to you. Andlet me be throughout all changes, Your ever faithful and most affectionateBA. 

I am expecting every day to hear from my dearest sisters. Write tothem and love them for me. 

This letter has been kept for several days from different causes. Willyou inclose the little note to Miss Mitford? I do not hear from home, and am uneasy. 

May God bless you!

November 9. 

I am so vexed about those poems appearing just now in'Blackwood. '[150] Papa must think it _impudent_ of me. It isunfortunate. 

[Footnote 150: _Blackwood's Magazine_ for October 1846 containedthe following poems by Mrs. Browning, some phrases in which mightcertainly be open to comment if they were supposed to have beendeliberately chosen for publication at this particular time: 'AWoman's Shortcomings, ' 'A Man's Requirements, ' 'Maude's Spinning, ' 'ADead Rose, ' 'Change on Change, ' 'A Reed, ' and 'Hector in the Garden. ']

_To Miss Mitford_[Pisa]: November 5, 1846. 

I have your letter, ever dearest Miss Mitford, and it is welcome evenmore than your letters have been used to be to me--the last charmwas to come, you see, by this distance. For all your affection andsolicitude, may you trust my gratitude; and if you love me a little, I love you indeed, and never shall cease. The only difference shall bethat two may love you where one did, and for my part I will answer forit that if you could love the poor one you will not refuse any loveto the other when you come to know him. I never could bear to speak toyou of _him_ since quite the beginning, or rather I never could dare. But when you know him and understand how the mental gifts are scarcelyhalf of him, you will not wonder at your friend, and, indeed, twoyears of steadfast affection from such a man would have, overcome anywoman's heart. I have been neither much wiser nor much foolisher thanall the shes in the world, only much happier--the difference is in thehappiness. Certainly I am not likely to repent of having given myselfto him. I cannot, for all the pain received from another quarter, thecomfort for which is that my conscience is pure of the sense of havingbroken the least known duty, and that the same consequence wouldfollow any marriage of any member of my family with any possible manor woman. I look to time, and reason, and natural love and pity, andto the justification of the events acting through all; I look on soand hope, and in the meanwhile it has been a great comfort to have hadnot merely the indulgence but the approbation and sympathy of mostof my old personal friends--oh, such kind letters; for instance, yesterday one came from dear Mrs. Martin, who has known me, she andher husband, since the very beginning of my womanhood, and both ofthem are acute, thinking people, with heads as strong as their hearts. I in my haste left England without a word to them, for which theymight naturally have reproached me; instead of which they write to saythat never _for a moment_ have they doubted my having acted for thebest and happiest, and to assure me that, having sympathised with mein every sorrow and trial, they delightedly feel with me in the newjoy; nothing could be more cordially kind. See how I write to you asif I could speak--all these little things which are great things whenseen in the light. Also R, and I are not in the least tired of oneanother notwithstanding the very perpetual _tête-à-tête_ into whichwe have fallen, and which (past the first fortnight) would be rather atrial in many cases. Then our housekeeping may end perhaps in being aproverb among the nations, for at the beginning it makes Mrs. Jamesonlaugh heartily. It disappoints her theories, she admits--finding that, albeit poets, we abstain from burning candles at both ends at once, just as if we did statistics and historical abstracts by natureinstead. And do not think that the trouble falls on me. Even thepouring out of the coffee is a divided labour, and the ordering of thedinner is quite out of my hands. As for me, when I am so good as tolet myself be carried upstairs, and so angelical as to sit still onthe sofa, and so considerate, moreover, as _not_ to put my foot intoa puddle, why _my_ duty is considered done to a perfection which isworthy of all adoration; it really is not very hard work to pleasethis taskmaster. For Pisa, we both like it extremely. The city isfull of beauty and repose, and the purple mountains gloriously seemto beckon us on deeper into the vineland. We have rooms close to theDuomo and Leaning Tower, in the great Collegio built by Vasari, threeexcellent bedrooms and a sitting-room, matted and carpeted, lookingcomfortable even for England. For the last fortnight, except the verylast few sunny days, we have had rain; but the climate is as mild aspossible, no cold, with all the damp. Delightful weather we had forthe travelling. Ah, you, with your terrors of travelling, how youamuse me! Why, the constant change of air in the continued fineweather made me better and better instead of worse. It did meinfinite good. Mrs. Jameson says she 'won't call me _improved_, but_transformed_ rather. ' I like the new sights and the movement; myspirits rise; I live--I can adapt myself. If you really tried it andgot as far as Paris you would be drawn on, I fancy, and on--on to theEast perhaps with H. Martineau, or at least as near it as we are here. By the way, or out of the way, it struck me as unfortunate that mypoems should have been printed _just now_ in 'Blackwood;' I wish ithad been otherwise. Then I had a letter from one of my Leeds readersthe other day to expostulate about the _inappropriateness_ of certainof them! The fact is that I sent a heap of verses swept from my deskand belonging to old feelings and impressions, and not imagining thatthey were to be used in that quick way. There can't be very much tolike, I fear, apart from your goodness for what calls itself mine. Love me, dearest dear Miss Mitford, my dear kind friend--love me, Ibeg of you, still and ever, only ceasing when I cease to think of you;I will allow of that clause. Mrs. Jameson and Gerardine are staying atthe hotel here in Pisa still, and we manage to see them every day; sogood and true and affectionate she is, and so much we shall missher when she goes, which will be in a day or two now. She goes toFlorence, to Siena, to Rome to complete her work upon art, whichis the object of her Italian journey. I read your vivid and glowingdescription of the picture to her, or rather I showed your pictureto her, and she quite believes with you that it is most probably a_Velasquez_. Much to be congratulated the owner must be. I mean toknow something about pictures some day. Robert does, and I shall gethim to open my eyes for me with a little instruction. You know thatin this place are to be seen the first steps of art, and it will beinteresting to trace them from it as we go farther ourselves. Ourpresent residence we have taken for six months; but we have dreams, dreams, and we discuss them like soothsayers over the evening'sroasted chestnuts and grapes. Flush highly approves of Pisa (and theroasted chestnuts), because here he goes out every day and speaksItalian to the little dogs. Oh, Mr. Chorley, such a kind, feelingnote he wrote to Robert from Germany, when he read of our marriagein 'Galignani;' we were both touched by it. And Monckton Milnes andothers--very kind all. But in a particular manner I remember thekindness of my valued friend Mr. Horne, who never failed me nor couldfail. Will you explain to him, or rather ask him to understand, why Idid not answer his last note? I forget even Balzac here; tell me whathe writes, and help me to love that dear, generous Mr. Kenyon, whom Ican love without help. And let me love you, and you love me. 

Your ever affectionate and gratefulE. B. B. 

_To Mrs. Jameson_Collegio Ferdinando [Pisa]:Saturday, November 23, 1846 [postmark]. 

We were delighted to have your note, dearest Aunt Nina, and I answerit with my feet on your stool, so that my feet are full of you even ifmy head is not, always. Now, I shall not go a sentence farther withoutthanking you for that comfort; you scarcely guessed perhaps what acomfort it would be, that stool of yours. I am even apt to sit on itfor hours together, leaning against the sofa, till I get to be scoldedfor putting myself so into the fire, and prophesied of in respect tothe probability of a 'general conflagration' of stools and Bas; onwhich the prophet is to leap from the Leaning Tower, and Flush tobe left to make the funeral oration of the establishment. In themeantime, it really is quite a comfort that our housekeeping should beyour 'example' at Florence; we have edifying countenances whenever wethink of it. And Robert will not by any means believe that you passedus on our own ground, though the eleven pauls a week for breakfast, and my humility, seemed to suggest something of the sort. I am soglad, we are both so glad, that you are enjoying yourself at thefullest and highest among the wonders of art, and cannot be chilledin the soul by any of those fatal winds you speak of. For me, I amcertainly better here at Pisa, though the penalty is to see FrateAngelico's picture with the remembrance of you rather than thepresence. Here, indeed, we have had a little too much cold for twodays; there was a feeling of frost in the air, and a most undeniableeast wind which prevented my going out, and made me feel lesscomfortable than usual at home. But, after all, one felt ashamed tocall it _cold_, and Robert found the heat on the Arno insupportable;which set us both mourning over our 'situation' at the Collegio, whereone of us could not get out on such days without a blow on the chestfrom the 'wind at the corner. ' Well, experience teaches, and we shallbe taught, and the cost of it is not so very much after all. We haveseen your professor once since you left us (oh, the leaving!), or_spoken_ to him once, I should say, when he came in one evening andcaught us reading, sighing, yawning over 'Nicolò de' Lapi, ' a romanceby the son-in law of Manzoni. Before we could speak, he called it'excellent, très beau, ' one of their very best romances, upon which, of course, dear Robert could not bear to offend his literary andnational susceptibilities by a doubt even. _I_, not being so humane, thought that any suffering reader would be justified (under therack-wheel) in crying out against such a book, as the dullest, heaviest, stupidest, lengthiest. Did you ever read it? If not, _don't_. When a father-in-law imitates Scott, and a son-in-lawimitates his father-in-law, think of the consequences! Robert, in hiszeal for Italy and against Eugène Sue, tried to persuade me at first(this was before the scene with your professor) that 'really, Ba, itwasn't so bad, ' 'really you are too hard to be pleased, ' and so on;but after two or three chapters, the dullness grew too strong for evenhis benevolence, and the yawning catastrophe (supposed to be peculiarto the 'Guida') overthrew him as completely as it ever did me, thoughwe both resolved to hold on by the stirrup to the end of the twovolumes. The catalogue of the library (for observe that we subscribenow--the object is attained!) offers a most melancholy insightinto the actual literature of Italy. Translations, translations, translations from third and fourth and fifth rate French and Englishwriters, chiefly French; the roots of thought, here in Italy, seemdead in the ground. It is well that they have great memories--nothingelse lives. 

We have had the kindest of letters from dear noble Mr. Kenyon; who, by the way, speaks of you as we like to hear him. Dickens is going toParis for the winter, and Mrs. Butler[151] (he adds) is expectedin London. Dear Mr. Kenyon calls me 'crotchety, ' but Robert 'anincarnation of the good and the true, ' so that I have everything tothank him for. There are noble people who take the world's side andmake it seem 'for the _nonce_' almost respectable; but he gives up allthe talk and fine schemes about money-making, and allows us to wait tosee whether we want it or not--the money, I mean. 

It is Monday, and I am only finishing this note. In the midst cameletters from my sisters, making me feel so glad that I could notwrite. Everybody is well and happy, and dear papa _in high spirits_and _having people to dine with him every day_, so that I have notreally done anyone harm in doing myself all this good. It does notindeed bring us a step nearer to the forgiveness, but to hear of hisbeing in good spirits makes me inclined to jump, with Gerardine. [152]Dear Geddie! How pleased I am to hear of her being happy, particularly(perhaps) as she is not too happy to forget _me_. Is all that glory ofart making her very ambitious to work and enter into the court of theTemple?. .. 

Robert's love to you both. We often talk of our prospect of meetingyou again. And for the _past_, dearest Aunt Nina, believe of me thatI feel to you more gratefully than ever I can say, and remain, while Ilive, Your faithful and affectionateBA. 

[Footnote 151: Better known as Fanny Kemble. ]

[Footnote 152: Miss Gerardine Bate, Mrs. Jameson's niece. ]

_To Miss Mitford_Pisa: December 19, [1846]. 

Ever dearest Miss Mitford, your kindest letter is three times welcomeas usual. On the day you wrote it in the frost, I was sitting out ofdoors, just in my summer mantilla, and complaining 'of the heat thisDecember!' But woe comes to the discontented. Within these three orfour days we too have had frost--yes, and a little snow, for thefirst time, say the Pisans, during five years. Robert says thatthe mountains are powdered toward Lucca, and I, who cannot see themountains, can see the cathedral--the Duomo--how it glitters whitelyat the summit, between the blue sky and its own walls of yellowmarble. Of course I do not stir an inch from the fire, yet have tostruggle a little against my old languor. Only, you see, this can'tlast! it is exceptional weather, and, up to the last few days, hasbeen divine. And then, after all we talk of frost, my bedroom, whichhas no fireplace, shows not an English sign on the window, and theair is not _metallic_ as in England. The sun, too, is so hot thatthe women are seen walking with fur capes and parasols, a curiouscombination. 

I hope you had your visit from Mr. Chorley, and that you both had theusual pleasure from it. Indeed I _am_ touched by what you tell me, andwas touched by his note to my husband, written in the first surprise;and because Robert has the greatest regard for him, besides my ownpersonal reasons, I do count him in the forward rank of our friends. You will hear that he has obliged us by accepting a trusteeship toa settlement, forced upon me in spite of certain professions orindispositions of mine; but as my husband's gifts, I had no right, itappeared, by refusing it to place him in a false position for the sakeof what dear Mr. Kenyon calls my 'crotchets. ' Oh, dear Mr. Kenyon! Hiskindness and goodness to us have been past thinking of, past thankingfor; we can only fall into silence. He has thrust his hand into thefire for us by writing to papa himself, by taking up the management ofmy small money-matters when nearer hands let them drop, by justifyingus with the whole weight of his personal influence; all this in thevery face of his own habits and susceptibilities. He has resolvedthat I shall not miss the offices of father, brother, friend, nor thetenderness and sympathy of them all. And this man is called a mere manof the world, and would be called so rightly if the world were a placefor angels. I shall love him dearly and gratefully to my last breath;we both shall. .. . 

Robert and I are deep in the fourth month of wedlock; there has notbeen a shadow between us, nor a _word_ (and I have observed that allmarried people confess to _words_), and that the only change I can laymy finger on in him is simply and clearly an increase of affection. Now I need not say it if I did not please, and I should not please, you know, to tell a story. The truth is, that I who always didcertainly believe in love, yet was as great a sceptic as you about theevidences thereof, and having held twenty times that Jacob's servingfourteen years for Rachel was not too long by fourteen days, I wasnot a likely person (with my loathing dread of marriage as a lovelessstate, and absolute contentment with single life as the alternativeto the great majorities of marriages), I was not likely to accept afeeling not genuine, though from the hand of Apollo himself, crownedwith his various godships. Especially too, in my position, I couldnot, would not, should not have done it. Then, genuine feelings aregenuine feelings, and do not pass like a cloud. We are as happy aspeople can be, I do believe, yet are living in a way to _try_ thisnew relationship of ours--in the utmost seclusion and perpetual_téte-à-téte_--no amusement nor distraction from without, except someof the very dullest Italian romances which throw us back on thememory of Balzac with reiterated groans. The Italians seem to hang ontranslations from the French--as we find from the library--not merelyof Balzac, but Dumas, your Dumas, and reaching lower--long past DeKock--to the third and fourth rate novelists. What is purely Italianis, as far as we have read, purely dull and conventional. There is nobreath nor pulse in the Italian genius. Mrs. Jameson writes to usfrom Florence that in politics and philosophy the people are gettingalive--which may be, for aught we know to the contrary, the poetry andimagination leave them room enough by immense vacancies. 

Yet we delight in Italy, and dream of 'pleasures new' for thesummer--_pastures_ new, I should have said--but it comes to the samething. The _padrone_ in this house sent us in as a gift (in graciousrecognition, perhaps, of our lawful paying of bills) an immense dishof oranges--two hanging on a stalk with the green leaves still moistwith the morning's dew--every great orange of twelve or thirteen withits own stalk and leaves. Such a pretty sight! And better oranges, Ibeg to say, never were eaten, when we are barbarous enough to eat themday by day after our two o'clock dinner, softening, with the visionof them, the winter which has just shown itself. Almost I have beenas pleased with the oranges as I was at Avignon by the _pomegranate_given to me much in the same way. Think of my being singled out ofall our caravan of travellers--Mrs. Jameson and Gerardine Jameson[153]both there--for that significant gift of the pomegranates! I had neverseen one before, and, of course, proceeded instantly to cut one 'deepdown the middle'[154]--accepting the omen. Yet, in shame and confusionof face, I confess to not being able to appreciate it properly. Olivesand pomegranates I set on the same shelf, to be just looked at andcalled by their names, but by no means eaten bodily. 

But you mistake me, dearest friend, about the 'Blackwood' verses. Inever thought of writing _applicative poems_--the heavens forfend!Only that just _then_, [in] the midst of all the talk, _any_ versesof mine should come into print--and some of them to that _particulareffect_--looked unlucky. I dare say poor papa (for instance) thoughtme turned suddenly to brass itself. Well, it is perhaps more myfancy than anything else, and was only an impression, even there. Mr. Chorley will tell you of a play of his, which I hope will make itsway, though I do wonder how people can bear to write for the theatresin the present state of things. Robert is busy preparing a new editionof his collected poems which are to be so clear that everyone who hasunderstood them hitherto will lose all distinction. We both mean tobe as little idle as possible. .. . We shall meet one day in joy, I dohope, and then you will love my husband for his own sake, as for mineyou do not hate him now. 

Your ever affectionateE. B. B. 

[Footnote 153: This surname is a mistake on Mrs. Browning's part; seeher letter of October 1, 1849. ]

[Footnote 154: See _Lady Geraldine's Courtship_, stanza xli. ]

_To H. S. Boyd_[Pisa:] December 21 [1846]. 

You must let me tell you, my dearest Mr. Boyd, that I dreamed of youlast night, and that you were looking very well in my dream, and thatyou told me to break a crust from a loaf of bread which lay by youon the table; which I accept on recollection as a sacramental signbetween us, of peace and affection. Wasn't it strange that I shoulddream so of you? Yet no; thinking awake of you, the sleeping thoughtscome naturally. Believe of me this Christmas time, as indeed at everytime, that I do not forget you, and that all the distance and changeof country can make no difference. Understand, too (for _that_ willgive pleasure to your goodness), that I am very happy, and not unwell, though it is almost Christmas. .. . 

Dearest friend, are you well and in good spirits? Think of me overthe Cyprus, between the cup and the lip, though bad things are said tofall out so. We have, instead of Cyprus, _Montepulciano_, the famous'King of Wine, ' crowned king, you remember, by the grace of a poet!Your Cyprus, however, keeps supremacy over me, and will not abdicatethe divine right of being associated with you. I speak of wine, but welive here the most secluded, quiet life possible--reading and writing, and talking of all things in heaven and earth, and a little besides;and sometimes even laughing as if we had twenty people to laugh withus, or rather _hadn't_. We know not a creature, I am happy to say, except an Italian professor (of the university here) who called on usthe other evening and praised aloud the scholars of England. 'EnglishLatin was best, ' he said, 'and English Greek foremost. ' Do you clapyour hands?

The new pope is more liberal than popes in general, and people writeodes to him in consequence. 

Robert is going to bring out a new edition of his collected poems, and you are not to read any more, if you please, till this is done. I heard of Carlyle's saying the other day 'that he hoped more fromRobert Browning, for the people of England, than from any livingEnglish writer, ' which pleased me, of course. I am just sending offan anti-slavery poem for America, [155] too ferocious, perhaps, for theAmericans to publish: but they asked for a poem and shall have it. 

If I ask for a letter, shall I have it, I wonder? Remember me andlove me a little, and pray for me, dearest friend, and believe howgratefully and ever affectionately

I am your

ELIBET, though Robert always calls me _Ba_, and thinks it the prettiest namein the world! which is a proof, you will say, not only of blind lovebut of deaf love. 

[Footnote 155: 'The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point' _(PoeticalWorks_, ii. 192). It was first printed in a collection called _TheLiberty Bell_, for sale at the Boston National Anti-slavery Bazaarof 1848. It was separately printed in England in 1849 as a smallpamphlet, which is now a rare bibliographical curiosity. ]

It was during the stay at Pisa, and early in the year 1847, that Mr. Browning first became acquainted with his wife's 'Sonnets fromthe Portuguese. ' Written during the course of their courtship andengagement, they were not shown even to him until some months aftertheir marriage. The story of it was told by Mr. Browning in laterlife to Mr. Edmund Gosse, with leave to make it known to the world ingeneral; and from Mr. Gosse's publication it is here quoted in his ownwords. [156]

[Footnote 156: '_Critical Kit-Kats_, ' by E. Gosse, p. 2 (1896). ]

'Their custom was, Mr. Browning said, to write alone, and not to showeach other what they had written. This was a rule which he sometimesbroke through, but she never. He had the habit of working in adownstairs room, where their meals were spread, while Mrs. Browningstudied in a room on the floor above. One day, early in 1847, theirbreakfast being over, Mrs. Browning went upstairs, while her husbandstood at the window watching the street till the table should becleared. He was presently aware of some one behind him, although theservant was gone. It was Mrs. Browning, who held him by the shoulderto prevent his turning to look at her, and at the same time pusheda packet of papers into the pocket of his coat. She told him to readthat, and to tear it up if he did not like it; and then she fled againto her own room. '

The sonnets were intended for her husband's eye alone; in the firstinstance, not even for his. No poems can ever have been composed withless thought of the public; perhaps for that very reason they areunmatched for simplicity and sincerity in all Mrs. Browning's work. Her genius in them has full mastery over its material, as it has infew of her other poems. All impurities of style or rhythm are purgedaway by the fire of love; and they stand, not only highest among thewritings of their authoress, but also in the very forefront of Englishlove-poems. With the single exception of Rossetti, no modern Englishpoet has written of love with such genius, such beauty, and suchsincerity, as the two who gave the most beautiful example of it intheir own lives. 

Fortunately for all those who love true poetry, Mr. Browning judgedrightly of the obligation laid upon him by the possession of thesepoems. 'I dared not, ' he said, 'reserve to myself the finest sonnetswritten in any language since Shakespeare's. ' Accordingly he persuadedhis wife to commit the printing of them to her friend, Miss Mitford;and in the course of the year they appeared in a slender volume, entitled 'Sonnets, by E. B. B. , ' with the imprint 'Reading, 1847, ' andmarked 'Not for publication. ' It was not until three years later thatthey were offered to the general public, in the volumes of 1850. Here first they appeared under the title of 'Sonnets from thePortuguese'--a title suggested by Mr. Browning (in preference to hiswife's proposal, 'Sonnets translated from the Bosnian') for the sakeof its half-allusion to her other poem, 'Catarina to Camoens, ' whichwas one of his chief favourites among her works. 

To these sonnets there is, however, no allusion in the letters herepublished, which say little for some time of her own work. 

_To Miss Mitford_February 8, 1847. 

But, my dearest Miss Mitford, your scheme about Leghorn is drawn outin the clouds. Now just see how impossible. Leghorn is fifteen milesoff, and though there is a railroad there is no liberty for Frenchbooks to wander backwards and forwards without inspection and seizure. Why, do remember that we are in Italy after all! Nevertheless, I willtell you what we have done: transplanted our subscription from theItalian library, which was wearing us away into a misanthropy, or atleast despair of the wits of all Southerns, into a library which hasa tolerable supply of French books, and gives us the privilegebesides of having a French newspaper, the 'Siècle, ' left with us everyevening. Also, this library admits (is allowed to admit on certainconditions) some books forbidden generally by the censureship, whichis of the strictest; and though Balzac appears very imperfectly, Iam delighted to find him at all, and shall dun the bookseller for the'Instruction criminelle, ' which I hope discharges your Lucien as a'forçat'--neither man nor woman--and true poet, least of all. .. . 

The 'Siècle' has for a _feuilleton_ a new romance of Soulié's, called'Saturnin Fichet, ' which is really not good, and tiresome to boot. Robert and I began by each of us reading it, but after a little whilehe left me alone, being certain that no good could come of such awork. So, of course, ever since, I have been exclaiming and exclaimingas to the wonderful improvement and increasing beauty and glory ofit, just to justify myself, and to make him sorry for not havingpersevered! The truth is, however, that but for obstinacy I shouldgive up too. Deplorably dull the story is, and there is a crowd ofpeople each more indifferent than each, to you; the pith of the plotbeing (very characteristically) that the hero has somebody exactlylike him. To the reader, it's _all one_ in every sense--who's who, andwhat's what. Robert is a warm admirer of Balzac and has read most ofhis books, but certainly--oh certainly--he does not in a general wayappreciate our French people quite with our warmth; he takes too higha standard, I tell him, and won't listen to a story for a story'ssake. I can bear to be amused, you know without a strong pull on myadmiration. So we have great wars sometimes, and I put up Dumas' flag, or Soulié's, or Eugène Sue's (yet he was properly possessed by the'Mystères de Paris') and carry it till my arms ache. The plays andvaudevilles he knows far more of than I do, and always maintainsthey are the happiest growth of the French school--setting aside the_masters_, observe--for Balzac and George Sand hold all their honours;and, before your letter came, he had told me about the 'Kean' and theother dramas. Then we read together the other day the 'Rouge et Noir, 'that powerful book of Stendhal's (Beyle), and he thought it verystriking, and observed--what I had thought from the first and againand again--that it was exactly like Balzac _in the raw_, in thematerial and undeveloped conception. What a book it is really, and sofull of pain and bitterness, and the gall of iniquity! The new DumasI shall see in time, perhaps, and it is curious that Robert had justbeen telling me the very story you speak of in your letter, from the'Causes Célèbres. ' I never read it--the more shame! Dearest friend, all this talk of French books and no talk about _you_--the _most_shame! You don't tell me enough of yourself, and I want to hear, because (besides the usual course of reasons) Mr. Chorley spoke of youas if you were not as cheerful as usual; do tell me. Ah! if you fancythat I do not love you as near, through being so far, you are unjustto me as you never were before. For myself, the brightness round mehas had a cloud on it lately by an illness of poor Wilson's. .. . Shewould not go to Dr. Cook till I was terrified one night, while she wasundressing me, by her sinking down on the sofa in a shivering fit. Oh, so frightened I was, and Robert ran out for a physician; and I couldhave shivered too, with the fright. But she is convalescent now, thank God! and in the meanwhile I have acquired a heap of practicalphilosophy, and have learnt how it is possible (in certain conditionsof the human frame) to comb out and twist up one's own hair, and laceone's very own stays, and cause hooks and eyes to meet behind one'svery own back, besides making toast and water for Wilson--which lastmiracle, it is only just to say, was considerably assisted by Robert'scounsels 'not quite to set fire to the bread' while one was toastingit. He was the best and kindest all that time, as even _he_ could be, and carried the kettle when it was too heavy for me, and helped mewith heart and head. Mr. Chorley could not have praised him too much, be very sure. I, who always rather appreciated him, do set down thethoughts I had as merely unjust things; he exceeds them all, indeed. Yes, Mr. Chorley has been very kind to us. I had a kind note myselffrom him a few days since, and do you know that we have a sort of hopeof seeing him in Italy this year, with dearest Mr. Kenyon, who has thegoodness to crown his goodness by a 'dream' of coming to see us? Weleave Pisa in April (did I tell you that?) and pass through Florencetowards the north of Italy--to _Venice_, for instance. In the way ofwriting, I have not done much yet--just finished my rough sketch ofan anti-slavery ballad and sent it off to America, where nobody willprint it, I am certain, because I could not help making it bitter. Ifthey _do_ print it, I shall thank them more boldly in earnest thanI fancy now. Tell me of Mary Howitt's new collection of ballads--arethey good? I warmly wish that Mr. Chorley may succeed with his play;but how can Miss Cushman promise a hundred nights for an untriedwork?. .. Perhaps you may find the two last numbers of the 'Bells andPomegranates' less obscure--it seems so to me. Flush has grown anabsolute monarch and barks one distracted when he wants a door opened. Robert spoils him, I think. Do think of me as your ever affectionateand grateful

BA. 

Have you seen 'Agnes de Misanie, ' the new play by the author of'Lucretia'? A witty feuilletoniste says of it that, besides all theunities of Aristotle, it comprises, from beginning to end, _unity ofsituation_. Not bad, is it? Madame Ancelot has just succeeded with acomedy, called 'Une Année à Paris. ' By the way, _shall you go to Paristhis spring_?[157]

[Footnote 157: A list of the works composing Balzac's _ComédieHumaine_ is attached to this letter for Miss Mitford's benefit. ]

From Mr. Browning's family, though she had as yet had no opportunityof making acquaintance with them face to face, Mrs. Browning from thefirst met with an affectionate reception. The following is the firstnow extant of a series of letters written by her to Miss Browning, the poet's sister. The abrupt and private nature of the marriagenever seems to have caused the slightest coldness of feeling in thisquarter, though it must have caused anxiety; and the tone of the earlyletters, in which so new and unfamiliar a relation had to be taken up, does equal honour to the writer and to the recipient. 

_To Miss Browning_[Pisa: about February 1847. ]

I must begin by thanking dearest Sarianna again for her note, and byassuring her that the affectionate tone of it quite made me happy andgrateful together--that I am grateful to _all of you_: do _feel_ thatI am. For the rest, when I see (afar off) Robert's minute manuscripts, a certain distrust steals over me of anything I can possibly tell youof our way of living, lest it should be the vainest of repetitions, and by no means worth repeating, both at once. Such a quiet silentlife it is--going to hear the Friar preach in the Duomo, a grand eventin it, and the wind laying flat all our schemes about Volterra andLucca! I have had to give up even the Friar for these three days past;there is nothing for me when I have driven out Robert to take hisnecessary walk but to sit and watch the pinewood blaze. He is grievedabout the illness of his cousin, only I do hope that your next letterwill confirm the happy change which stops the further anxiety, andcome soon for that purpose, besides others. Your letters never cancome too often, remember, even when they have not to speak of illness, and I for my part must always have a thankful interest in your cousinfor the kind part he took in the happiest event of my life. You haveto tell us too of your dear mother--Robert is so anxious about heralways. How deeply and tenderly he loves her and all of you, nevercould have been more manifest than now when he is away from you andhas to talk _of_ you instead of _to_ you. By the way (or rather outof the way) I quite took your view of the purposed ingratitude to poorMiss Haworth[158]--it would have been worse in him than the sins of'Examiner' and 'Athenaeum. ' If authors won't feel for one another, there's an end of the world of writing! Oh, I think he proposed it ina moment of hardheartedness--we all put on tortoiseshell now and then, and presently come out into the sun as sensitively as ever. BesidesMiss Haworth has written to us very kindly; and kindness doesn'tspring up everywhere, like the violets in your gravel walks. See how Iunderstand Hatcham. Do try to love me a little, dearest Sarianna, and(with my grateful love always to your father and mother) let me beyour affectionate sister, ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, or rather BA. 

[Footnote 158: Miss E. F. Haworth (several letters to whom are givenfarther on) was an old friend of Robert Browning's, and published avolume of verse in 1847, to which this passage seems to allude. ]

The correspondence with Mr. Westwood, which had lapsed for aconsiderable time, was resumed with the following letter:

_To Mr. Westwood_Collegio Ferdinando, Pisa: March 10, 1847. 

If really, my dear Mr. Westwood, it was an 'ill temper' in you, causing the brief note, it was a most flattering ill temper, and Ithank you just as I have had reason to do for the good nature whichhas caused you to bear with me so often and so long. You have beenmisled on some points. I did not go to Italy last year, or rather theyear before last! I was disappointed and forced to stay in WimpoleStreet after all; but the winter being so mild, so miraculously mildfor England you may remember, I was spared my winter relapse andleft liberty for new plans such as I never used to think were inmy destiny! Such a change it is to me, such a strange happiness andfreedom, and you must not in your kindness wish me back again, butrather be contented, like a friend as you are, to hear that I am veryhappy and very well, and still doubtful whether all the brightness canbe meant for _me_! It is just as if the sun rose again at 7 o'clockP. M. The strangeness seems so great. .. . 

I am now very well, and so happy as not to think much of it, exceptfor the sake of another. And do you fancy how I feel, carried; intothe visions of nature from my gloomy room. Even now I walk as in adream. We made a pilgrimage from Avignon to Vaucluse in right poeticalduty, and I and my husband sate upon two stones in the midst of thefountain which in its dark prison of rocks flashes and roars andtestifies to the memory of Petrarch. It was louder and fuller thanusual when we were there, on account of the rains; and Flush, thoughby no means born to be a hero, considered my position so outrageousthat he dashed through the water to me, splashing me all over, so heis baptised in Petrarch's name. The scenery is full of grandeur, therocks sheathe themselves into the sky, and nothing grows there excepta little cypress here and there, and a straggling olive tree; and thefountain works out its soul in its stony prison, and runs away in agreen rapid stream. Such a striking sight it is. I sate upon deck, too, in our passage from Marseilles to Genoa, and had a vision ofmountains, six or seven deep, one behind another. As to Pisa, call ita beautiful town, you cannot do less with Arno and its palaces, andabove all the wonderful Duomo and Campo Santo, and Leaning Tower andBaptistery, all of which are a stone's throw from our windows. Wehave rooms in a great college-house built by Vasari, and fallen intodesuetude from collegiate purposes; and here we live the quietest andmost _tête-à-tête_ of lives, knowing nobody, hearing nothing, and fornearly three months together never catching a glimpse of a paper. Oh, how wrong you were about the 'Times'! Now, however, we subscribe to aFrench and Italian library, and have a French newspaper every evening, the 'Siècle, ' and so look through a loophole at the world. Yet, nottoo proud are we, even now, for all the news you will please to sendus in charity: 'da obolum Belisario!'

What do you mean about poor Tennyson? I heard of him last on hisreturn from a visit to the Swiss mountains, which 'disappointed him, 'he was _said to say_. Very wrong, either of mountains or poet!

Tell me if you make acquaintance with Mrs. Hewitt's new ballads. 

Mrs. Jameson is engaged in a work on art which will be veryinteresting. .. . 

Flush's love to your Flopsy. Flush has grown very overbearing in thisItaly, I think because my husband spoils him (if not for the gloryat Vaucluse); Robert declares that the said Flush considers him, myhusband, to be created for the especial purpose of doing him service, and really it looks rather like it. 

Never do I see the 'Athenaeum' now, but before I left England somepure gushes between the rocks reminded me of you. Tell me all you can;it will all be like rain upon dry ground. My husband bids me offer hisregards to you--if you will accept them; and that you may do it askyour heart. I will assure you (aside) that his poetry is as the proseof his nature: he himself is so much better and higher than his ownworks. 

In the middle of April the Brownings left Pisa and journeyed toFlorence, arriving there on April 20. There, however, the programmewas arrested, and, save for an abortive excursion to Vallombrosa, whence they were repulsed by the misogynist principles of the monks, they continued to reside in Florence for the remainder of the year. Their first abode was in the Via delle Belle Donne; but after thereturn from Vallombrosa, in August, they moved across the river, andtook furnished rooms in the Palazzo Guidi, the building which, underthe name of 'Casa Guidi, ' is for ever associated with their memory. 

_To Mrs. Martin_Florence: April 24, 1847. 

I received your letter, my dearest friend, by this day's post, andwrote a little note directly to the office as a trap for the feetof your travellers. If they escape us after all, therefore, they maypraise their stars for it rather than my intentions--_our_ intentions, I should say, for Robert will gladly do everything he can in the wayof expounding a text or two of the glories of Florence, and we bothshall be much pleased and cordially pleased to learn more of Fannyand her brother than the glance at Pisa could teach us. As for me, shewill let me have a little talking for my share: I can't walk about orsee anything. I lie here flat on the sofa in order to be wise; I restand take port wine by wineglasses; and a few more days of it willprepare me, I hope and trust, for an interview with the Venus de'Medici. Think of my having been in Florence since Tuesday, thisbeing Saturday, and not a step taken into the galleries. It seems adisgrace, a sort of involuntary disgraceful act, or rather no-act, which to complain of relieves one to some degree. And how kind of youto wish to hear from me of myself! There is nothing really much thematter with me; I am just _weak_, sleeping and eating dreadfully wellconsidering that Florence isn't seen yet, and 'looking well, ' too, says Mrs. Jameson, who, with her niece, is our guest just now. Itwould have been wise if I had rested longer at Pisa, but, you see, there was a long engagement to meet Mrs. Jameson here, and sheexpressed a very kind unwillingness to leave Italy without keeping it:also she had resolved to come out of her way on purpose for this, and, as I had the consent of my physician, we determined to perform ourpart of the compact; and in order to prepare for the longer journey Iwent out in the carriage a little too soon, perhaps, and a little toolong. At least, if I had kept quite still I should have been strongby this time--not that I have done myself harm in the serious sense, observe--and now the affair is accomplished, I shall be wonderfullydiscreet and self-denying, and resist Venuses and Apollos like someone wiser than the gods themselves. My chest is very well; there hasbeen no symptom of evil in that quarter. .. . We took the whole coupéof the diligence--but regretted our first plan of the _vettura_nevertheless--and now are settled in very comfortable rooms in the'Via delle Belle Donne' just out of the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, very superior rooms to our apartment in Pisa, in which we were cheatedto the uttermost with all the subtlety of Italy and to the fullextent of our ignorance; think what _that_ must have been! Our presentapartment, with the hire of a grand piano and music, does not cost usso much within ever so many francisconi. Oh, and you don't frighten methough we are on the north side of the Arno! We have taken our roomsfor two months, and may be here longer, and the fear of the heat wasstronger with me than the fear of the cold, or we might have been inthe Pitti and 'arrostiti' by this time. We expected dear Mrs. Jameson on Saturday, but she came on Friday evening, having suddenlyremembered that it was Shakespeare's birthday, and bringing with herfrom Arezzo a bottle of wine to 'drink to his memory with two otherpoets, ' so there was a great deal of merriment, as you may fancy, andRobert played Shakespeare's favorite air, 'The Light of Love, ' andeverybody was delighted to meet everybody, and Roman news and Pisandullness were properly discussed on every side. She saw a good dealof Cobden in Rome, and went with him to the Sistine Chapel. He has nofeeling for art, and, being very true and earnest, could only do hisbest to _try_ to admire Michael Angelo; but here and there, where heunderstood, the pleasure was expressed with a blunt characteristicsimplicity. Standing before the statue of Demosthenes, he said:'That man is persuaded himself of what he speaks, and will thereforepersuade others. ' She liked him exceedingly. For my part, I shouldjoin in more admiration if it were not for his having _acceptedmoney_, but paid patriots are no heroes of mine. 'Verily they havetheir reward. ' O'Connell had arrived in Rome, and it was consideredthat he came only to die. Among the artists, Gibson and Wyatt weredoing great things; she wishes us to know Gibson particularly. As tothe Pope he lives in an atmosphere of love and admiration, and 'he isdoing _what he can_, ' Mrs. Jameson believes. Robert says: 'A dreadfulsituation, after all, for a man of understanding and honesty! I pityhim from my soul, for he can, at best, only temporise with truth. 'But human nature is doomed to pay a high price for its opportunities. Delighted I am to have your good account of dear Mr. Martin, thoughyou are naughty people to persist in going to England so soon. Dowrite to me and tell me all about both of you. I will do what Ican--like the Pope--but what can I do? Yes, indeed, I mean to enjoyart and nature too; one shall not exclude the other. This Florenceseems divine as we pass the bridges, and my husband, who knowseverything, is to teach and show me all the great wonders, so that Iam reasonably impatient to try my advantages. His kind regards to youboth, and my best love, dearest friends. .. . 

Your very affectionateBA. 

_To Mrs. Jameson_Florence: May 12, [1847]. 

I was afraid, we both were afraid for you, dearest friend, when wesaw the clouds gather and heard the rain fall as it did that day atFlorence. It seemed impossible that you should be beyond the evilinfluence, should you have travelled ever so fast; but, after all, a storm in the Apennines, like many a moral storm, will be betterperhaps than a calm to look back upon. We talked of you and thought ofyou, and missed you at coffee time, and regretted that so pleasant aweek (for us) should have gone so fast, as fast as a dull week, or, rather, a good deal faster. Dearest friend, do believe that we _felt_your goodness in Coming to us--in making us an object--before you leftItaly; it fills up the measure of goodness and kindness for which weshall thank and love you all our lives. Never fancy that we can forgetyou or be less touched by the memory of what you have been to us inaffection and sympathy--never. And don't _you_ lose sight of _us_; dowrite often, and do, _do_ make haste and come back to Italy, andthen make use of us in any and every possible way as house-takersor house-mates, for we are ready to accept the lowest place or thehighest. The week you gave us would be altogether bright and glad ifit had not been for the depression and anxiety on your part. May Godturn it all to gain and satisfaction in some unlooked-for way. To be a_road-maker_ is weary work, even across the Apennines of life. Wehave not science enough for it if we have strength, which we haven'teither. Do you remember how Sindbad shut his eyes and let himselfbe carried over the hills by an eagle? _That_ was better than to setabout breaking stones. Also what you could do you have done; you havefinished your part, and the sense of a fulfilled duty is in itselfsatisfying--is and must be. My sympathies go with you entirely, whileI wish your dear Gerardine to be happy; I wish it from my heart. .. . Just after you left us arrived our box with the precious deeds, whichare thrown into the cabinet for want of witnesses. And then Roberthas had a letter from Mr. Forster with the date of _Shakespeare'sbirthday_, and overflowing with kindness really both to himself andme. It quite touched me, that letter. Also we have had a visitationfrom an American, but on the point of leaving Florence and very tameand inoffensive, and we bore it very well considering. He sent usa new literary periodical of the old world, in which, among otherinteresting matter, I had the pleasure of reading an account of my own'blindness, ' taken from a French paper (the 'Presse'), and mentionedwith humane regret. Well! and what more news is there to tell you?I have been out once, only once, and only for an inglorious gloriousdrive round the Piazza Gran Duca, past the Duomo, outside the walls, and in again at the Cascine. It was like the trail of a vision in theevening sun. I saw the Perseus in a sort of flash. The Duomo is moreafter the likeness of a Duomo than Pisa can show; I like those massesin ecclesiastical architecture. Now we are plotting how to, engagea carriage for a month's service without ruining ourselves, for we_must_ see, and I _can't_ walk and see, though much stronger than whenwe parted, and looking much better, as Robert and the looking glassboth do testify. I have seemed at last 'to leap to a conclusion' ofconvalescence. But the heat--oh, so hot it is. If it is half as hotwith you, you must be calling on the name of St. Lawrence by thistime, and require no 'turning. ' I should not like to travel undersuch a sun. It would be too like playing at snapdragon. Yes, 'brightlyhappy. ' Women generally _lose_ by marriage, but I have gained theworld by mine. If it were not for some griefs, which are and must begriefs, I should be too happy perhaps, which is good for nobody. MayGod bless you, my dear, dearest friend! Robert must be content withsending his love to-day, and shall write another day. We both love youevery day. My love and a kiss to dearest Gerardine, who is to rememberto write to me. 

Your ever affectionateBA. 

_To H. S. Boyd_Florence: May 26, 1847. 

I should have answered your letter, my dearest friend, more quickly, but when it came I was ill, as you may have heard, and afterwards Iwished to wait until I could send you information about the LeaningTower and the bells[159]. The book you required, about the cathedral, Robert has tried in vain to procure for you. Plenty of such books, but _not in English_. In London such things are to be found, Ishould think, without difficulty, for instance, 'Murray's Handbookto Northern Italy, ' though rather dear (12_s. _), would give yousufficiently full information upon the ecclesiastical glories both ofPisa and of this beautiful Florence, from whence I write to you. .. . Iwill answer for the harmony of the bells, as we lived within a stone'sthrow of them, and they began at four o'clock every morning andrang my dreams apart. The Pasquareccia (the fourth) especially hasa profound note in it, which may well have thrilled horror to thecriminal's heart. [160] It was ghastly in its effects; dropped intothe deep of night like a thought of death. Often have I said, 'Oh, howghastly!' and then turned on my pillow and dreamed a bad dream. But ifthe bell founders at Pisa have a merited reputation, let no one say asmuch for the bellringers. The manner in which all the bells of allthe churches in the city are shaken together sometimes would certainlymake you groan in despair of your ears. The discord is fortunatelyindescribable. Well--but here we are at Florence, the most beautifulof the cities devised by man. .. . 

In the meanwhile I have seen the Venus, I have seen the divineRaphaels. I have stood by Michael Angelo's tomb in Santa Croce. Ihave looked at the wonderful Duomo. This cathedral! After all, theelaborate grace of the Pisan cathedral is one thing, and the massivegrandeur of this of Florence is another and better thing; it struckme with a sense of the sublime in architecture. At Pisa we say, 'Howbeautiful!' here we say nothing; it is enough if we can breathe. Themountainous marble masses overcome as we look up--we feel the weightof them on the soul. Tesselated marbles (the green treading itselaborate pattern into the dim yellow, which seems the general hue ofthe structure) climb against the sky, self-crowned with that prodigyof marble domes. It struck me as a wonder in architecture. I hadneither seen nor imagined the like of it in any way. It seemedto carry its theology out with it; it signified more than a merebuilding. Tell me everything you want to know. I shall like to answera thousand questions. Florence is beautiful, as I have said before, and must say again and again, most beautiful. The river rushes throughthe midst of its palaces like a crystal arrow, and it is hard to tell, when you see all by the clear sunset, whether those churches, andhouses, and windows, and bridges, and people walking, in the water orout of the water, are the real walls, and windows, and bridges, andpeople, and churches. The only difference is that, down below, thereis a double movement; the movement of the stream besides the movementof life. For the rest, the distinctness of the eye is as great in oneas in the other. .. . Remember me to such of my friends as remember mekindly when unreminded by me. I am very happy--happier and happier. 

ELIBET. 

Robert's best regards to you always. 

[Footnote 159: It will be remembered that Mr. Boyd took a greatinterest in bells and bell ringing. The passage omitted below containsan extract from Murray's _Handbook_ with reference to the bells ofPisa. ]

[Footnote 160: This bell was tolled on the occasion of an execution. ]

_To Mrs. Jameson_Palazzo Guidi, Via Maggio, Florence:August 7, 1847 [postmark]. 

You will be surprised perhaps, and perhaps not, dearest friend, to find that we are still at Florence. Florence 'holds us with aglittering eye;' there's a charm cast round us, and we can't get away. In the first place, your news of Recoaro came so late that, as yousaid yourself, we ought to have been there before your letter reachedus. Nobody would encourage us to go north on any grounds, indeed, and if anybody speaks a word now in favour of Venice, straight comessomebody else speaking the direct contrary. Altogether, we took tomaking a plan of our own--a great, wild, delightful plan of plunginginto the mountains and spending two or three months at the monasteryof Vallombrosa, until the heat was passed, and dear Mr. Kenyondecided, and we could either settle for the winter at Florence or passon to Rome. Could anything look more delightful than that? Well, wegot a letter of recommendation to the abbot, and left our apartment, Via delle Belle Donne, a week before our three months were done, thoroughly burned out by the sun; set out at four in the morning, reached Pelago, and from thence travelled five miles along a 'via nonrotabile' through the most romantic scenery. Oh, such mountains!--asif the whole world were alive with mountains--such ravines--black inspite of flashing waters in them--such woods and rocks--travelledin basket sledges drawn by four white oxen--Wilson and I and theluggage--and Robert riding step by step. We were four hours doing thefive miles, so you may fancy what rough work it was. Whether I wasmost tired or charmed was a _tug_ between body and soul. The worst wasthat, there being a new abbot at the monastery--an austere man jealousof his sanctity and the approach of women--our letter, and Robert'seloquence to boot, did nothing for us, and we were ingloriously andignominiously expelled at the end of five days. For three days we werewelcome; for two more we kept our ground; but after _that_, out wewere thrust, with baggage and expectations. Nothing could be much moreprovoking. And yet we came back very merrily for disappointed peopleto Florence, getting up at three in the morning, and rolling orsliding (as it might happen) down the precipitous path, and seeinground us a morning glory of mountains, clouds, and rising sun, suchas we never can forget--back to Florence and our old lodgings, and aneatable breakfast of coffee and bread, and a confession one to anotherthat if we had won the day instead of losing it, and spent our summerwith the monks, we should have grown considerably _thinner_ by thevictory. They make their bread, I rather imagine, with the sawdust oftheir fir trees, and, except oil and wine--yes, and plenty of beef(of _fleisch_, as your Germans say, of all kinds, indeed), which isn'tprecisely the fare to suit us--we were thrown for nourishment on thegreat sights around. Oh, but so beautiful were mountains and forestsand waterfalls that I could have kept my ground happily for the twomonths--even though the only book I saw there was the chronicle oftheir San Gualberto. Is he not among your saints? Being routed fairly, and having breakfasted fully at our old apartment, Robert went out tofind cool rooms, if possible, and make the best of our position, andnow we are settled magnificently in this Palazzo Guidi on a firstfloor in an apartment which _looks_ quite beyond our means, and _wouldbe_ except in the dead part of the season--a suite of spacious roomsopening on a little terrace and furnished elegantly--rather to suitour predecessor the Russian prince than ourselves--but cool and in adelightful situation, six paces from the Piazza Pitti, and with rightof daily admission to the Boboli gardens. We pay what we paid in theVia Belle Donne. Isn't this prosperous? You would be surprised to see_me_, I think, I am so very well (and look so)--dispensed from beingcarried upstairs, and inclined to take a run, for a walk, every nowand then. I scarcely recognise myself or my ways, or my own spirits, all is so different. .. . 

We have made the acquaintance of Mr. Powers, [161] who isdelightful--of a most charming simplicity, with those great burningeyes of his. Tell me what you think of his boy listening to theshell. Oh, your Raphaels! how divine! And M. Angelo's sculptures! Hispictures I leap up to in vain, and fall back regularly. Write of yourbook and yourself, and write soon; and let me be, as always, youraffectionate BA. 

We are here for two months certain, and perhaps longer. Do write. 

Dear Aunt Nina, --Ba has said something for me, I hope. In any case, mylove goes with hers, I trust you are well and happy, as we are, and aswe would make you if we could. Love to Geddie. Ever yours, [R. B. ]

[Footnote 161: The American sculptor. ]

_To Mrs. Martin_Florence: August 7, 1847. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --How I have been longing to get this letter, which comes at last, and justifies the longing by the pleasure itgives!. .. How kind, how affectionate you are to me, and how strongyour claim is that I should thrust on you, in defiance of good tasteand conventions, every evidence and assurance of my happiness, soas to justify your _faith_ to yourselves and others. Indeed, indeed, dearest Mrs. Martin, you may 'exult' for me--and this though it shouldall end here and now. The uncertainties of life and death seem nothingto me. A year (nearly) is saved from the darkness, and if thatone year has compensated for those that preceded it--which it has, abundantly--why, let it for those that shall follow, if it so pleaseGod. Come what may, I feel as if I never could have a right to murmur. I have been happy enough. Brought about too it was, indeed, by a sortof miracle which to this moment, when I look back, bewilders me tothink of; and if you knew the details, counted the little steps, and could; compare my moral position three years and a half ago with_this_, you would come to despise San Gualberto's miraculous tree atVallombrosa, which, being dead, gave out green leaves in recognitionof his approach, as testified by the inscription--do you remember? Butyou can't stop to-day to read mine, so rather I shall tell you of ourexploit in the mountains. Only one thing I must say first, one thingwhich you must forgive me for the vanity of resolving to say at last, having had it in my head very often. There's a detestable engraving, which, if you have the ill luck to see (and you _may_, because, horrible to relate, it is in the shop windows), will you have thekindness, for my sake, not to fancy _like Robert_?--it being, as hesays himself, the very image of '_a young man at Waterloo House_, ina moment of inspiration--"A lovely blue, ma'am. "' It is as like Robertas Flush. And now I am going to tell you of Vallombrosa. You heard howwe meant to stay two months there, and you are to imagine how we gotup at three in the morning to escape the heat (imagine me!)--and withall our possessions and a 'dozen of port' (which my husband doses mewith twice a day because once it was necessary) proceeded to Pelagoby vettura, and from thence in two sledges, drawn each by twowhite bullocks up to the top of the holy mountain. (Robert was onhorseback. ) Precisely it must be as you left it. Who can make a roadup a house? We were four hours going five miles, and I with all mygoodwill was dreadfully tired, and scarcely in appetite for the beefand oil with which we were entertained at the House of Strangers. Weare simple people about diet, and had said over and over that we wouldlive on eggs and milk and bread and butter during these two months. Wemight as well have said that we would live on manna from heaven. The things we had fixed on were just the impossible things. Oh, thatbread, with the fetid smell, which stuck in the throat like Macbeth'samen! I am not surprised, you recollect it! The hens had 'got them toa nunnery, ' and objected to lay eggs, and the milk and the holy waterstood confounded. But of course we spread the tablecloth, just as youdid, over all drawbacks of the sort; and the beef and oil, as Isaid, and the wine too, were liberal and excellent, and we made ourgratitude apparent in Robert's best Tuscan--in spite of which wewere turned out ignominiously at the end of five days, having beenpermitted to overstay the usual three days by only two. No, nothingcould move the lord abbot. He is a new abbot, and; given to sanctity, and has set his face against women. 'While he is abbot, ' he said toour mediating monk, 'he _will_ be abbot. So he is abbot, and we had tocome back to Florence. ' As I read in the 'Life of San Gualberto, ' laidon the table for the edification of strangers, the brothers attain tosanctification, among other means, by cleaning out pigsties withtheir bare hands, without spade or shovel; but _that_ is uncleanlinessenough--they wouldn't touch the little finger of a woman. Angry I was, I do assure you. I should have liked to stay there, in spite of thebread. We should have been only a little thinner at the end. Andthe scenery--oh, how magnificent! How we enjoyed that great, silent, ink-black pine wood! And do you remember the sea of mountains to theleft? How grand it is! We were up at three in the morning again toreturn to Florence, and the glory of that morning sun breaking theclouds to pieces among the hills is something ineffaceable from myremembrance. We came back ignominiously to our old rooms, but found itimpossible to stay on account of the suffocating heat, yet we scarcelycould go far from Florence, because of Mr. Kenyon and our hope ofseeing him here (since lost). A perplexity ended by Robert's discoveryof our present apartments, on the Pitti side of the river (indeed, close to the Grand Duke's palace), consisting of a suite of spaciousand delightful rooms, which come within our means only from thedeadness of the summer season, comparatively quite cool, and witha terrace which I enjoy to the uttermost through being able to walkthere without a bonnet, by just stepping out of the window. The churchof San Felice is opposite, so we haven't a neighbour to look throughthe sunlight or moonlight and take observations. Isn't that pleasantaltogether? We ordered back the piano and the book subscription, andsettled for two months, and forgave the Vallombrosa monks for thewrong they did us, like secular Christians. What is to come after, Ican't tell you. But probably we shall creep slowly along toward Rome, and spend some hot time of it at Perugia, which is said to be coolenough. I think more of other things, wishing that my dearest, kindestsisters had a present as bright as mine--to think nothing at all ofthe future. Dearest Henrietta's position has long made me uneasy, and, since she frees me into confidence by her confidence to you, I willtell you so. Most undesirable it is that this should be continued, andyet where is there a door open to escape?[162] . .. My dear brothershave the illusion that nobody should marry on less than two thousand ayear. Good heavens! how preposterous it does seem to me! _We_ scarcelyspend three hundred, and I have every luxury, I ever had, and whichit would be so easy to give up, at need; and Robert wouldn't sleep, I think, if an unpaid bill dragged itself by any chance into anotherweek. He says that when people get into 'pecuniary difficulties, ' his'sympathies always go with the butchers and bakers. ' So we keep out ofscrapes yet, you see. .. . 

Your grateful and most affectionateBA. 

We have had the most delightful letter from Carlyle, who has thegoodness to say that not for years has a marriage occurred in hisprivate circle in which he so heartily rejoiced as in ours. He is apersonal friend of Robert's, so that I have reason to be very proudand glad. 

Robert's best regards to you both always, and he is no believer inmagnetism (only _I_ am). Do mention Mr. C. Hanford's health. Howstrange that he should come to witness my marriage settlement! Did youhear?

[Footnote 162: Miss Henrietta Barrett was engaged to Captain SurteesCook, an engagement of which her brothers, as well as her father, disapproved, partly on the ground of insufficiency of income. Ultimately the difficulty was solved in the same way as in the case ofMrs. Browning. ]

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: August 20, [1847], I have received your letter at last, my ever dearest Miss Mitford, notthe missing letter, but the one which comes to make up for it and tocatch up my thoughts, which were grumbling at high tide, I do assureyou. .. . As you observed last year (not without reason), these are thedays of marrying and giving in marriage. Mr. Horne, you see[163] . .. With all my heart I hope he may be very happy. Men risk a good deal inmarriage, though not as much as women do; and on the other hand, thesingleness of a man when his youth is over is a sadder thing than thesaddest which an unmarried woman can suffer. Nearly all my friendsof both sexes have been draining off into marriage these two years, scarcely one will be left in the sieve, and I may end by saying thatI have happiness enough for my own share to be divided among them alland leave everyone, contented. For me, I take it for pure magic, thislife of mine. Surely nobody was ever so happy before. I shall wakesome morning with my hair all dripping out of the enchanted bucket, or if not we shall both claim the 'Flitch' next September, if you canfind one for us in the land of Cockaigne, drying in expectancy of therevolution in Tennyson's 'Commonwealth. ' Well, I don't agree with Mr. Harness in admiring the lady of 'Locksley Hall. ' I _must_ either pityor despise a woman who could have married Tennyson and chose a commonman. If happy in her choice, I despise her. That's matter of opinion, of course. You may call it matter of foolishness when I add that Ipersonally would rather be teased a little and smoked over a good dealby a man whom I could look up to and be proud of, than have my feetkissed all day by a Mr. Smith in boots and a waistcoat, and therebychiefly distinguished. Neither I nor another, perhaps, had quite aright to expect a combination of qualities, such as meet, though, inmy husband, who is as faultless and pure in his private life as anyMr. Smith of them all, who would not owe five shillings, who liveslike a woman in abstemiousness on a pennyworth of wine a day, nevertouches a cigar even. .. . Do you hear, as we do, from Mr. Forster, thathis[164] new poem is his best work? As soon as you read it, let mehave your opinion. The subject seems almost identical with one ofChaucer's. Is it not so? We have spent here the most delightful ofsummers, notwithstanding the heat, and I begin to comprehend thepossibility of St. Lawrence's ecstasies on the gridiron. Very hot itcertainly has been and is, yet there have been cool intermissions; andas we have spacious and airy rooms, and as Robert lets me sit all dayin my white dressing gown without a single masculine criticism, andas we can step out of the window on a sort of balcony terrace which isquite private and swims over with moonlight in the evenings, and aswe live upon water melons and iced water and figs and all manner offruit, we bear the heat with an angelic patience and felicity whichreally are edifying. We tried to make the monks of Vallombrosa letus stay with them for two months, but their new abbot said orimplied that Wilson and I stank in his nostrils, being women, and SanGualberto, the establishes of their order, had enjoined on them onlythe mortification of cleaning out pigsties without fork or shovel. So here a couple of women besides was (as Dickens's American said) 'apiling it up rayther too mountainious. ' So we were sent away at theend of five days. So provoking! Such scenery, such hills, such asea of hills looking alive among the clouds. _Which_ rolled, it wasdifficult to discern. Such pine woods, supernaturally silent, with theground black as ink, such chestnut and beech forests hanging from themountains, such rocks and torrents, such chasms and ravines. Therewere eagles there, too, [and] there was _no road_. Robert went onhorseback, and Flush, Wilson, and I were drawn in a sledge (i. E. An old hamper, a basket wine hamper without a wheel) by two whitebullocks up the precipitous mountains. Think of my travelling in thatfashion in those wild places at four o'clock in the morning, a littlefrightened, dreadfully tired, but in an ecstasy of admiration aboveall! It was a sight to see before one died and went away to anotherworld. Well, but being expelled ignominiously at the end of five days, we had to come back to Florence, and find a new apartment cooler thanthe old, and wait for dear Mr. Kenyon. And dear Mr. Kenyon doesnot come (not this autumn, but he may perhaps at the first dawn ofspring), and on September 20 we take up our knapsacks and turn ourfaces towards Rome, I think, creeping slowly along, with a pause atArezzo, and a longer pause at Perugia, and another perhaps at Terni. Then we plan to take an apartment we have heard of, over the TarpeianRock, and enjoy Rome as we have enjoyed Florence. More can scarcelybe. This Florence is unspeakably beautiful, by grace both of natureand art, and the wheels of life slide on upon the grass (accordingto continental ways) with little trouble and less expense. Dinner, 'unordered, ' comes through the streets and spreads itself on ourtable, as hot as if we had smelt cutlets hours before. The scienceof material life is understood here and in France. Now tell me, whatright has England to be the dearest country in the world? But I lovedearly dear England, and we hope to spend many a green summer in heryet. The winters you will excuse us, will you not? People who are, like us, neither rich nor strong, claim such excuses. I am wonderfullywell, and far better and stronger than before what you call the Pisan'crisis. ' Robert declares that nobody would know me, I _look_ so muchbetter. And you heard from dearest Henrietta. Ah, both of my dearestsisters have been perfect to me. No words can express my feelingstowards their goodness. Otherwise, I have good accounts from home ofmy father's excellent health and spirits, which is better even thanto hear of his loving and missing me. I had a few kind lines yesterdayfrom Miss Martineau, who invites us from Florence to Westmoreland. Shewants to talk to me, she says, of 'her beloved Jordan. ' She islooking forward to a winter of work by the lakes, and to a summer ofgardening. The kindest of letters Robert has had from Carlyle, whomakes us very happy by what he says of our marriage. Shakespeare'sfavorite air of the 'Light of Love, ' with the full evidence ofits being Shakespeare's favorite air, is given in Charles Knight'sedition. Seek for it there. Now do write to me and at length, and tellme everything of yourself. Flush hated Vallombrosa, and was frightenedout of his wits by the pine forests. Flush likes civilised life, andthe society of little dogs with turned-up tails, such as Florenceabounds with. Unhappily it abounds also with _fleas_, which afflictpoor Flush to the verge sometimes of despair. Fancy Robert and medown on our knees combing him, with a basin of water on one side! Hesuffers to such a degree from fleas that I cannot bear to witness it. He tears off his pretty curls through the irritation. Do you know of aremedy? Direct to me, Poste Restante, Florence. Put _via_ France. Letme hear, do; and everything of yourself, mind. Is Mrs. Partridge inbetter spirits? Do you read any new French books? Dearest friend, letme offer you my husband's cordial regards, with the love of your ownaffectionate

E. B. B. , BA. 

[Footnote 163: Mr. Horne was just engaged to be married. ]

[Footnote 164: Tennyson's _Princess_ had just been published. ]

_To Mr. Westwood_Florence: September 1847. 

Yes, indeed, my dear Mr. Westwood, I have seen 'friars. ' We have beenon a pilgrimage to Vallombrosa, and while my husband rode up and downthe precipitous mountain paths, I and my maid and Flush were draggedin a hamper by two white bullocks--and such scenery; such hilly peaks, such black ravines and gurgling waters, and rocks and forests aboveand below, and at last such a monastery and such friars, who wouldn'tlet us stay with them beyond five days for fear of corrupting thefraternity. The monks had a new abbot, a St. Sejanus of a holyman, and a petticoat stank in his nostrils, said he, and all the Ibeseeching which we could offer him with joined hands was classed withthe temptations of St. Anthony. So we had to come away as we went, andget the better as we could of our disappointment, and really it wasa disappointment not to be able to stay our two months out in thewilderness as we had planned it, to say nothing of the heat ofFlorence, to which at the moment it was not pleasant to return. Butwe got new lodgings in the shade and comforted ourselves as well as wecould. 'Comforted'--there's a word for Florence--that ingratitude wasa slip of the pen, believe me. Only we had set our hearts upon a twomonths' seclusion in the deep of the pine forests (which have sucha strange dialect in the silence they speak with), and the mountainswere divine, and it was provoking to be crossed in our ambitions bythat little holy abbot with the red face, and to be driven out ofEden, even to Florence. It is said, observe, that Milton took hisdescription of Paradise from Vallombrosa--so driven out of Eden wewere, literally. To Florence, though! and what Florence is, the tongueof man or poet may easily fail to describe. The most beautiful ofcities, with the golden Arno shot through the breast of her like anarrow, and 'non dolet' all the same. For what helps to charm hereis the innocent gaiety of the people, who, for ever at feast day andholiday celebrations, come and go along the streets, the women inelegant dresses and with glittering fans, shining away every thoughtof Northern cares and taxes, such as make people grave in England. No little orphan on a house step but seems to inherit, naturallyhis slice of water-melon and bunch of purple grapes, and the richfraternise with the poor as we are unaccustomed to see them, listeningto the same music and walking in the same gardens, and looking at thesame Raphaels even! Also we were glad to be here just now, when thereis new animation and energy given to Italy by this new wonderfulPope, who is a great man and doing greatly. I hope you give him yoursympathies. Think how seldom the liberation of a people begins fromthe throne, _à fortiori_ from a papal throne, which is so high andstraight. [165] And the spark spreads! here is even our GrandDuke conceding the civic guard, [166] and forgetting his Austrianprejudices. The world learns, it is pleasant to observe. .. . 

So well I am, dear Mr. Westwood, and so happy after a year's trial ofthe stuff of marriage, happier than ever, perhaps, and the revolutionis so complete that one has to learn to stand up straight and steadily(like a landsman in a sailing ship) before one can do any work withone's hand and brain. 

We have had a delightful letter from Carlyle, who loves my husband, Iam proud to say. 

 [Footnote 165:'This country saving is a glorious thing: And if a common man achieved it? well. Say, a rich man did? excellent. A king? That grows sublime. A priest? Improbable. A pope? Ah, there we stop, and cannot bring Our faith up to the leap, with history's bell

 So heavy round the neck of it--albeit We fain would grant the possibility For thy sake, Pio Nono!'

_Casa Guidi Windows_, part i. ]

[Footnote 166: The grant of a National Guard was made by the GrandDuke of Tuscany on September 4, 1847, in defiance of the threat ofAustria to occupy any Italian state in which such a concession wasmade to popular aspirations. ]

_To Miss Mitford_[Florence:] October I, 1847 [postmark]. 

Ever dearest Miss Mitford, --I am delighted to have your letter, andlose little time in replying to it. The lost letter meanwhile does notappear. The moon has it, to make more shine on these summer nights; ifstill one may say 'summer' now that September is deep and that we arecool as people hoped to be when at hottest. .. . Do tell me your fullthought of the commonwealth of women. [168] I begin by agreeing withyou as to his implied under-estimate of women; his women aretoo voluptuous; however, of the most refined voluptuousness. Hisgardener's daughter, for instance, is just a rose: and 'a Rose, 'one might beg all poets to observe, is as precisely _sensual_ asfricasseed chicken, or even boiled beef and carrots. Did you read Mrs. Butler's 'Year of Consolation, ' and how did you think of it in themain? As to Mr. Home's illustrations of national music, I don't know;I feel a little jealous of his doing well what many inferior men havedone well--men who couldn't write 'Orion' and the 'Death of Marlowe. 'Now, dearest dear Miss Mitford, you shall call him 'tiresome' if youlike, because I never heard him talk, and he may be tiresome for aughtI know, of course; but you _sha'n't_ say that he has not done somefine things in poetry. Now, you _know_ what the first book of 'Orion'is, and 'Marlowe, ' and 'Cosmo;' and you _sha'n't_ say that you don'tknow it, and that when you forgot it for a moment, I did not remindyou. .. . It was our plan to leave Florence on the 21st. We stay, however, one month longer, half through temptation, half throughreason. Which is strongest, who knows? We quite love Florence, andhave delightful rooms; and then, though I am quite well now as to mygeneral health, it is thought better for me to travel a month hence. So I suppose we shall stay. In the meanwhile our Florentines kept theanniversary of our wedding day (and the establishment of the civicguard) most gloriously a day or two or three ago, forty thousandpersons flocking out of the neighbourhood to help the expression ofpublic sympathy and overflowing the city. The procession passed underour eyes into the Piazza Pitti, where the Grand Duke and all hisfamily stood at the palace window melting into tears, to receive thethanks of his people. The joy and exultation on all sides were mostaffecting to look upon. Grave men kissed one another, and gratefulyoung women lifted up their children to the level of their own smiles, and the children themselves mixed their shrill little _vivas_ withthe shouts of the people. At once, a more frenetic gladness and a moreinnocent manifestation of gladness were never witnessed. During threehours and a half the procession wound on past our windows, and everyinch of every house seemed alive with gazers all that time, the whitehandkerchiefs fluttering like doves, and clouds of flowers and laurelleaves floating down on the heads of those who passed. Banners, too, with inscriptions to suit the popular feeling--'Liberty'--the 'Unionof Italy'--the 'Memory of the Martyrs'--'Viva Pio Nono'--'VivaLeopoldo Secondo'--were quite stirred with the breath of the shouters. I am glad to have seen that sight, and to be in Italy at this moment, when such sights are to be seen. [167] My wrist aches a little even nowwith the waving I gave to my handkerchief, I assure you, for Robertand I and Flush sate the whole sight out at the window, and would notbe reserved with the tribute of our sympathy. Flush had his twofront paws over the window sill, with his ears hanging down, but heconfessed at last that he thought they were rather long about it, particularly as it had nothing to do with dinner and chicken bonesand subjects of consequence. He is less tormented and looks better;in excellent spirits and appetite always--and _thinner_, like yourFlush--and very fond of Robert, as indeed he ought to be. On thefamous evening of that famous day I have been speaking of, we losthim--he ran away and stayed away all night--which was too bad, considering that it was our anniversary besides, and that he had noright to spoil it. But I imagine he was bewildered with the crowd andthe illumination, only as he _did_ look so very guilty and consciousof evil on his return, there's room for suspecting him of having beenvery much amused, 'motu proprio, ' as our Grand Duke says in theedict. He was found at nine o'clock in the morning at the door of ourapartment, waiting to be let in--mind, I don't mean the Grand Duke. Very few acquaintances have we made at Florence, and very quietlylived out our days. Mr. Powers the sculptor is our chief friend andfavorite, a most charming, simple, straight-forward, genial American, as simple as the man of genius he has proved himself needs be. Hesometimes comes to talk and take coffee with us, and we like him much. His wife is an amiable woman, and they have heaps of children fromthirteen downwards, all, except the eldest boy, Florentines, and thesculptor has eyes like a wild Indian's, so black and full of light. You would scarcely wonder if they clave the marble without the help ofhis hands. We have seen besides the Hoppners, Lord Byron's friends atVenice, you will remember. And Miss Boyle, the niece of the Earlof Cork, and authoress and poetess on her own account, having beenintroduced once to Robert in London at Lady Morgan's, has huntedus out and paid us a visit. A very vivacious little person, withsparkling talk enough. Lord Holland has lent her mother and herselfthe famous Careggi Villa, where Lorenzo the Magnificent died, and theyhave been living there among the vines these four months. These and afew American visitors are all we have seen at Florence. We live afar more solitary life than you do, in your village and withthe 'prestige' of the country wrapping you round. Pray give yoursympathies to our Pope, and call him a great man. For libertyto spring from a throne is wonderful, but from a papal throne ismiraculous. That's my doxy. I suppose dear Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Chorleyare still abroad. French books I get at, but at scarcely a new one, which is very provoking. At Rome it may be better. I have not read'Martin' even, since the first volume in England, nor G. Sand's'Lucretia. '

May God bless you. Think sometimes of your ever affectionate

E. B. B. 

[Footnote 167: In Tennyson's _Princess_. ]

[Footnote 168: A picture of the same scene in verse will be found in_Casa Guidi Windows_, part i. :

 'Shall I say What made my heart beat with exulting love A few weeks back, ' &c. ]

The 'month' lengthened itself out, and December found the Browningsstill in Florence, and definitely established there for the winter. During this time, although there is no allusion to it in the letters, Mrs. Browning must have been engaged in writing the first part of'Casa Guidi Windows' with its hopeful aspirations for Italian liberty. It was, indeed, a time when hope seemed justifiable. Pius IX. Hadascended the papal throne--then a temporal as well as a spiritualsovereignty--in June 1846, with the reputation of being anxious tointroduce liberal reforms, and even to promote the formation of aunited Italy. The English Government was diplomatically advocatingreform, in spite of the opposition of Austria; and its representative, Lord Minto, who was sent on a special mission to Italy to bring thisinfluence to bear on the rulers of the various Italian States, wasreceived with enthusiastic joy by the zealots for Italian liberty. TheGrand Duke of Tuscany, as was noticed above, had taken the firststep in the direction of popular government by the institution of aNational Guard; and Charles Albert of Piedmont was always supposed tohave the cause of Italy at heart in spite of the vacillations of hispolicy. The catastrophe of 1848 was still in the distance; and forthe moment a friend of freedom and of Italy might be permitted to hopemuch. 

Yet a difference will be noticed between the tone of Mrs. Browning'sletters at this time and that which marks her language in 1859. In1847 she was still comparatively new to the country. She is interestedin the experiment which she sees enacted before her; she feels, as anypoet must feel, the attraction of the idea of a free and united Italy. But her heart is not thrown into the struggle as it was at a latertime. She can write, and does, for the most part, write, of othermatters. The disappointment of Milan and Novara could not break herheart, as the disappointment of Villafranca went near to doing. Theyare not, indeed, so much as mentioned in detail in the letters thatfollow. It is in 'Casa Guidi Windows'--the first part writtenin 1847-8, the second in 1851--that her reflections upon Italianpolitics, alike in their hopes and in their failures, must be sought. 

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: December 8, 1847. 

Have you thought me long, my dearest Miss Mitford, in writing? Whenyour letter came we were distracted by various uncertainties, torn bywild horses of sundry speculations, and then, when one begins by delayin answering a letter, you are aware how a silence grows and grows. Also I heard _of_ you through my sisters and Mrs. Duprey[?], and_that_ made me lazier still. Now don't treat me according to theJewish law, an eye for an eye; no! but a heart for a heart, if youplease; and you never can have reason to reproach mine for not lovingyou. Think what we have done since I wrote last to you. Taken twohouses, that is, two apartments, each for six months, presigning thecontract. You will set it down as excellent poet's work in the way ofdomestic economy; but the fault was altogether mine as usual, andmy husband, to please me, took rooms which I could not be pleasedby three days, through the absence of sunshine and warmth. Theconsequence was that we had to pay heaps of guineas away for leaveto go away ourselves, any alternative being preferable to a return ofillness, and I am sure I should have been ill if we had persisted instaying there. You can scarcely fancy the wonderful difference whichthe sun makes in Italy. Oh, he isn't a mere 'round O' in the air inthis Italy, I assure you! He makes us feel that he rules the day toall intents and purposes. So away we came into the blaze of him herein the Piazza Pitti, precisely opposite the Grand Duke's palace, Iwith my remorse, and poor Robert without a single reproach. Any otherman, a little lower than the angels, would have stamped and sworn alittle for the mere relief of the thing, but as to _his_ being angrywith _me_ for any cause, except not eating enough dinner, the saidsun would turn the wrong way first. So here we are on the Pitti tillApril, in small rooms yellow with sunshine from morning to evening;and most days I am able to get out into the piazza, and walk up anddown for some twenty minutes without feeling a shadow of breath fromthe actual winter. Also it is pleasant to be close to the Raffaels, to say nothing of the immense advantage of the festa days, when, day after day, the civic guard comes to show the whole population ofFlorence, their Grand Duke inclusive, the new helmets and epaulettesand the glory thereof. They have swords, too, I believe, somewhere. The crowds come and come, like children to see rows of dolls, only thechildren would tire sooner than the Tuscans. Robert said musingly theother morning as we stood at the window, 'Surely, after all this, theywould _use_ those muskets. ' It's a problem, a 'grand peut-être. ' Iwas rather amused by hearing lately that our civic heroes had thegallantry to propose to the ancient military that these last shoulddo the night work, i. E. When nobody was looking on and there was nocredit, as they found it dull and fatiguing. Ah, one laughs, you see;one can't help it now and then. But at the real and rising feeling ofthe people by night and day one doesn't laugh indeed. I hear andsee with the deepest sympathy of soul, on the contrary. I love theItalians, too, and none the less that something of the triviality andinnocent vanity of children abounds in them. A delightful and mostwelcome letter was the last you sent me, my dearest friend. Yourbridal visit must have charmed you, and I am glad you had the gladnessof witnessing some of the happiness of your friend, Mrs. Acton Tyndal, _you_ who have such quick sympathies, and to whom the happiness of afriend is a gain counted in your own. The swan's shadow is somethingin a clear water. For poor Mrs. ----, if she is really, as you say Mrs. Tyndal thinks, pining in an access of literary despondency, why _that_only proves to me that she is not happy otherwise, that her lifeand soul are not sufficiently filled for her woman's need. I cannotbelieve of any woman that she can think of _fame first_. A woman ofgenius may be absorbed, indeed, in the exercise of an active power, engrossed in the charges of the course and the combat; but this isaltogether different to a vain and bitter longing for prizes, and whatprizes, oh, gracious heavens! The empty cup of cold metal! _so_ cold, _so_ empty to a woman with a heart. So, if your friend's belief istrue, still more deeply do I pity that other friend, who is supposedto be unhappy from such a cause. A few days ago I saw a bride ofmy own family, Mrs. Reynolds, Arlette Butler, who married CaptainReynolds some five months since. .. . Many were her exclamations atseeing me. She declared that such a change was never seen, I wasso transfigured with my betterness: 'Oh, Ba, it is quite wonderfulindeed!' We had been calculated on, during her three months in Rome, as a 'piece of resistance, ' and it was a disappointment to find ushere in a corner with the salt. Just as I was praised was poor Flushcriticised. Flush has not recovered from the effects yet of the summerplague of fleas, and his curls, though growing, are not grown. I neversaw him in such spirits nor so ugly; and though Robert and I flatterourselves upon 'the sensible improvement, ' Arlette could only see himwith reference to the past, when in his Wimpole Street days he wassleek and over fat, and she cried aloud at the loss of his beauty. Then we have had [another] visitor, Mr. Hillard, an American critic, who reviewed me in [the old] world, and so came to _view_ me in thenew, a very intelligent man, of a good, noble spirit. And Miss Boyle, ever and anon, comes at night, at nine o'clock, to catch us at ourhot chestnuts and mulled wine, and warm her feet at our fire; anda kinder, more cordial little creature, full of talent andaccomplishment, never had the world's polish on it. Very amusing, too, she is, and original, and a good deal of laughing she and Robert makebetween them. Did I tell you of her before, and how she is the nieceof Lord Cork, and poetess by grace of certain Irish Muses? Neitherof us know her writings in any way, but we like her, and for the bestreasons. And this is nearly all, I think, we see of the 'face divine, 'masculine and feminine, and I can't make Robert go out a singleevening, not even to a concert, nor to hear a play of Alfieri's, yetwe fill up our days with books and music (and a little writing hasits share), and wonder at the clock for galloping. It's twenty-fouro'clock with us almost as soon as we begin to count. Do tell me ofTennyson's book, and of Miss Martineau's. I was grieved to hear adistant murmur of a rumour of an apprehension of a return of hercomplaint: somebody said that she could not bear the _pressure ofdress_, and that the exhaustion resulting from the fits of absorptionin work and enthusiasm on the new subject of Egypt was painfullygreat, and that her friends feared for her. I should think that thebodily excitement and fatigue of her late travels must have beenhighly hazardous, and that indeed, throughout her convalescence, sheshould have more spared herself in climbing hills and walking andriding distances. A strain obviously might undo everything. Still, Ido hope that the bitter cup may not be filled for her again. What awonderful discovery this substitute for ether inhalations[169] seemsto be. Do you hear anything of its operation in your neighbourhood? Wehave had a letter from Mr. Horne, who appears happy, and speaks of hissuccess in lecturing on Ireland, and of a new novel which he is aboutto publish in a separate form after having printed it in a magazine. We have not set up the types even of our _plans_ about a book, verydistinctly, but we shall do something some day, and you shall hearof it the evening before. Being too happy doesn't agree with literaryactivity quite as well as I should have thought; and then, dear Mr. Kenyon can't persuade us that we are not rich enough, so as to bringinto force a lower order of motives. He talks of Rome still. Nowwrite, dear, dearest Miss Mitford, and tell me of yourself and yourhealth, and do, _do_ love me as you used to do. As to French books, one may swear, but you can't get a new publication, except byaccident, at this excellent celebrated library of Vieusseux, and Iam reduced to read some of my favorites over again, I and Roberttogether. You ought to hear how we go to single combat, ever and anon, with shield and lance. The greatest quarrel we have had since ourmarriage, by the way (always excepting my crying conjugal wrong of noteating enough!), was brought up by Masson's pamphlet on the Iron Maskand Fouquet. I wouldn't be persuaded that Fouquet was 'in it, ' andso 'the anger of my lord waxed hot. ' To this day he says sometimes:'Don't be cross, Ba! _Fouquet wasn't the Iron Mask after all_. '

God bless you, dearest Miss Mitford. Your ever affectionateE. B. B. 

We are here till April. 

[Footnote 169: Chloroform, then beginning to come into use. ]

_To Mrs. Jameson_Florence: December 1847. 

Indeed, my dear friend, you have a right to complain of _me_, whetheror not _we_ had any in thinking ourselves deeply injured creaturesby your last silence. Yet when in your letter which came at last, yousaid, 'Write directly, ' I _meant_ to write directly; I did not takeout my vengeance in a foregone malice, be very sure. Just at the timewe were in a hard knot of uncertainties about Rome and Venice andFlorence, and a cold house and a warm house; for instance we managed(that is _I_ did, for altogether it was my fault) to take twoapartments in the course of ten days, each for a term of six months, getting out of one of them by leaving the skirts of our garments, _rent_, literally, in the hand of the proprietor. You have heard mostof this, I dare say, from Mr. Kenyon or my sisters. Now, too, you areaware of our being in Piazza Pitti, in a charmed circle of sun blaze. Our rooms are small, but of course as cheerful as being under the veryeyelids of the sun must make everything; and we have a cook in thehouse who takes the office of _traiteur_ on him and gives us Englishmutton chops at Florentine prices, both of us quite well and inspirits, and (though you never will believe this) happier than ever. For my own part, you know I need not say a word if it were not true, and I must say to you, who saw the beginning with us, that this end offifteen months is just fifteen times better and brighter; the mystical'moon' growing larger and larger till scarcely room is left for anystars at all: the only differences which have touched me being themore and more happiness. It would have been worse than unreasonable ifin marrying I had expected one quarter of such happiness, and indeed Idid not, to do myself justice, and every now and then I look roundin astonishment and thankfulness together, yet with a sort of horror, seeing that this is not heaven after all. We live just as we did whenyou knew us, just as shut-up a life. Robert never goes anywhere exceptto take a walk with Flush, which isn't my fault, as you may imagine:he has not been out one evening of the fifteen months; but what withmusic and books and writing and talking, we scarcely know how the daysgo, it's such a gallop on the grass. We are going through some ofold Sacchetti's novelets now: characteristic work for Florence, ifsomewhat dull elsewhere. Boccaccios can't be expected to spring upwith the vines in rows, even in this climate. We got a newly printedaddition to Savonarola's poems the other day, very flat and cold, theydid not catch fire when he was burnt. The most poetic thing in thebook is his face on the first page, with that eager, devouring soul inthe eyes of it. You may suppose that I am able sometimes to go overto the gallery and adore the Raphaels, and Robert will tell you of thedivine Apollino which you missed seeing in Poggio Imperiale, and whichI shall be set face to face before, some day soon, I hope. .. . 

Father Prout was in Florence for some two hours in passing to Rome, and of course, according to contract of spirits of the air, Robert methim, and heard a great deal of you and Geddie (saw Geddie's picture, by the way, and thought it very like), was told much to the advantageof Mr. Macpherson, [170] and at the end of all, kissed in the openstreet as the speaker was about to disappear in the diligence. Whenyou write, tell me of the _book_. Surely it will be out anon, and thenyou will be free, shall you not? Have you seen Tennyson's new poem, and what of it? Miss Martineau is to discourse about Egypt, I suppose;but in the meanwhile do you hear that she forswears mesmerism, as Mr. Spenser Hall does, according to the report Robert brings me home fromthe newspaper reading. Now I shall leave him room to stand on andspeak a word to you. Give my love to Gerardine, and don't forget tomention her letter. I hope you are happy about your friends, and that, in particular, Lady Byron's health is strengthening and to strengthen. Always my dear friend's

Most affectionateE. B. B. 

Dear Aunt Nina, --A corner is just the place for eating Christmas piesin, but for venting Christmas wishes, hardly! What has Ba told you andwished you in the way of love? I wish you the same and love you thesame, but Geddie, being part of you, gets her due part. We are ashappy as two owls in a hole, two toads under a tree stump; or anyother queer two poking creatures that we let live, after the fashionof their black hearts, only Ba is fat and rosy; yes, indeed! Florenceis empty and pleasant. Goodbye, therefore, till next year--shall itnot be then we meet? God bless you. R. B. 

[Footnote 170: Miss Bate's _fiancé_. ]

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: February 22, [1848]. 

Your letter, my dearest friend, which was written, a part at least, before Christmas, came lingering in long after the new year had seenout its matins. Oh, I had wondered so, and wished so over the longsilence. My fault, perhaps in a measure, for I know how silent _I_ wasbefore. Yes, and you tell me of your having been unwell (bad news), and of your dear Flush's death, which made me sorrowful for you, asI might reasonably be. And now tell me more. Have you a successor tohim? Once you told me that one of the race was in training, but as yousay nothing now I am all in a doubt. Let me hear everything. If I hadbeen you, I think I should have preferred some quite other kind ofdog, as the unlikeness of a likeness would be apt to bring a pain tome; but people can't reason about feelings, and feelings are like thecolour of eyes, not the same in different faces, however general maybe the proximity of noses. .. . The great subject with _everybody_ justnow is the new hope of Italy, and the liberal constitution, givennobly by our good, excellent Grand Duke, whose praise is in all thehouses, streets, and piazzas. The other evening, the evening after thegift, he went privately to the opera, was recognised, and in a burstof triumph and a glory of waxen torches was brought back to the Pittiby the people. I was undressing to go to bed, had my hair down over myshoulders under Wilson's ministry, when Robert called me to look outof the window and see. Through the dark night a great flock of starsseemed sweeping up the piazza, but not in silence, nor with veryheavenly noises. The '_Evvivas_' were deafening. So glad I was. _I, too_, stood at the window and clapped my hands. If ever Grand Dukedeserved benediction this Duke does. We hear that he was quite moved, overpowered, and wept like a child. Nevertheless the most of Italy isunder the cloud, and God knows how all may end as the thunder ripens. Now I mustn't, I suppose, write politics. Our plans about England areafloat. Impossible to know what we shall do, but if not this summer, the summer after _must_ help us to the sight of some beloved faces. Itwill be a midsummer dream, and we shall return to winter in Italy. MyFlush is as well as ever, and perhaps gayer than ever I knew him. Heruns out in the piazza whenever he pleases, and plays with the dogswhen they are pretty enough, and wags his tail at the sentinels andcivic guard, and takes the Grand Duke as a sort of neighbour of his, whom it is proper enough to patronise, but who has considerably lessinherent merit and dignity than the spotted spaniel in the alleyto the left. We have been reading over again 'André' and 'LeoneLeoni, '[171] and Robert is in an enthusiasm about the first. Happyperson, you are, to get so at new books. Blessed is the man who readsBalzac, or even Dumas. I have got to admire Dumas doubly since thatfight and scramble for his brains in Paris. Now do think of me andlove me, and let me be as ever your affectionate

BA. 

Robert's regards always. Say particularly how you are, and may Godbless you, dearest Miss Mitford, and make you happy. 

[Footnote 171: Novels by George Sand. ]

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: April 15, [1848]. 

. .. My Flush has recovered his beauty, and is in more vivaciousspirits than I remember to have seen him. Still, the days come when hewill have no pleasure and plenty of fleas, poor dog, for Savonarola'smartyrdom here in Florence is scarcely worse than Flush's in thesummer. Which doesn't prevent his enjoying the spring, though, andjust now, when, by medical command, I drive out two hours every day, his delight is to occupy the seat in the carriage opposite to Robertand me, and look disdainfully on all the little dogs who walk afoot. We drive day by day through the lovely Cascine (where the trees havefinished and spread their webs of full greenery, undimmed by the sunyet), first sweeping through the city, past such a window where BiancaCapello looked out to see the Duke go by, [172] and past such a doorwhere Lapo stood, and past the famous stone where Dante drew his chairout to sit. [173] Strange, to have all that old-world life about us, and the blue sky so bright besides, and ever so much talk on our lipsabout the new French revolution, and the King of Prussia's cunning, and the fuss in Germany and elsewhere. Not to speak of our ownparticular troubles and triumphs in Lombardy close by. The English areflying from Florence, by the way, in a helter skelter, just as theyalways do fly, except (to do them justice) on a field of battle. Thefamily Englishman is a dreadful coward, be it admitted frankly. Seehow they run from France, even to my dear excellent Uncle Hedley, whohas too many little girls in his household to stay longer at Tours. Oh, I don't _blame_ him exactly. I only wish that he had waited alittle longer, the time necessary for being quite reassured. He hasgreat stakes in the country--a house at Tours and in Paris, and twentythousand pounds in the Rouen railway. But Florence will fall upon herfeet we may all be certain, let the worst happen that can. Meanwhile, republicans as I and my, husband are by profession, we very anxiously, anxiously even to pain, look on the work being attempted and done justnow by the theorists in Paris; far from half approving of it we are, and far from being absolutely confident of the durability of the otherhalf. Tell me what you think, and if you are not anxious too. As tocommunism, surely the practical part of _that_, the only not dangerouspart, is attainable simply by the consent of individuals who may trythe experiment of associating their families in order to the cheaperemployment of the means of life, and successfully in many cases. Butmake a government scheme of _even so much_, and you seem to trench onthe individual liberty. All such patriarchal planning in a governmentissues naturally into absolutism, and is adapted to states of societymore or less barbaric. Liberty and civilisation when married togetherlawfully rather evolve individuality than tend to generalisation. Is this not true? I fear, I fear that mad theories promising theimpossible may, in turn, make the people mad. I Louis Blanc knowsnot what he says. Have I not mentioned to you a very gifted woman, asculptress, Mademoiselle de Fauveau, who lives in Florence with hermother practising her profession, an exile from France, in consequenceof their royalist opinions and participation in the Vendée struggle, some sixteen or fifteen years? On that occasion she was mistaken forand allowed herself to be arrested as Madame de la Roche Jacquelin;therefore she has justified, by suffering in the cause, her passionateattachment to it. A most interesting person she is; she called upon usa short time ago and interested us much. And Mrs. Jameson would tellyou that her celebrity in her art is not comparative 'for a woman, 'but that, since Benvenuto Cellini, more beautiful works of the kindhave not been accomplished. An exquisite fountain she has latelydone for the Emperor of Russia. She has workmen under her, and is as'professional' in every respect as if neither woman nor noble. At thefirst throb of this revolution of course she dreamt the impossibleabout that dear 'Henri Cinq, ' who is as much out of the questionas Henri Quatre himself; and now it ends with the 'French Legation'coming to settle in the house precisely opposite to hers, with ahideous sign-painting appended O the Gallic cock on one leg and atfull crow inscribed, 'Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. ' This, and thedeath of her favorite dog, whom, after seventeen years' affection, shewas forced to have destroyed on account of a combination of diseases, has quite saddened the sculptress. When she came to see us I observedthat after so long a residence at Florence she must regard it as asecond country. 'Ah non!' (the answer was) 'il n'y a pas de secondepatrie. ' What you tell me of 'Jane Eyre' makes me long to see thebook. I may long, I fancy. It is dismal to have to disappoint mydearest sisters, who hoped for me in England this summer, but ourEnglish visit _must_ be for next summer instead; there seems toomuch against it just now. The drawback of Italy is the distance fromEngland. If it were but as near as Paris, for instance, why in thatcase we should settle here at once, I do think, the conveniences andluxuries of life are of such incredible cheapness, the climate sodivine, and the way of things altogether so serene and suited to ourtastes and instincts. But to give up England and the _English_, thedear, dearest treasure of English love, is impossible, so we justlinger and linger. The Boyles go to England from the press of panic, Lady Boyle being old and infirm. Ah, but your talking friend wouldinterest you, and you might accept the talk in infinitesimaldoses, you know. Lamartine has surely acted down the fallacy of theimpractical tendencies of imaginative men. I am full of France justnow. Are you all prepared for an outbreak in Ireland? I hope so. Myhusband has the second edition of his collected poems[174] in thepress by this time, by grace of Chapman and Hall, who accept allrisks. You speak of Tennyson's vexation about the reception ofthe 'Princess. ' Why did Mr. Harness and others, who 'never couldunderstand' his former divine works, praise this in manuscripttill the poet's hope grew to the height of his ambition? Strangelyunfortunate. We have not read it yet. I hear that Tennyson had theother day everything packed for Italy, then turned his face towardIreland, and went there. Oh, for a talk with you. But this is a sortof talk, isn't it? Accept my husband's regards. As to my love, I throwit to you over the [sea] with both hands. God bless you. 

Your ever affectionateBA. 

[Footnote 172: See Browning's _The Statue and the Bust_. ]

[Footnote 173: 'the stone Called Dante's--a plain flat stone scarcediscerned From others in the pavement--whereupon He used to bring hisquiet chair out, turned To Brunelleschi's church, and pour alone Thelava of his spirit when it burned. ' _Casa Guidi Windows_, part i. ]

[Footnote 174: This edition, published in 1849 in two volumescontained only _Paracelsus_ and the plays and poems of the _Bells andPomegranates_ series. ]

_To John Kenyan_[Florence:] May I, [1848]. 

My dearest Mr. Kenyon, --Surely it is quite wrong that we three, Robert, you, and I, should be satisfied with writing little dry notes, as short as so many proclamations, and those of the order of youranti-Chartist magistracy, 'Whereas certain evil disposed persons &c. &c. , ' instead of our anti-Austrian Grand duchy's 'O figli amati'(how characteristic of the north and the south, to be sure, is thiscontrast! Yet, after all, they might have managed it rather betterin England!)--little dry notes brief and business-like as ananti-Chartist proclamation! And, indeed, two of us are by no meanssatisfied, whatever the third may be. The other day we were lookingover some of the dear delightful letters you used to write to us. Real letters those were, and not little dry notes at all. Robert said, 'When I write to dear Mr. Kenyon I really do feel overcome by thesense of what I owe to him, and so, as it is beyond words to say, whygenerally I say as little as possible of anything, keeping myself tomatters of business. ' An alternative very objectionable, I told him;for to have 'a dumb devil' from ever such grateful and sentimentalreasons, when the Alps stand betwixt friend, is damnatory in theextreme. Then, as _you_ are not 'too grateful' to _us_, why don't_you_ write? Pray do, my dear friend. Let us all write as we used todo. And to make sure of it, I begin. 

Since I ended last the world has turned over on its other side, inorder, one must hope, to some happy change in the dream. Our friend, Miss Bayley, in that very kind letter which has just reached me andshall be answered directly (will you tell her with my thankful love?), asks if Robert and I are communists, and then half draws back herquestion into a discreet reflection that _I_, at least, was nevermuch celebrated for acumen on political economy. Most true indeed! Andtherefore, and on that very ground, is it not the more creditable tome that I don't set up for a communist immediately? In proportion tothe ignorance might be the stringency of the embrace of 'la véritésociale:' so I claim a little credit that it isn't. For really weare not communists, farther than to admit the wisdom of voluntaryassociation in matters of material life among the poorer classes. Andto legislate even on such points seems as objectionable as possible;all intermeddlings of government with domesticities, from Lacedaemonto Peru, were and must be objectionable; and of the growth ofabsolutism, let us, theorise as we choose. I would have the governmenteducate the people absolutely, and _then_ give room for the individualto develop himself into life freely. Nothing can be more hateful to methan this communist idea of quenching individualities in the mass. Asif the hope of the world did not always consist in the elicitingof the individual man from the background of the masses, in theevolvement of individual genius, virtue, magnanimity. Do you know howI love France and the French? Robert laughs at me for the mania of it, or used to laugh long before this revolution. When I was a prisoner, my other mania for imaginative literature used to be ministered tothrough the prison bars by Balzac, George Sand, and the like immortalimproprieties. They kept the colour in my life to some degree and didgood service in their time to me, I can assure you, though in deardiscreet England women oughtn't to confess to such reading, I believe, or you told me so yourself one day. Well, but through reading thebooks I grew to love France, in a mania too; and the interest, whichall must feel in the late occurrences there, has been with me, and is, quite painful. I read the newspapers as I never did in my life, andhope and fear in paroxysms, yes, and am guilty of thinking far moreof Paris than of Lombardy itself, and try to understand financialdifficulties and social theories with the best will in the world;much as Flush tries to understand me when I tell him that barking andjumping may be unseasonable things. Both of us open our eyes a gooddeal, but the comprehension is questionable after all. What, however, I do seem least of all to comprehend, is your hymn of triumph inEngland, just because you have a lower ideal of liberty than theFrench people have. See if in Louis Philippe's time France was notin many respects more advanced than England is now, property betterdivided, hereditary privilege abolished! Are we to blow with thetrumpet because we respect the ruts while everywhere else they aremending the roads? I do not comprehend. As to the Chartists, it isonly a pity in my mind that you have not more of them. That's theirfault. Mine, you will say, is being pert about politics when you wouldrather have anything else in a letter from Italy. You have heard ofmy illness, and will have been sorry for me, I am certain; but withblessings edging me round, I need not catch at a thistle in the hedgeto make a 'sorrowful complaignte' of. Our plans have floated round andround, in and out of all the bays and creeks of the Happy Islands. .. . 

Meanwhile here we are--and when do you mean to come to see us, pray?Mind, I hold by the skirts of the vision for next winter. Why, surely_you_ won't talk of 'disturbances' and 'revolutions, ' and the likedisloyal reasons which send our brave countrymen flying on all sides, as if every separate individual expected to be bombarded _perse_. Now, mind you come; dear dear Mr. Kenyon, how delighted pastexpression we should be to see you! Ah, do you fancy that I have noregret for our delightful gossips? If I have the feeling I told you offor Balzac and George Sand, what must I have for _you_? Now come, and let us see you! And still sooner, if you please, write to us--andwrite of yourself and in detail--and tell us particularly, first ifthe winter has left no sign of a cough with you, and next, what youmean by something which suggests to my fancy that you have a book inthe course of printing. Is that true? Tell me all about it--_all_! Whocan be interested, pray, if _I_ am not? For your and Mr. Chorley'sand Mr. Forster's kind dealings with Robert's poems I thank yougratefully; and as a third volume can bring up the rear quickly in thecase of success, I make no wailing for my 'Luria, ' however dear it maybe. [175]

[Illustration: _Casa Guidi From a Photograph_]

You are not to fancy that I am unwell now. On the contrary, I amnearly as strong as ever, and go out in the carriage for two hoursevery day, besides a little walk sometimes. Not a word more to-day. Write--do--and you shall hear from us at length. Robert sends his ownlove, I suppose. We both love you from our hearts. 

Your ever affectionate and gratefulBA. (who can't read over, and writes in such a hurry!)

It was about this time, as appears from the following letter, thatthe Brownings finally anchored themselves in Florence by taking anunfurnished suite of rooms in the Palazzo Guidi, and making therea home for themselves, Here, in the Via Maggio, almost opposite thePitti Palace, and within easy distance of the Ponte Vecchio, is thedwelling known to all lovers of English poetry as Casa Guidi, andbearing now upon its walls the name of the English poetess whose lifeand writings formed, in the graceful words of the Italian poet, 'a golden ring between Italy and England. ' Whatever might be theirmigrations--and they were many, especially in later years--Casa Guidiwas henceforth their home. [176]

[Footnote 175: Apparently it had been proposed to omit _Luria_ fromthe new edition; but, if so, the intention was not carried out. ]

[Footnote 176: It will interest many readers to know that Casa Guidiis now the property of Mr. R. Barrett Browning. ]

_To Miss Mitford_May 28, 1848. 

. .. And now I must tell you what we have done since I wrote last, little thinking of doing so. You see our problem was to get to Englandas much in our summers as possible, the expense of the intermediatejourneys making it difficult of solution. On examination of the wholecase, it appeared manifest that we were throwing money into the liketo hear you talk of poor France; how I hope that you are able to hopefor her. Oh, this absurdity of communism and mythological fête-ism!where can it end? They had better have kept Louis Philippe afterall, if they are no more practical. Your Madame must be insufferableindeed, seeing that her knowledge of these subjects and men did notmake her sufferable to you. My curiosity never is exhausted. What Ihold is that the French have a higher ideal than we, and that allthis clambering, leaping, struggling of indefinite awkwardness simplyproves it. But _success in the republic_ is different still. I fearfor them. My uncle and his family are safe at Tunbridge Wells, my auntlonging to be able to get back again. For those who are still nearerto me, I have no heart to speak of _them_, loving them as I do andmust to the end, whatever that end may be; but my dearest sisterswrite often to me--never let me miss their affection. I am quite wellagain, and strong, and Robert and I go out after tea in a wanderingwalk to sit in the Loggia and look at the Perseus, or, better still, at the divine sunsets on the Arno, turning it to pure gold under thebridges. After more than twenty months of marriage, we are happierthan ever--I may say _we_. Italy will regenerate herself in allsenses, I hope and believe. In Florence we are very quiet, and theEnglish fly in proportion. N. B. --_Always_ first fly the majors andgallant captains, unless there's a general. How I should like to seedear Mr. Horne's poem! _He's_ bold, at least--yes, and has a greatheart to be bold with. A cloud has fallen on me some few weeks ago, inthe illness and death of my dear friend Mr. Boyd, [177] but he did notsuffer, and is not to be mourned by those without hope [_sic_]. Still, it has been a cloud. May God bless you, my beloved friend. Write soon, and of yourself, to your ever affectionate

BA. 

My husband's regards go to you, of course. 

[Footnote 177: Mr. Boyd died on May 10, 1848. ]

_To Miss Browning_[Florence: about June 1848. ]

My dearest Sarianna, --At last, you see, I give sign of life. The_love_, I hope you believed in without sign or symbol; and evenfor the rest, Robert promised to answer for me like godfather orgodmother, and bear the consequence of my sins. .. . 

We are a little uneasy just now as to whether you will be overjoyed or_under_ joyed by our new scheme of taking an unfurnished apartment. It would spoil all, for instance, if your dear mother seemeddisappointed--vexed--in the least degree. And I can understand how, to persons at a distance and of course unable to understand thewhole circumstances of the case, the fact of an apartment taken andfurnished may seem to involve some dreadful giving up for ever andever of country and family--which would be as dreadful to us as toyou! How could we give you up, do you think, when we love you more andmore? Oh no. If Robert has succeeded in making clear the subject toyou, you will all perceive, just as _we know_, that we have simplythus solved the problem of making our small income carry us toEngland, not only next summer, but many a summer after. We should liketo give every summer to dear England, and hide away from the cold onlywhen it comes. By our scheme we shall have saved money even at the endof the present year; while for afterward, here's a residence--that is, a_pied à terre_--in Italy, all but free when we wish to use it; andwhen we care to let it, producing eight or ten pounds a month in helpof travelling expenses. It's the best investment for Mr. Moxon's moneywe could have looked the world over for. So the learned tell us; andafter all, you know, we only pay in the proportion of your workingclasses in the Pancras building contrived for them by the philanthropyof your Southwood Smiths. I do wish you could see what rooms we have, what ceilings, what height and breadth, what a double terrace fororange trees; how cool, how likely to be warm, how perfect every way!Robert leaned once to a ground floor in the Frescobaldi Palace, beingbewitched by a garden full of camellias, and a little pond of gold andsilver fish; but while he saw the fish I saw the mosquitos in clouds, such an apocalypse of them as has not yet been visible to me in allFlorence, and I dread mosquitos more than Austrians; and he, in hisunspeakable goodness, deferred to my fear in a moment and gave up thecamellias without one look behind. A heavy conscience I should have ifit were not that the camellia garden was certainly less private thanour terrace here, where we can have camellias also if we please. Howpretty and pleasant your cottage at Windsor must be! We had a long_muse_ over your father's sketch of it, and set faces at the windows. That the dear invalid is better for the change must have brightenedit, too, to her companions, and the very sound of a 'forest' issomething peculiarly delightful and untried to me. I know hills well, and of the sea too much; but now I want forests, or quite, quitemountains, such as you have not in England. 

Robert says that if 'Blackwood' likes to print a poem of mine and sendyou the proofs, you will be so very good as to like to correct them. To me it seems too much to ask, when you have work for him to dobeside. Will it be too much, or is nothing so to your kindness? Iwould ask my _other_ sisters, who would gladly, dear things, do it forme; but I have misgivings through their being so entirely unaccustomedto occupations of the sort, or any critical reading of poetry ofany sort. Robert is quite well and in the best spirits, and has theheadache now only very occasionally. I am as well as he, having quiterecovered my strength and power of walking. So we wander to the bridgeof Trinità every evening after tea to see the sunset on the Arno. MayGod bless you all! Give my true love to your father and mother, and myloving thanks to yourself for that last stitch in the stool. How goodyou are, Sarianna, to your ever affectionate sister

BA. 

Always remind your dear mother that we are no more _bound_ here thanwhen in furnished lodgings. It is a mere name. 

_To Mrs. Martin_Palazzo Guidi: June 20, [1848]. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --Now I am going to answer your letter, which Iall but lost, and got ever so many days beyond the right day, becauseyou directed it to Mrs. _William_ Browning. Pray remember_Robert Browning_ for the future, in right descent from _RobertBrunnyng_, [178] the first English poet. Mrs. Jameson says, 'It'sominous of the actual Robert's being the _last_ English poet;' asaying which I give you to remember us by, rejecting the omen. .. . We have grown to be Florentine citizens, as perhaps you have heard. Health and means both forbade our settlement in England; and thejourney backwards and forwards being another sort of expense, and verynecessary with our ties and affections, we had to think how to livehere, when we were here, at the cheapest. The difference betweentaking a furnished apartment and an unfurnished one is somethingimmense. For our furnished rooms we have had always to pay some fourguineas a month; and unfurnished rooms of equal pretension we couldhave for twelve a year, and the furniture (out and out) for fiftypounds. This calculation, together with the consideration that wecould let our apartment whenever we travelled and receive back thewhole cost, could not choose, of course, but determine us. On comingto the point, however, we grew ambitious, and preferred givingfive-and-twenty guineas for a noble suite of rooms in the PalazzoGuidi, a stone's throw from the Pitti, and furnishing them afterour own taste rather than after our economy, the economy having alegitimate share of respect notwithstanding; and the satisfactorything being that the whole expense of this furnishing--rococo chairs, spring sofas, carved bookcases, satin from cardinals' beds, and therest--is covered by the proceeds of our books during the last twowinters. This is satisfying, isn't it? We shall stand safe within theborders of our narrow income even this year, and next year comes theharvest! We shall go to England in the spring, and return _home_to Italy. Do you understand? Mr. Kenyon, our friend and counsellor, writes to applaud--such prudence was never known before among poets. Then we have a plan, that when the summer (this summer) grows too hot, we shall just take up our carpet-bag and Wilson and plunge into themountains in search of the monasteries beyond Vallombrosa, fromArezzo go to St. Sepolchro in the Apennines, and thence to Fano on theseashore, making a round back perhaps (after seeing the great fair atSinigaglia) to Ravenna and Bologna home. As to Rome, our plan is togive up Rome next winter, seeing that we _must_ go to England in thespring. I _must_ see my dearest sisters and whoever else dear will seeme, and Robert _must_ see his family beside; and going to Rome willtake us too far from the route and cost too much; and then we are notinclined to give the first-fruits of our new apartment to strangers ifwe could let it ever so easily this year. You can't think how wellthe rooms look already; you must come and see them, you and dear Mr. Martin. Three immense rooms we have, and a fourth small one for abook room and winter room--windows opening on a little terrace, eight windows to the south; two good bedrooms behind, with a smallerterrace, and kitchen, &c. , all on a first floor and Count Guidi'sfavorite suite. The Guidi were connected by marriage with the Ugolinoof Pisa, Dante's Ugolino, only we shun all traditions of the Towerof Famine, and promise to give you excellent coffee whenever you willcome to give us the opportunity. We shall have vines and myrtlesand orange trees on the terrace, and I shall have a watering-pot andgarden just as you do, though it must be on the bricks instead of theground. For temperature, the stoves are said to be very effective inthe winter, and in the summer we are cool and airy; the advantageof these thick-walled palazzos is coolness in summer and warmth inwinter. I am very well and quite strong again, or rather, strongerthan ever, and able to walk as far as Cellini's Perseus in themoonlight evenings, on the other side of the Arno. Oh, that Arno inthe sunset, with the moon and evening star standing by, how divine itis!. .. 

Think of me as ever your most affectionateBA. 

[Footnote 178: Otherwise known as Robert Mannyng, or Robert de Brunne, author of the _Handlyng Synne_ and a _Chronicle of England_. Heflourished about 1288-1338. ]

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: July 4, [1848]. 

It does grieve me, my ever dearest Miss Mitford, to hear of thesuffering which has fallen upon you! Oh, rheumatism or not, whateverthe name may be, do take care, do consider, and turn your dear facetoward the seaside; somewhere where you can have warm sea bathingand sea air, and be able to associate the word 'a drive' not with madponies, but the mildest of donkeys, on a flat sand. The good it woulddo you is incalculable, I am certain; it is precisely a case forchange of air, with quiet. .. . 

As for when you come to Florence, we won't have 'a pony carriagebetween us, ' if you please, because we may have a carriage and a pairof horses and a coachman, and pay as little as for the pony-chair inEngland. For three hundred a year one may live much like the GrandDuchess, and go to the opera in the evening at fivepence-halfpennyinclusive. Indeed, poor people should have their patriotism tenderlydealt with, when, after certain experiments, they decide on livingupon the whole on the Continent. The differences are past belief, beyond expectation, and when the sunshine is thrown in, the head turnsat once, and you fall straight into absenteeism. Ah, for the 'longchats' and the 'having England at one another's fireside!' You talk ofdelightful things indeed. We are very quiet, politically speaking, and though we hear now and then of melancholy mothers who have to partwith their sons for Lombardy, [179] and though there are processionsfor the blessing of flags and an occasional firing of guns for avictory, or a cry in the streets, 'Notizie della guerra--leggete, signori;' this is all we know of Radetsky in Florence; while, forcivil politics, the meeting of the senate took place a few days sinceto the satisfaction of everybody, and the Grand Duke's speech wasgenerally admired. The elections have returned moderate men, and manyland-proprietors, and Robert, who went out to see the procession ofmembers, was struck by the grave thoughtful faces and the dignityof expression. We are going some day to hear the debates, but it haspleased their signoria to fix upon twelve (noon) for meeting, andreally I do not dare to go out in the sun. The hour is sufficientlyconclusive against dangerous enthusiasm. Poor France, poor France!News of the dreadful massacre at Paris just reaches us, and theletters and newspapers not arriving to-day, everybody fears acontinuation of the crisis. How is it to end? Who 'despairs of therepublic?' Why, _I_ do! I fear, I fear, that it cannot stand inFrance, and you seem to have not much more hope. My husband has alittle, with melancholy intermediate prospects; but my own beliefthat the people have had enough of democratic institutions and will beimpatient for a kingship anew. Whom will they have? How did you feelwhen the cry was raised, 'Vive l'Empereur'? Only Prince Napoleon is aNapoleon cut out in paper after all. The Prince de Joinville is saidto be very popular. It makes me giddy to think of the awful precipiceswhich surround France--to think, too, that the great danger is on thequestion of _property_, which is perhaps divided there more justlythan in any other country of Europe. Lamartine has comprehendednothing, that is clear, even if his amount of energy had beeneffectual. .. . Yes, do send me the list of Balzac, _after_ 'Les Misèresde la Vie Conjugale, ' I mean. I left him in the midst of 'La Femme deSoixante Ans, ' who seemed on the point of turning the heads of all'la jeunesse' around her; and, after all, she did not strike me as socharming. But Balzac charms me, let him write what he will; he's aninspired man. Tell me, too, exactly what Sue has done after 'Martin. 'I read only one volume of 'Martin. ' And did poor Soulié finish his'Dramas'? And after 'Lucretia' what did George Sand write? When Robertand I are ambitious, we talk of buying Balzac in full some day, to puthim up in our bookcase from the convent, if the carved-wood angels, infants and serpents, should not finish mouldering away in horror atthe touch of him. But I fear it will rather be an expensive purchase, even here. Would that he gave up the drama, for which, as you observe, he has no faculty whatever. In fact, the faculty he has is the veryreverse of the dramatic, ordinarily understood. .. . Dearest Mr. Kenyonis called quite well and delightful by the whole world, though hesuffered from cough in the winter; and he is bringing out a new bookof poems, a 'Day at Tivoli, ' and others; and he talks energetically ofcoming to Florence this autumn. Also, we have hopes of Mr. Chorley. Icongratulate you on the going away of Madame. Coming and going bringvery various associations in this life of ours. Why, if _you_ wereto come we should appreciate our fortune, and you should have myparticular chair, which Robert calls mine because I like sitting in acloud; it's so sybaritically soft a chair. Now I love you for the kindwords you say of _him_, who deserves the best words of the best womenand men, wherever spoken! Yes, indeed, I am happy. Otherwise, I shouldhave a stone where the heart is, and sink by the weight of it. You must have faith in me, for I never can make you thoroughlyto understand what he is, of himself, and to me--the noblest andperfectest of human beings. After a year and ten months' absolutesoul-to-soul intercourse and union, I have to look higher still for myfirst ideal. You won't blame me for bad taste that I say these things, for can I help it, when I am writing my heart to you? It is a heartwhich runs over very often with a grateful joy for a most peculiardestiny, even in the midst of some bitter drawbacks which I need notallude to farther. .. . 

May God bless you continually, even as I am

Your affectionateBA. 

[Footnote 179: The insurrection of Lombardy against Austrian rulehad taken place in March, and was immediately followed by war betweenSardinia and Austria, in which the Italians gained some initialsuccesses. Fighting continued through the summer, and was temporarilyclosed by an armistice in August. ]

_To Mrs. Jameson_Palazzo Guidi: July 15, [1848]. 

Now at last, my very dear friend, I am writing to you, and thereproach you sent to me in your letter shall not be driven inwardlyany more by my self-reproaches. Wasn't it your fault after all, alittle, that we did not hear one another's voice oftener? You are_so long_ in writing. Then I have been putting off and putting off myletter to you, just because I wanted to make a full letter of it; andRobert always says that it's the bane of a correspondence to make afull letter a condition of writing at all. But so much I had to tellyou! while the mere outline of facts you had from others, I knew. Which is just said that you may forgive us both, and believe that wethink of you and love you, yes, and talk of you, even when we don'twrite to you, and that we shall write to you for the future moreregularly, indeed. Your letter, notwithstanding its reproach, wasvery welcome and very kind, only you must be fagged with the book, andsaddened by Lady Byron's state of health, and anxious about Gerardineperhaps. The best of all was the prospect you hold out to us of comingto Italy this year. Do, do come. Delighted we shall be to see you inFlorence, and wise it will be in you to cast behind your back both thefear of Radetsky and as much English care as may be. Now, would it notdo infinite good to Lady Byron if you could carry her with you intothe sun? Surely it would do her great good; the change, the calm, theatmosphere of beauty and brightness, which harmonises so wonderfullywith every shade of human feeling. Florence just now, and thanks tothe panic, is tolerably _clean_ of the English--you scarcely see anEnglish face anywhere--and perhaps this was a circumstance that helpedto give Robert courage to take our apartment here and 'settle down. 'You were surprised at so decided a step I dare say, and, I believe, though too considerate to say it in your letter, you have wondered inyour thoughts at our fixing at Florence instead of Rome, and withoutseeing more of Italy before the finality of making a choice. Butobserve, Florence is wonderfully cheap, one lives here for justnothing; and the convenience in respect to England, letters, andthe facility of letting our house in our absence, is incomparablealtogether. At Rome a house would be habitable only half the year, andthe distance and the expense are objections at the first sight of thesubject. .. . Altogether, if I could but get a supply of French books, turning the cock easily, it would be perfect; but as to _anything_ newin the book way, Vieusseux seems to have made a vow against it, andpoor Robert comes and goes in a state of desperation between me andthe bookseller ('But what _can_ I do, Ba?'), and only brings newsof some pitiful revolution or other which promises a full flush ofrepublican virtues and falls off into the fleur de lis as usual. Thinkof our not having read 'Lucretia' yet--George Sand's. And Balzac issix or seven works deep from us; but these are evils to be borne. Welive on just in the same way, having very few visitors, and receivingthem in the quietest of hospitalities. Mr. Ware, the American, whowrote the 'Letters from Palmyra, ' and is a delightful, earnest, simpleperson, comes to have coffee with us once or twice a week, and verymuch we like him. Mr. Hillard, another cultivated American friend ofours, you have in London, and we should gladly have kept longer. Mr. Powers does not spend himself much upon visiting, which is quiteright, but we do hope to see a good deal of Mademoiselle de Fauveau. Robert exceedingly admires her. As to Italian society, one may aswell take to longing for the evening star, for it seems quite asinaccessible; and indeed, of society of any sort, we have not much, nor wish for it, nor miss it. Dearest friend, if I could open my heartto you in all seriousness, you would see nothing there but a sortof enduring wonder of happiness--yes, and some gratitude, I do hope, besides. Could everything be well in England, I should only have tomelt out of the body at once in the joy and the glow of it. Happierand happier I have been, month after month; and when I hear _him_ talkof being happy too, my very soul seems to swim round with feelingswhich cannot be spoken. But I tell you a little, because I owe thetelling to you, and also that you may set down in your philosophy thepossibility of book-making creatures living happily together. I admit, though, to begin (or end), that my husband is an exceptional humanbeing, and that it wouldn't be just to measure another by him. Weare planning a great deal of enjoyment in this 'going to the fair' atSinigaglia, meaning to go by Arezzo and San Sepolchro, and Urbino, toFano, where we shall pitch our tent for the benefit, as Robert says, of the sea air and the oysters. Fano is very habitable, and we mayget to Pesaro and the footsteps of Castiglione's 'courtier, ' to saynothing of Bernardo Tasso; and Ancona beckons from the other sideof Sinigaglia, and Loreto beside, only we shall have to restrainour flights a little. The passage of the Apennine is said to bemagnificent, and, altogether, surely it must be delightful; and wetake only two carpet bags--not to be weighed down by 'impedimenta, 'and have our own home, left in charge of the porter, to return to atlast, I am very well and shall be better for the change, though Robertis dreadfully afraid, as usual, that I shall fall to pieces at thefirst motion. .. . 

May God bless you!Ever I am your affectionateBA. 

Write to Florence as usual--Poste Restante. You will hear how we arein great hopes of dear Mr. Kenyon. 

Dear Aunt Nina, --Only a word in all the hurry of setting off. We loveyou as you love us, and are pretty nearly as happy as you would haveus. All love and prosperity to dear Geddie, too; what do you say of'Landor, ' and my not sending it to Forster or somebody? _Che che_ (asthe Tuscans exclaim), _who_ was it promised to call at my people's, who would have tendered it forthwith? I will see about it as it is. Goodbye, dearest aunt, and let no revolution disturb your good will toBa and

R. B. 

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: August 24, 1848. 

Ever dearest Miss Mitford, --It's great comfort to have your letter;for as it came more lingeringly than usual, I had time to be a littleanxious, and even my husband has confessed since that he thought whathe would not say aloud for fear of paining me, as to the probabilityof your being less well than usual. Your letters come so regularlyto the hour, you see, that when it strikes without them, we ask why. Thank God, you are better after all, and reviving in spirits, as I sawat the first glance before the words said it clearly. .. . 

As for ourselves, we have scarcely done so well, yet well; havingenjoyed a great deal in spite of drawbacks. Murray, the traitor, sentus to Fano as a 'delightful summer residence for an English family, 'and we found it uninhabitable from the heat, vegetation scorched withpaleness, the very air swooning in the sun, and the gloomy looks ofthe inhabitants sufficiently corroborative of their words, that nodrop of rain or dew ever falls there during the summer. A 'circulatinglibrary' 'which doesn't give out books, ' and 'a refined andintellectual Italian society' (I quote Murray for that phrase) which'never reads a book through' (I quote Mrs. Wiseman, Dr. Wiseman'smother, who has lived in Fano seven years), complete the advantagesof the place, yet the churches are beautiful, and a divine pictureof Guercino's is worth going all that way to see. [180] By a happyaccident we fell in with Mrs. Wiseman, who, having married herdaughter to Count Gabrielli with ancestral possessions in Fano, haslived on there from year to year, in a state of permanent moaningas far as I could apprehend. She is a very intelligent and vivaciousperson, and having been used to the best French society, bears but illthis exile from the common civilities of life. I wish Dr. Wiseman, ofwhose childhood and manhood she spoke with touching pride, wouldask her to minister to the domestic rites of his bishop's palace inWestminster; there would be no hesitation, I fancy, in her acceptanceof the invitation. Agreeable as she and her daughter were, however, wefled from Fano after three days, and, finding ourselves cheated out ofour dream of summer coolness, resolved on substituting for it whatthe Italians call 'un bel giro. ' So we went to Ancona, a striking seacity, holding up against the brown rocks and elbowing out the purpletides, beautiful to look upon. An exfoliation of the rock itself, youwould call the houses that seem to grow there, so identical is thecolour and character. I should like to visit Ancona again when thereis a little air and shadow; we stayed a week as it was, living uponfish and cold water. Water, water, was the cry all day long, andreally you should have seen me (or you should not have seen me) lyingon the sofa, and demoralised out of all sense of female vanity, notto say decency, with dishevelled hair at full length, and 'sans gown, sans stays, sans shoes, sans everything, ' except a petticoat and whitedressing wrapper. I said something feebly once about the waiter; butI don't think I meant it for earnest, for when Robert said, 'Oh, don'tmind, dear, ' certainly I didn't mind in the least. People _don't_, I suppose, when they are in ovens, or in exhausted receivers. Neverbefore did I guess what heat was--that's sure. We went to Loreto for aday, back through Ancona, Sinigaglia (oh, I forgot to tell you, therewas no fair this year at Sinigaglia; Italy will be content, I suppose, with selling her honour), Fano, Pesaro, Rimini to Ravenna, back againover the Apennines from Forli. A 'bel giro, ' wasn't it? Ravenna, whereRobert positively wanted to go to live once, has itself put an end tothose yearnings. The churches are wonderful: holding an atmosphereof purple glory, and if one could live just in them, or in Dante'stomb--well, otherwise keep me from Ravenna. The very antiquity of thehouses is whitewashed, and the marshes on all sides send up stenchesnew and old, till the hot air is sick with them. To get to the pineforest, which is exquisite, you have to go a mile along the canal, theexhalations pursuing you step for step, and, what ruffled me morethan all beside, we were not admitted into the house of Dante's tomb'without an especial permission from the authorities. ' Quite furious Iwas about this, and both of us too angry to think of applying: butwe stood at the grated window and read the pathetic inscription asplainly as if we had touched the marble. We stood there between threeand four in the morning, and then went straight on to Florence fromthat tomb of the exiled poet. Just what we should have done, had thecircumstances been arranged in a dramatic intention. From Forli, theair grew pure and quick again; and the exquisite, almost visionaryscenery of the Apennines, the wonderful variety of shape and colour, the sudden transitions and vital individuality of those mountains, thechestnut forests dropping by their own weight into the deep ravines, the rocks cloven and clawed by the living torrents, and the hills, hill above hill, piling up their grand existences as if they did itthemselves, changing colour in the effort--of these things I cannotgive you any idea, and if words could not, painting could not either. Indeed, the whole scenery of our journey, except when we approachedthe coast, was full of beauty. The first time we crossed the Apennine(near Borgo San Sepolcro) we did it by moonlight, and the flesh wasweak, and one fell asleep, and saw things between sleep and wake, onlythe effects were grand and singular so, even though of course we lostmuch in the distinctness. Well, but you will understand from all thisthat we were delighted to get home--_I_ was, I assure you. Florenceseemed as cool as an oven after the fire; indeed, we called it quitecool, and I took possession of my own chair and put up my feet on thecushions and was charmed, both with having been so far and coming backso soon. Three weeks brought us home. Flush was a fellow traveller ofcourse, and enjoyed it in the most obviously amusing manner. Neverwas there so good a dog in a carriage before his time! Think of Flush, too! He has a supreme contempt for trees and hills or anything of thatkind, and, in the intervals of natural scenery, he drew in his headfrom the window and didn't consider it worth looking at; but when thepopulation thickened, and when a village or a town was to be passedthrough, then his eyes were starting out of his head with eagerness;he looked east, he looked west, you would conclude that he was takingnotes or preparing them. His eagerness to get into the carriage firstused to amuse the Italians. Ah, poor Italy! I am as mortified asan Italian ought to be. They have only the rhetoric of patriots andsoldiers, I fear! Tuscany is to be spared forsooth, if she lies still, and here she lies, eating ices and keeping the feast of the Madonna. Perdoni! but she has a review in the Cascine besides, and a gallantshow of some 'ten thousand men' they are said to have made of it--onlydon't think that I and Robert went out to see that sight. We shouldhave sickened at it too much. An amiable, refined people, too, theseTuscans are, conciliating and affectionate. When you look out intothe streets on feast days, you would take it for one great 'rout, 'everybody appears dressed for a drawing room, and you can scarcelydiscern the least difference between class and class, from the GrandDuchess to the Donna di facenda; also there is no belying of thecostume in the manners, the most gracious and graceful courtesyand gentleness being apparent in the thickest crowds. This is allattractive and delightful; but the people wants _stamina_, wantsconscience, wants self-reverence. Dante's soul has died out ofthe land. Enough of this. As for France, I have 'despaired of therepublic' for very long, but the nation is a great nation, and willright itself under some flag, white or red. Don't you think so? Thankyou for the news of our authors, it is as 'the sound of a trumpet afaroff, ' and I am like the war-horse. Neglectful that I am, I forgot totell you before that you heard quite rightly about Mr. Thackeray'swife, who is ill _so_. Since your question, I had in gossip fromEngland that the book 'Jane Eyre' was written by a governess in hishouse, and that the preface to the foreign edition refers to himin some marked way. We have not seen the book at all. But the firstletter in which you mentioned your Oxford student caught us in themidst of his work upon art. [181] Very vivid, very graphic, full ofsensibility, but inconsequent in some of the reasoning, it seemed tome, and rather flashy than full in the metaphysics. Robert, whoknows a good deal about art, to which knowledge I of course have nopretence, could agree with him only by snatches, and we, both ofus, standing before a very expressive picture of Domenichino's (the'David'--at Fano) wondered how he could blaspheme so against a greatartist. Still, he is no ordinary man, and for a critic to be so mucha poet is a great thing. Also, we have by no means, I should imagine, seen the utmost of his stature. How kindly you speak to me of mydearest sisters. Yes, go to see them whenever you are in London, theyare worthy of the gladness of receiving you. And will you write soonto me, and tell me everything of yourself, how you are, how homeagrees with you, and the little details which are such gold dust toabsent friends. .. . 

May God bless you, my beloved friend. Let me ever be (my husbandjoining in all warm regards) your most affectionate

BA. 

[Footnote 180:'Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend!) that little child to pray Holding his little hands up, each to each Pressed gently, with his own head turned away, Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach. 

 'We were at Fano, and three times we went To sit and see him in his chapel there, And drink his beauty to our soul's content My angel with me too. ']

[Footnote 181: The first two volumes of _Modern Painters_ bore noauthor's name, but were described as being 'by a graduate of Oxford. 'At a later date Mrs. Browning made Mr. Ruskin's acquaintance, as somesubsequent letters testify. ]

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: October 10, 1848. 

My ever dearest Miss Mitford, --Have you not thought some hard thoughtsof me, for not instantly replying to a letter which necessarily musthave been, to one who loved you, of such painful interest? Do I notlove you truly? Yes, indeed. But while preparing to write to youmy deep regret at hearing that you had been so ill, illness came inanother form to prevent me from writing, my husband being laid up fornearly a month with fever and ulcerated sore throat. I had not theheart to write a line to anyone, much less to prepare a packet toescort your letter free from foreign postage; and to make you pay fora chapter of Lamentations' without the spirit of prophecy, would havebeen too hard on you, wouldn't it? Quite unhappy I have been overthose burning hands and languid eyes, the only unhappiness I ever hadby _them_, and then he wouldn't see a physician; and if it hadn't beenthat, just at the right moment, Mr. Mahony, the celebrated Jesuit, andFather Prout of 'Fraser, ' knowing everything as those Jesuits are aptto do, came in to us on his way to Rome, pointed out that the fevergot ahead through weakness and mixed up with his own kind hand apotion of eggs and port wine, to the horror of our Italian servant, who lifted up his eyes at such a prescription for a fever, crying, 'OInglesi, Inglesi!' the case would have been far worse, I have no kindof doubt. For the eccentric prescription gave the power of sleeping, and the pulse grew quieter directly. I shall always be grateful toFather Prout, always. The very sight of some one with a friend's nameand a cheerful face, his very jests at me for being a 'bambina' andfrightened without cause, were as comforting as the salutation ofangels. Also, he has been in Florence ever since, and we have seenhim every day; he came to doctor and remained to talk. A very singularperson, of whom the world tells a thousand and one tales, you know, but of whom I shall speak as I find him, because the utmost kindnessand warmheartedness have characterised his whole bearing towards us. Robert met him years ago at dinner at Emerson Tennent's, and since hascrossed paths with him on various points of Europe. The first time Isaw him was as he stood on a rock at Leghorn, at our disembarkationin Italy. Not refined in a social sense by any manner of means, yeta most accomplished scholar and vibrating all over with learnedassociations and vivid combinations of fancy and experience--havingseen all the ends of the earth and the men thereof, and possessing theart of talk and quotation to an amusing degree. In another week ortwo he will be at Rome. .. . How graphically you give us your Oxfordstudent! Well! the picture is more distinct than Turner's, and if youhad called it, in the manner of the Master, 'A Rock Limpet, ' weshould have recognised in it the corresponding type of the gifted andeccentric writer in question. Very eloquent he is, I agree at once, and true views he takes of Art in the abstract, true and elevating. Itis in the application of connective logic that he breaks away from oneso violently. .. . We are expecting our books by an early vessel, andare about to be very busy, building up a rococo bookcase of carvedangels and demons. Also we shall get up curtains, and get down bedroomcarpets, and finish the remainder of our furnishing business, nowthat the hot weather is at an end. I say 'at an end, ' though the glassstands at seventy. As to the 'war, ' _that_ is rather different, it ispainful to feel ourselves growing gradually cooler and cooler on thesubject of Italian patriotism, valour, and good sense; but the processis inevitable. The child's play between the Livornese and our GrandDuke provokes a thousand pleasantries. Every now and then a day isfixed for a revolution in Tuscany, but up to the present time a showerhas come and put it off. Two Sundays ago Florence was to have been'sacked' by Leghorn, when a drizzle came and saved us. You think thisa bad joke of mine or an impotent sarcasm, perhaps; whereas I merelyspeak historically. Brave men, good men, even sensible men there areof course in the land, but they are not strong enough for the timesor for masterdom. For France, it is a great nation; but even inFrance they want a man, and Cavaignacso[182] only a soldier. If LouisNapoleon had the muscle of his uncle's little finger in his soul, hewould be president, and king; but he is flaccid altogether, you see, and Joinville stands nearer to the royal probability after all. 'Henri Cinq' is said to be too closely espoused to the Church, and hisconnections at Naples and Parma don't help his cause. Robert has morehope of the _republic_ than I have: but call ye _this_ a republic? Doyou know that Miss Martineau takes up the 'History of England' underCharles Knight, in the continuation of a popular book? I regret herfine imagination being so wasted. So you saw Mr. Chorley? What apleasant flashing in the eyes! We hear of him in Holland and Norway. Dear Mr. Kenyon won't stir from England, we see plainly. Ah! FredericSoulié! he is too dead, I fear. Perhaps he goes on, though, writingromances, after the fashion of poor Miss Pickering, that provenothing. I long for my French fountains of living literature, which, pure or impure, plashed in one's face so pleasantly. Some old French'Mémoires' we have got at lately, 'Brienne' for instance. It iscurious how the leaders of the last revolution (under Louis XVIII. )seem to have despised one another. Brienne is very dull and flat. ForPuseyism, it runs counter to the spirit of our times, after all, andwill never achieve a church. May God bless you! Robert's regards gowith the love of your ever affectionate

BA. 

[Footnote 182: At this time President of the Council, aftersuppressing the Communist rising of June 1848. ]

_To Mrs. Martin_Florence: December 3, 1848. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --It seemed long to me that you had notwritten, and it seems long to me now that I have not answered the kindletter which came at last. Then Henrietta told me of your being unwellat the moment of her mad excursion into Herefordshire. AltogetherI want to speak to you and hear from you, and shall be easier andgladder when both are done. Do forgive my sins and write directly, andtell me everything about both of you, and how you are in spirits andhealth, and whether you really make up your minds to see more dangerin the stormy influences of the Continent in the moral point of viewthan in those of England in the physical. For my part I hold to myoriginal class of fear, and would rather face two or three revolutionsthan an east wind of an English winter. If I were you I would go toPau as usual and take poor Abd-el-Kader's place (my husband is furiousabout the treatment of Abd-el-Kader, so I hear a good deal abouthim[183]), or I would go to Italy and try Florence, where reallydemocratic ministries roar as gently as sucking doves, particularlywhen they are safe in place. We have listened to dreadfulrumours--Florence was to have been sacked several times by theLivornese; the Grand Duke went so far as to send away his familyto Siena, and we had 'Morte a Fiorentini!' chalked up on the walls. Still, somehow or other, the peace has been kept in Florentinefashion; it has rained once or twice, which is always enough here tomoderate the most revolutionary when they wear their best surtouts, and I look forward to an unbroken tranquillity just as I used todo, even though the windows of the Ridolfi Palace (the ambassador inLondon) were smashed the other evening a few yards from ours. Perhapsa gentle and affectionate approach to contempt for our Florentinesmixes a little with this feeling of security, but what then? Theyare an amiable, refined, graceful people, with much of the artistictemperament as distinguished from that of men of genius--effeminate, no, rather _feminine_ in a better sense--of a fancy easily turned intoimpulse, but with no strenuous and determinate strength in them. Whatthey comprehend best in the 'Italian League' is probably a league towear silk velvet and each a feather in his hat, to carry flags and cry_vivas_, and keep a grand festa day in the piazzas. Better and happierin this than in stabbing prime ministers, or hanging up their deadbodies to shoot at; and not much more childish than these Frenchpatriots and republicans, who crown their great deeds by electing tothe presidency such a man as Prince Louis Napoleon, simply because'C'est le neveu de son oncle!'[184] A curious precedent for apresident, certainly; but, oh heavens and earth, what curious thingsabroad everywhere just now, inclusive of the sea serpent! I agreewith you that much of all is very melancholy and disheartening, thoughholding fast by my hope and belief that good will be the end, as italways _is_ God's end to man's frenzies, and that all we observe isbut the fermentation necessary to the new wine, which presently weshall drink pure. Meanwhile, the saddest thing is the impossibility(which I, for one, feel) to sympathise, to go along with, the _people_to whom and to whose cause all my natural sympathies yearn. Theword 'Liberty' ceases to make me thrill, as at something great andunmistakable, as, for instance, the other great words Truth, andJustice; do. The salt has lost its savour, the meaning has escapedfrom the term; we know nothing of what people will _do_ when theyaspire to Liberty. The holiness of liberty is desecrated by the signof the ass's hoof. Fixed principles, either of opinion or action, seemclearly gone out of the world. The principle of Destruction is in theplace of the principle of Re-integration, or of Radical Reform, as wecalled it in England. I look all round and can sympathise nowhere. The rulers hold by rottenness, and the people leap into the abyss, and nobody knows why this is, or why that is. As to France, my tears(which I really couldn't help at the time of the expulsion of poorLouis Philippe and his family, not being very strong just then) arejustified, it appears, though my husband thought them foolish (and sodid I), and though we both began by an adhesion to the Republic inthe cordial manner. But, just see, the Republic was a 'man in an ironmask' or helmet, and turns out a military dictatorship, a throttlingof the press, a starving of the finances, and an election of LouisNapoleon to be President. Louis Philippe was better than all this, take him at worst, and at worst he did _not_ deserve the mud andstones cast at him, which I have always maintained and maintain still. England might have got up ('happy country') more crying grievancesthan France at the moment of outbreak; but what makes outbreaksnow-a-days is not 'the cause, my soul, ' but the stuff of the people. You are huckaback on the other side of the Channel, and you wear outthe poor Irish linen, let the justice of the case be what it may. Politics enough and too much, surely, especially now when they aredepressing to you, and more or less to everybody. .. . We are stillin the slow agonies of furnishing our apartment. You see, beingthe poorest and most prudent of possible poets, we had to solve theproblem of taking our furniture out of our year's income (proceedsof poems and the like), and of not getting into debt. Oh, I take nocredit to myself; I was always in debt in my little way ('small _im_morals, ' as Dr. Bowring might call it) before I married, but Robert, though a poet and dramatist by profession, being descended fromthe blood of all the Puritans, and educated by the strictest ofdissenters, has a sort of horror about the dreadful fact of owingfive shillings five days, which I call quite morbid in its degree andextent, and which is altogether unpoetical according to the traditionsof the world. So we have been dragging in by inches our chairs andtables throughout the summer, and by no means look finished andfurnished at this late moment, the slow Italians coming at the heelsof our slowest intentions with the putting up of our curtains, whichbegin to be necessary in this November tramontana. Yet in a month orthree weeks we shall look quite comfortable--before Christmas; andin the meantime we heap up the pine wood and feel perfectly warmwith these thick palace walls between us and the outside air. Also myhusband's new edition is on the _edge_ of coming out, and we have hadan application from Mr. Phelps, of Sadler's Wells, for leave to acthis 'Blot on the 'Scutcheon, ' which, if it doesn't succeed, itspublic can have neither hearts nor intellects (that being an impartialopinion), and which, if it succeeds, will be of pecuniary advantage tous. Look out in the papers. .. . My love and my husband's go to you, ourdear friends. Let me be always

Your affectionate and gratefulBA. 

While Italy shows herself so politically demoralised, and the blood ofpoor Russia smokes from the ground, the ground seems to care no morefor it than the newspapers, or anybody else. 

Such a jar of flowers we have to keep December. White roses, as inJune. 

[Footnote 183: Abd-el-Kader surrendered to the French in Algeria earlyin 1848, under an express promise that he should be sent either toAlexandria or to St. Jean d'Acre; in spite of which he was sent toFrance and kept there as a prisoner for several years. ]

[Footnote 184: Louis Napoleon was elected President of the FrenchRepublic by a popular vote on December 10. ]

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: December 16, [1848]. 

. .. You are wondering, perhaps, how we are so fool-hardy as to keep onfurnishing rooms in the midst of 'anarchy, ' the Pope a fugitive, andthe crowned heads packing up. Ah, but we have faith in the _softness_of our Florentines, who must be well spurred up to the leap beforethey do any harm. These things look worse at a distance than they donear, although, seen far and near, nothing _can_ be worse than theevidence of demoralisation of people, governors, and journalists, inthe sympathy given everywhere to the assassination of poor Rossi. [185]If Rossi was retrocessive, he was at least a constitutional minister, and constitutional means of opposing him were open to all, but Italyunderstands nothing constitutional; liberty is a fair word and awatchword, nothing more; an idea it is not in the minds of any. Thepoor Pope I deeply pity; he is a weak man with the noblest and mostdisinterested intentions. His faithful flock have nearly broken hisheart by the murder of his two personal friends, Rossi and Palma, andthe threat, which they sent him by embassy, of murdering every man, woman, and child in the Quirinal, with the exception of his Holiness, unless he accepted their terms. He should have gone out to them and sodied, but having missed that opportunity, nothing remained but flight. He was a mere Pope hostage as long as he stayed in Rome. Curious, the'intervention of the French, ' so long desired by the Italians, and vouchsafed _so_. [186] The Florentines open their eyes in muteastonishment, and some of them 'won't read the journals any more. ' Theboldest say softly that the _Romans are sure not to bear it_. And whatis to happen in France? Why, what a world we have just now. .. . FatherProut is gone to Rome for a fortnight, has stayed three weeks, andday by day we expect him back again. I don't understand how the Proutpapers should have hurt him ecclesiastically, but that he should be_known_ for their writer is not astonishing, as the secret was never, I believe, attempted to be kept. We have been, at least _I_ havebeen, a little anxious lately about the fate of the 'Blot on the'Scutcheon, ' which Mr. Phelps applied for my husband's permission torevive at Sadler's. Of course, putting the request was a mere form, as he had every right to act the play, and there was nothing to answerbut one thing. Only it made one anxious--made _me_ anxious--till weheard the result, and we, both of us, are very grateful to dear Mr. Chorley, who not only made it his business to be at the theatre thefirst night, but, before he slept, sat down like a true friend to giveus the story of the result, and never, he says, was a more completeand legitimate success. The play went straight to the heart of theaudience, it seems, and we hear of its continuance on the stage fromthe papers. So far, so well. You may remember, or may not have heard, how Macready brought it out and put his foot on it in the flash ofa quarrel between manager and author, and Phelps, knowing the wholesecret and feeling the power of the play, determined on making arevival of it on his own theatre, which was wise, as the event proves. Mr. Chorley called his acting really 'fine. ' I see the second editionof the 'Poetical Works' advertised at last in the 'Athenaeum, ' andconclude it to be coming out directly. Also my second edition iscalled for, only nothing is yet arranged on that point. We have had amost interesting letter from Mr. Home, giving terrible accounts, to besure, of the submersion of all literature in England and France sincethe French Revolution, but noble and instructive proof of individualwave-riding energy, such as I have always admired in him. He and hiswife, he says, live chiefly on the produce of their garden, and keepa cheerful heart for the rest; even the 'Institutes' expect gratuitouslectures, so that the sweat of the brain seems less productive thanthe sweat of the brow. I am glad that Mr. Serjeant Talfourd and hiswife spoke affectionately of my husband, for he is attached to bothof them. .. . My Flush has grown to be passionately fond of grapes, devouring bunch after bunch, and looking so fat and well that weattribute some virtue to them. When he goes to England he will be asmuch in a strait as an Italian who related to us his adventures inLondon; he had had a long walk in the heat, and catching sight ofgrapes hanging up in a grocer's shop, he stopped short to have apennyworth, as he said inwardly to himself. Down he sat and made outa Tuscan luncheon in purple bunches. At last, taking out his purse tolook for the halfpence: 'Fifteen shillings, sir, if you please, ' saidthe shopman. Now do write soon, and speak particularly of your health, and take care of it and don't be too complaisant to visitors. May Godbless you, my very dear friend! Think of me as

Ever your affectionate and gratefulE. B. B. _My husband's regards always. _

[Footnote 185: Count Pellegrino Rossi, chief minister to the Pope, wasassassinated in Rome, at the entrance of the Chamber of Deputies, on November 15, 1848. Ten days later the Pope fled to Gaeta, and hisexperiments in 'reform' came to a final end. ]

[Footnote 186: The Pope, having declared war against Austria beforehis flight, had invited French support, with the concurrence of hispeople; being expelled from Rome, he invited (and obtained) Frenchhelp to restore him, in spite of the desperate opposition of hispeople. ]

CHAPTER VI

1849-1851

There is here a pause of two months in the correspondence of Mrs. Browning, during which the happiness of her already happy life wascrowned by the birth, on March 9, 1849, of her son, Robert WiedemanBarrett Browning. [187] How great a part this child henceforward playedin her life will be shown abundantly by the letters that follow. Somepassages referring to the child's growth, progress, and performanceshave been omitted, partly in the necessary reduction of the bulk ofthe correspondence, and partly because too much of one subject mayweary the reader. But enough has been left to show that, in the caseof Mrs. Browning (and of her husband likewise), the parent was by nomeans lost in the poet. There is little in what she says which mightnot equally be said, and is in substance said, by hundreds of happymothers in every age; but it would be a suppression of one essentialpart of her nature, and an injury to the pleasant picture which thewhole life of this poet pair presents, if her enthusiasms over herchild were omitted or seriously curtailed. Biographers are fond ofelaborating the details in which the lives of poets have not conformedto the standard of the moral virtues; let us at least recognisethat, in the case of Robert and Elizabeth Browning, the moral and theintellectual virtues flourished side by side, each contributing itsshare to the completeness of the whole character. 

[Footnote 187: Wiedeman was the maiden name of Mr. Browning's mother, her father having been a German who settled in Scotland and married aScotch wife. ]

The joy of this firstborn's birth was, however, very quickly dimmedby the news of the death, only a few days later, of Mr. Browning'smother, to whom he was devotedly attached. Her death was very sudden, and the shock of the reaction completely prostrated him for a longtime. The following letters from Mrs. Browning tell how he felt thisloss. 

_To Miss Browning_April i, 1849 [postmark]. 

I do indeed from the bottom of my heart pity you and grieve with you, my dearest Sarianna. I may grieve with you as well as for you; for Itoo have lost. Believe that, though I never saw her face; I loved thatpure and tender spirit (tender to me even at this distance), and thatshe will be dear and sacred to me to the end of my own life. 

Dearest Sarianna, I thank you for your consideration and admirableself-control in writing those letters. I do thank and bless you. If the news had come unbroken by such precaution to my poor darlingRobert, it would have nearly killed him, I think. As it is, he hasbeen able to cry from the first, and I am able to tell you that thoughdreadfully affected, of course, for you know his passionate love forher, he is better and calmer now--much better. He and I dwell onthe hope that you and your dear father will come to us at once. Come--dear, dear Sarianna--I will at least love you as youdeserve--you and him--if I can do no more. If you would comfortRobert, come. 

No day has passed since our marriage that he has not fondly talked ofher. I know how deep in his dear heart her memory lies. God comfortyou, my dearest Sarianna. The blessing of blessed duties heroicallyfulfilled _must_ be With you. May the blessing of the Blessed inheaven be added to the rest!

Robert stops me. My dear love to your father. 

Your ever attached sister, BA. 

_To Miss Browning_[April 1849. ]

You will have comfort in hearing, my dearest Sarianna, that Robertis better on the whole than when I wrote last, though still very muchdepressed. I wish I could get him to go somewhere or do something--atany rate God's comforts are falling like dew on all this affliction, and must in time make it look a green memory to you both. Continuallyhe thinks of you and of his father--believe how continually andtenderly he thinks of you. Dearest Sarianna, I feel so in the quickof my heart how you must feel, that I scarcely have courage to entreatyou to go out and take the necessary air and exercise, and yet thatis a duty, clear as other duties, and to be discharged like othersby you, as fully, and with as little shrinking of the will. If yourhealth should suffer, what grief upon grief to those who grievealready! And besides, we who have to live are not to lie down underthe burden. There will be time enough for lying down presently, verysoon; and in the meanwhile there is plenty of God's work to do withthe body and with the soul, and we have to do it as cheerfully aswe can. Dearest Sarianna, you can look behind and before, on blessedmemories and holy hopes--love is as full for you as ever in the oldrelation, even though her life in the world is cut off. There is nodrop of bitterness in all this flood of sorrow. In the midst of thegreat anguish which God has given, you have to thank Him for someblessing with every pang as it comes. Never was a more beautiful, serene, assuring death than this we are all in tears for--for, believeme, my very dear sister, I have mourned with you, knowing what we allhave lost, I who never saw her nor shall see her until a few yearsshall bring us all together to the place where none mourn nor areparted. Sarianna, will it not be possible, do you think, for you andyour father to come here, if only for a few months? Then you mightdecide on the future upon more knowledge than you have now. Itwould be comfort and joy to Robert and me if we could all of us livetogether henceforward. Think what you would like, and how you wouldbest like it. Your living on _even through this summer at that house_, I, who have well known the agony of such bindings to the rack, doprotest against. Dearest Sarianna, it is not good or right eitherfor you or for your dear father. For Robert to go back to that houseunless it were to do one of you some good, think how it would be with_him_! Tell us now (for he yearns towards you--we both do), what isthe best way of bringing us all together, so as to do every one of ussome good? If Florence is too far off, is there any other place wherewe could meet and arrange for the future? Could not your dear father'sleave of absence be extended this summer, out of consideration of whathas happened, and would he not be so enabled to travel with you andmeet us _somewhere_? We will do anything. For my part, I am full ofanxiety; and for Robert, you may guess what his is, you who know him. Very bitter has it been to me to have interposed unconsciously asI have done and deprived him of her last words and kisses--verybitter--and nothing could be so consolatory to me as to give him backto _you_ at least. So think for me, dearest Sarianna--think for yourfather and yourself, think for Robert--and remember that Robert andI will do anything which shall appear possible to you. May God blessyou, both of you! Give my true love to your father. Feeling for youand with you always and most tenderly, I am your affectionate sister, BA. 

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: April 30, 1849. 

I am writing to you, _at last_, you will say, ever dearest MissMitford; but, except once to Wimpole Street, this is the first packetof letters which goes from me since my confinement. You will haveheard how our joy turned suddenly into deep sorrow by the death of myhusband's mother. An unsuspected disease (ossification of the heart)terminated in a fatal way, and she lay in the insensibility precursiveof the grave's, when the letter, written in such gladness by my poorhusband, and announcing the birth of his child, reached her address. 'It would have made her heart bound, ' said her daughter to us. Poor, tender heart, the last throb was too near. The medical men would notallow the news to be communicated. The next joy she felt was to be inheaven itself. My husband has been in the deepest anguish, and indeed, except for the courageous consideration of his sister, who wrote twoletters of preparation saying that 'she was not well, ' and she 'wasvery ill, ' when in fact all was over, I am frightened to think whatthe result would have been to him. He has loved his mother as suchpassionate natures only can love, and I never saw a man so bowed downin an extremity of sorrow--never. Even now the depression is great, and sometimes when I leave him alone a little and return to the room, I find him in tears. I do earnestly wish to change the scene and air;but where to go? England looks terrible now. He says it would breakhis heart to see his mother's roses over the wall, and the placewhere she used to lay her scissors and gloves. Which I understand sothoroughly that I can't say, 'Let us go to England. ' We must wait andsee what his father and sister will choose to do or choose us todo, for of course a duty plainly seen would draw us anywhere. My owndearest sisters will be painfully disappointed by any change of plan, only they are too good and kind not to understand the difficulty, notto see the motive. So do _you_, I am certain. It has been very verypainful altogether, this drawing together of life and death. Robertwas too enraptured at my safety, and with his little son, and thesudden reaction was terrible. You see how natural that was. How kindof you to write that note to him full of affectionate expressionstowards me! Thank you, dearest friend. He had begged my sisters to letyou know of my welfare, and I hope they did; and now it is my turnto know of _you_, and so I do entreat you not to delay, but to let mehear exactly how you are and what your plans are for the summer. Doyou think of Paris seriously? Am I not a sceptic about your voyagesround the world? It's about the only thing that I don't thoroughlybelieve you _can_ do. But (not to be impertinent) I want to hear somuch! I want first and chiefly to hear of your health; and occupationsnext, and next your plans for the summer. Louis Napoleon isastonishing the world, you see, by his firmness and courage;and though really I don't make out the aim and end of his Frenchrepublicans in going to Rome to extinguish the republic there, I waitbefore I swear at him for it till my information becomes fuller. Ifthey have at Rome such a republic as we have had in Florence, withouta public, imposed by a few bawlers and brawlers on many mutes andcowards, why, the sooner it goes to pieces the better, of course. Probably the French Government acts upon information. In any case, ifthe Romans are in earnest they may resist eight thousand men. [1] Weshall see. My _faith_ in every species of Italian is, however, nearlytired out. I don't believe they are men at all, much less heroesand patriots. Since I wrote last to you, I think we have had tworevolutions here at Florence, Grand Duke out, Grand Duke in. [188] Thebells in the church opposite rang for both. They first planted a treeof liberty close to our door, and, then they pulled it down. The sametune, sung under the windows, did for 'Viva la republica!' and 'VivaLeopoldo!' The genuine popular feeling is certainly for the Grand Duke('O, santissima madre di Dio!' said our nurse, clasping her hands, 'how the people do love him!'); only nobody would run the risk of apin's prick to save the ducal throne. If the Leghornese, who put upGuerazzi on its ruins, had not refused to pay at certain Florentinecafés, we shouldn't have had revolution the second, and all thisshooting in the street! Dr. Harding, who was coming to see me, hadtime to get behind a stable door, just before there was a fall againstit of four shot corpses; and Robert barely managed to get homeacross the bridges. He had been out walking in the city, apprehendingnothing, when the storm gathered and broke. Sad and humiliating it allhas been, and the author of 'Vanity Fair' might turn it to better usesfor a chapter. By the way, we have just been reading 'Vanity Fair. 'Very clever, very effective, but cruel to human nature. A painfulbook, and not the pain that purifies and exalts. Partial truths afterall, and those not wholesome. But I certainly had no idea thatMr. Thackeray had intellectual force for such a book; the power isconsiderable. For Balzac, Balzac may have gone out of the world asfar as we are concerned. Isn't it hard on us? exiles from Balzac! Thebookseller here, having despaired of the republic and the Grand Duchyboth, I suppose, and taking for granted on the whole that the worldmust be coming shortly to an end, doesn't give us the sign of a newbook. We ought to, be done with such vanities. There! and almost Ihave done my paper without a single word to you of the _baby_! Ah, youwon't believe that I forgot him even if I pretend, so I won't. He isa lovely, fat, strong child, with double chins and rosy cheeks, anda great wide chest, undeniable lungs, I can assure you. Dr. Hardingcalled him 'a robust child' the other day, and 'a more beautiful childhe never saw. ' I never saw a child half as beautiful, for my part. .. . Dear Mr. Chorley has written the kindest letter to my husband. I muchregard him indeed. May God bless you. Let me ever be (with Robert'sthanks and warm remembrance), Your most affectionateBA. 

Flush's jealousy of the baby would amuse you. For a whole fortnighthe fell into deep melancholy and was proof against all attentionslavished on him. Now he begins to be consoled a little and evencondescends to patronise the cradle. 

Footnote 1: As they did until the 8, 000 had been increased to 35, 000. ]

[Footnote 188: A revolution, fomented chiefly by the Leghornese, expelled the Grand Duke in March 1849; about seven weeks later acounter-revolution, chiefly by the peasantry, recalled him. ]

_To Miss Browning_[Florence:] May 2, 1849. 

Robert gives me this blank, and three minutes to write across it. Thank you, my very dear Sarianna, for all your kindness and affection. I understand what I have lost. I know the worth of a tenderness suchas you speak of, and I feel that for the sake of my love for Robertshe was ready out of the fullness of her heart to love _me_ also. Ithas been bitter to me that I have unconsciously deprived him of thepersonal face-to-face shining out of her angelic nature for more thantwo years, but she has forgiven me, and we shall all meet, when itpleases God, before His throne. In the meanwhile, my dearest Sarianna, we are thinking much of you, and neither of us can bear the thought ofyour living on where you are. If you could imagine the relief it wouldbe to us--to me as well as to Robert--to be told frankly what we oughtto do, where we ought to go, to please you best--you and your dearestfather--you would think the whole matter over and use plain words inthe speaking of it. Robert naturally shrinks from the idea of going toNew Cross under the circumstances of dreary change, and for his sakeEngland has grown suddenly to me a land of clouds. Still, to see youand his father, and to be some little comfort to you both, would bethe best consolation to him, I am very sure; and so, dearest Sarianna, think of us and speak to us. Could not your father get a longvacation? Could we not meet somewhere? Think how we best may comfortourselves by comforting you. Never think of us, Sarianna, as apartfrom you--as if our interest or our pleasure _could_ be apart fromyours. The child is so like Robert that I can believe in the otherlikeness, and may the inner nature indeed, as you say, be afterthat pure image! He is so fat and rosy and strong that almost I amsceptical of his being my child. I suppose he is, after all. May Godbless you, both of you. I am ashamed to send all these letters, butRobert makes me. He is better, but still much depressed sometimes, andover your letters he drops heavy tears. Then he treasures them upand reads them again and again. Better, however, on the whole, heis certainly. Poor little babe, who was too much rejoiced over at_first_, fell away by a most natural recoil (even _I_ felt it to be_most natural_) from all that triumph, but Robert is still very fondof him, and goes to see him bathed every morning, and walks up anddown on the terrace with him in his arms. If your dear father can tossand rock babies as Robert can, he will be a nurse in great favour. 

Dearest Sarianna, take care of yourself, and do walk out. No grief inthe world was ever freer from the corroding drop of bitterness--wasever sweeter, holier, and more hopeful than this of yours must be. Love is for you on both sides of the grave, and the blossoms of lovemeet over it. May God's love, too, bless you!

Your ever affectionate sister, BA. 

_To Mrs. Martin_Florence: May 14, [1849]. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --At last I come to thank you for all yourkindness, all your goodness, all your sympathy for both of us. Robertwould have written to you in the first instance (for we _both_ thoughtof you) if we had not agreed that you would hear as quickly fromHenrietta, we not knowing your direct address. Also your welcomelittle note should have had an immediate acknowledgment from him if hehad not been so depressed at that time that I was glad to ask him towait till I should be ready to write myself. In fact, he has sufferedmost acutely from the affliction you have since of course heard of;and just because he was _too happy_ when the child was born, the painwas overwhelming afterwards. That is easy to understand, I think. While he was full of joy for the child, his mother was dying at adistance, and the very thought of accepting that new affection forthe old became a thing to recoil from--do you not see? So far fromsuffering less through the particular combination of circumstances, as some people seemed to fancy he would, he suffered much more, Iam certain, and very naturally. Even now he is looking veryunwell--thinner and paler than usual, and his spirits, which used tobe so good, have not rallied. I long to get him away from Florencesomewhere--_where_, I can't fix my wishes; our English plans seem flaton the ground for the present, _that_ is one sad certainty. My dearestsisters will be very grieved if we don't go to England, and yet howcan I even try to persuade my husband back into the scene of oldassociations where he would feel so much pain? Do I not know what Imyself should suffer in some places? And he loved his mother with allhis power of loving, which is deeper and more passionate than love iswith common men. She hearts of men are generally strong in proportionto their heads. Well, I am not to send you such a dull letter though, after waiting so long, and after receiving so much to speak thankfullyof. My child you never would believe to be _my child_, from theevidence of his immense cheeks and chins--for pray don't suppose thathe has only one chin. People call him a lovely child, and if _I_ wereto call him the same it wouldn't be very extraordinary, only I assureyou 'a robust child' I may tell you that he is with a sufficientmodesty, and also that Wilson says he is universally admired invarious tongues when she and the nurse go out with him to theCascine--'What a beautiful baby!' and 'Che bel bambino!' He has hada very stormy entrance upon life, poor little fellow; and when he wasjust three days old, a grand festa round the liberty tree planted atour door, attended with military music, civic dancing and singing, andthe firing of cannons and guns from morning to night, made him startin his cradle, and threw my careful nurse into paroxysms of devotionbefore the 'Vergine Santissima' that I mightn't have a fever inconsequence. Since then the tree of liberty has come down with a crashand we have had another festa as noisy on that occasion. Revolutionand counter-revolution, Guerazzi[189] and Leopold, sacking of Florenceand entrance of the Austrian army--we live through everything, yousee, and baby grows fat indiscriminately. For my part, I am altogether_blasée_ about revolutions and invasions. Don't think it want offeeling in me, or want of sympathy with 'the people, ' but really Ican't help a certain political latitudinarianism from creeping over mein relation to this Tuscany. You ought to be here to understand what Imean and how I think. Oh heavens! how ignoble it all has been andis! A revolution made by boys and _vivas_, and unmade by boys and_vivas_--no, there was blood shed in the unmaking--some horror andterror, but not as much patriotism and truth as could lift up theblood from the kennel. The counter-revolution was strictly _counter_, observe. I mean, that if the Leghornese troops here bad paid theirdebts at the Florentine coffee houses, the Florentines would have lettheir beloved Grand Duke stay on at Gaeta to the end of the world. TheGrand Duke, too, whose part I have been taking hitherto (because hedid seem to me a good man, more sinned against than sinning)--theGrand Duke I give up from henceforth, seeing that he has done thisbase thing of taking again his Austrian titles in his proclamationscoincidently with the approach of the Austrians. Of Rome, knowingnothing, I don't like to speak. If a republic _in earnest_ isestablished there, Louis Napoleon should not try to set his foot onit. Dearest Mrs. Martin, how you mistake me about France, and how toolightly I must have spoken. If you knew how I admire the French asa nation! Robert always calls them '_my beloved French_. ' Theirvery faults appear to me to arise from an excess of ideality landaspiration; but I was vexed rather at their selection of LouisNapoleon--a selection since justified by the firmness and apparentintegrity of the man. His reputation in England, you will admit, didnot promise the conclusion. Will he be emperor, do you imagine? Andshall I ever have done talking politics? I would far rather talk of_you_, after all. Henrietta tells me of your looking well, but of yournot being strong yet. Now do, _for once_, have a fit of egotism andtell me a little about yourself. .. . Surely I ought especially to thankyou, dearest kind friend, for your goodness in writing to--, of whichHenrietta very properly told me. I never shall forget this and otherproofs of your affection for me, and shall remember them with warmgratitude always. As to--, I have held out both [my] hands, and myhusband's hands in mine, again and again to him; he cannot possibly, in the secret place of his heart, expect more from either of us. Myhusband would have written to him in the first place, but for theobstacles raised by himself and others, and now what _could_ Robertwrite and say except the bare repetition of what I have said over andover for him and myself? It is exactly an excuse--not more and notless. Just before I was ill I sent my last messages, because, withcertain hazards before me, my heart turned to them naturally. I mightas well have turned to a rock. --has been by far the kindest, and haswritten to me two or three little notes, and one since the birth ofour child. I love them all far too well to be proud, and my husbandloves me too well not to wish to be friends with every one of them; wehave neither of us any stupid feeling about 'keeping up our dignity. 'Yes, I had a letter from--some time ago, in which something was saidof Robert's being careless of reconciliation. I answered it mostexplicitly and affectionately, with every possible assurance fromRobert, and offering them from himself the affection of a brother. Nota word in answer! To my poor dearest papa I have written very lately, and as my letter has not, after a week, been sent back, I catch atthe hope of his being moved a little. If he neither sends it back norreplies severely, I shall take courage to write to him again after awhile. It will be an immense gain to get him only to read my letters. My father and my brothers hold quite different positions, ofcourse, and though he has acted sternly towards me, I, knowing hispeculiarities, do not feel embittered and astonished and disappointedas in the other cases. Absolutely happy my marriage has been--nevercould there be a happier marriage (as there are no marriages inheaven); but dear Henrietta is quite wrong in fancying, or seeming tofancy, that this quarrel with my family has given or gives me slightpain. Old affections are not so easily trodden out of me, indeed, andwhile I live unreconciled to them, there must be a void and drawback. Do write to me and tell me of both of you, my very dear friends. Don'tfancy that we are not anxious for brave Venice and Sicily, and that wedon't hate this Austrian invasion. But Tuscany has acted a vile partaltogether--_so_ vile, that I am sceptical about the Romans. We expectdaily the Austrians in Florence, and have made up our minds to bevery kind. May God bless you! Do write, and mention your healthparticularly, as I am anxious about it. I am quite well myself, and, as ever, Your affectionateBA. 

Don't you both like Macaulay's History? We are delighted just now withit. 

[Footnote 189: Chief administrator of the Republic of Tuscany duringthe short absence of the Grand Duke Leopold. ]

_To Miss Browning_[Florence: about June 1849. ]

I must say to my dearest Sarianna how delighted we are at the thoughtof seeing her in Florence. I wish it had been before the autumn, butsince autumn is decided for we must be content to reap our goldenharvest at the time for such things. Certainly the summer heat ofFlorence is terrible enough--only we should have carried you with usinto the shade somewhere to the sea or to the mountains--and Roberthas, of course, told you of our Spezzia plan. The 'fatling of theflock' has been sheared closely of his long petticoats. Did he tellyou that? And you can't think how funny the little creature lookswithout his train, his wise baby face appearing to approve of thewhole arrangement. He talks to himself now and smiles at everybody, and admired my roses so much the other day that he wanted to eatthem; having a sublime transcendental notion about the mouth beingthe receptacle of all beauty and glory in this world. Tell your dearfather that certainly he _is_ a 'sweet baby, ' there's no denying it. We lay him down on the floor to let him kick at ease, and he makesviolent efforts to get up by himself, and Wilson declares that theleast encouragement would set him walking. Robert's nursing doesnot mend his spirits much. I shall be very glad to get him away fromFlorence; he has suffered too much here to rally as I long to see himdo, because, dearest Sarianna, we have to live after all; and to liverightly we must turn our faces forward and press forward and not lookbackward morbidly for the footsteps in the dust of those beloved oneswho travelled with us but yesterday. They themselves are notbehind but before, and we carry with us our tenderness living andundiminished towards them, to be completed when the round of this lifeis complete for us also. Dearest Sarianna, why do I say such things, but because I have known what grief is? Oh, and how I could havecompounded with you, grief for grief, mine for yours, for _I_ had nolast words nor gestures, Sarianna. God keep you from such a helplessbitter agony as mine then was. Dear Sarianna, you will think of usand of Florence, my dear sister, and remember how you have made usa promise and have to keep it. May God bless you and comfort you. We think of you and love you continually, and I am always your mostaffectionate

BA. 

In July the move from Florence, of which Mrs. Browning speaks in theabove letter, was effected, the place ultimately chosen for escapefrom the summer heat in the valley of the Arno being the Bagnidi Lucca. Here three months were spent, as the following lettersdescribe. By this time the struggle for Italian liberty had ended infailure everywhere. The battle of Novara, on March 23, had prostratedPiedmont, and caused the abdication of its king, Charles Albert. TheTuscan Republic had come and gone, and the Grand Duke had re-enteredhis capital under the protection of Austrian bayonets. Sicily had beenreduced to subjection to the Bourbons of Naples. On July 2 the Frenchentered Rome, bringing back the Pope cured of his leanings to reformand constitutional government; on the 24th, Venice, after an heroicresistance, capitulated to the Austrians. The struggle was over forthe time; the longing for liberty becomes, of necessity, silent; andwe hear little, for a space, of Italian politics. For the moment itmight seem justifiable to despair of the republic. 

_To Miss Mitford_Bagni di Lucca, Toscana: [about July 1849]. 

At last, you will say, dearest friend. The truth is, I have not beenforgetting you (how far from that!) but wandering in search of coolair and a cool bough among all the olive trees to build our summernest on. My husband has been suffering beyond what one could shutone's eyes to in consequence of the great mental shock of lastMarch--loss of appetite, loss of sleep, looks quite worn and altered. His spirits never rallied except with an effort, and every letter fromNew Cross threw him back into deep depressions. I was very anxious, and feared much that the end of it all (the intense heat of Florenceassisting) would be a nervous fever or something similar. And I hadthe greatest difficulty in persuading him to leave Florence for amonth or two--he who generally delights so in travelling, had nomind for change or movement. I had to say and swear that baby and Icouldn't bear the heat, and that we must and would go away. _Ceque femme veut_, if the latter is at all reasonable, or the formerpersevering. At last I gained the victory. It was agreed that we twoshould go on an exploring journey to find out where we could havemost shadow at least expense; and we left our child with his nurse andWilson while we were absent. We went along the coast to Spezzia, sawCarrara with the white marble mountains, passed through the oliveforests and the vineyards, avenues of acacia trees, chestnut woods, glorious surprises of most exquisite scenery. I say olive forestsadvisedly; the olive grows like a forest tree in those regions, shading the ground with tents of silvery network. The olive nearFlorence is but a shrub in comparison, and I have learnt to despisea little, too, the Florentine vine, which does not swing suchportcullises of massive dewy green from one tree to another as alongthe whole road where we travelled. Beautiful, indeed, it was. Spezziawheels the blue sea into the arms of the wooded mountains, and we hada glance at Shelley's house at Lerici. It was melancholy to me, ofcourse. I was not sorry that the lodgings we inquired about werefar above our means. We returned on our steps (after two days in thedirtiest of possible inns), saw Seravezza, a village in the mountains, where rock, river, and wood enticed us to stay, and the inhabitantsdrove us off by their unreasonable prices. It is curious, but just inproportion to the want of civilisation the prices rise in Italy. Ifyou haven't cups and saucers you are made to pay for plate. Well, sofinding no rest for the sole of our feet, I persuaded Robert to go tothe Baths of Lucca, only to see them. We were to proceed afterwardsto San Marcello or some safer wilderness. We had both of us, but hechiefly, the strongest prejudice against these Baths of Lucca, takingthem for a sort of wasp's nest of scandal and gaming, and expecting tofind everything trodden flat by the Continental English; yet I wantedto see the place, because it is a place to see after all. So we came, and were so charmed by the exquisite beauty of the scenery, by thecoolness of the climate and the absence of our countrymen, politicaltroubles serving admirably our private requirements, that we made anoffer for rooms on the spot, and returned to Florence for baby and therest of our establishment without further delay. Here we are, then; wehave been here more than a fortnight. We have taken an apartment forthe season--four months--paying twelve pounds for the whole term, and hoping to be able to stay till the end of October. The living ischeaper than even at Florence, so that there has been no extravagancein coming here. In fact, Florence is scarcely tenable during thesummer from the excessive heat by day and night, even if there were noparticular motive for leaving it. We have taken a sort of eagle's nestin this place, the highest house of the highest of the three villageswhich are called the Bagni di Lucca, and which lie at the heart of ahundred mountains sung to continually by a rushing mountain stream. The sound of the river and of the cicala is all the noise we hear. Austrian drums and carriage wheels cannot vex us; God be thanked forit; the silence is full of joy and consolation. I think my husband'sspirits are better already and his appetite improved. Certainly littlebabe's great cheeks are growing rosier and rosier. He is out all daywhen the sun is not too strong, and Wilson will have it that he isprettier than the whole population of babies here. He fixes hisblue eyes on everybody and smiles universal benevolence, rather tooindiscriminately it might be if it were not for Flush. But certainly, on the whole he prefers Flush. He pulls his ears and rides on him, andFlush, though his dignity does not approve of being used as a pony, only protests by turning his head round to kiss the little baredimpled feet. A merrier, sweeter-tempered child there can't be thanour baby, and people wonder at his being so forward at four monthsold and think there must be a mistake in his age. He is so strong thatwhen I put out two fingers and he has seized them in his fists he candraw himself up on his feet, but we discourage this forwardness, whichis not desirable, say the learned. Children of friends of mine at tenmonths and a year can't do so much. Is it not curious that _my_ childshould be remarkable for strength and fatness? He has a beaming, thinking little face, too; oh, I wish you could see it. Then myown strength has wonderfully improved, just as my medical friendsprophesied; and it seems like a dream when I find myself able to climbthe hills with Robert and help him to lose himself in the forests. I have been growing stronger and stronger, and where it is to stop Ican't tell, really; I can do as much, or more, now than at any pointof my life since I arrived at woman's estate. The air of this placeseems to penetrate the heart and not the lungs only; it draws you, raises you, excites you. Mountain air without its keenness, sheathedin Italian sunshine, think what _that_ must be! And the beauty andthe solitude--for with a few paces we get free of the habitationsof men--all is delightful to me. What is peculiarly beautiful andwonderful is the variety of the shapes of the mountains. They are amultitude, and yet there is no likeness. None, except where the goldenmist comes and transfigures them into one glory. For the rest, themountain there wrapt in the chestnut forest is not like that bare peakwhich tilts against the sky, nor like that serpent twine of anotherwhich seems to move and coil in the moving coiling shadow. Oh, I wishyou were here. You would enjoy the shade of the chestnut trees, andthe sound of the waterfalls, and at nights seem to be living among thestars; the fireflies are so thick, you would like that too. We havesubscribed to a French library where there are scarcely any new books. I have read Bernard's 'Gentilhomme Campagnard' (see how _arriérés_ weare in French literature!), and thought it the dullest and worst ofhis books. I wish I could see the 'Memoirs of Louis Napoleon, ' butthere is no chance of such good fortune. All this egotism has beenwritten with a heart full of thoughts of you and anxieties for you. Do write to me directly and say first how your precious health is, andthen that you have ceased to suffer pain for your friends. .. . But yourdear self chiefly--how are you, my dearest Miss Mitford? I do long sofor good news of you. On our arrival here Mr. Lever called on us. Amost cordial vivacious manner, a glowing countenance, with the animalspirits somewhat predominant over the intellect, yet the intellect byno means in default; you can't help being surprised into being pleasedwith him, whatever your previous inclination may be. Natural too, anda _gentleman_ past mistake. His eldest daughter is nearly grown up, and his youngest six months old. He has children of every sort ofintermediate age almost, but he himself is young enough still. Not theslightest Irish accent. He seems to have spent nearly his whole lifeon the Continent and by no means to be tired of it. Ah, dearest MissMitford, hearts feel differently, adjust themselves differently beforethe prick of sorrow, and I confess I agree with Robert. There areplaces stained with the blood of my heart for ever, and where I couldnot bear to stand again. If duty called him to New Cross it would beotherwise, but his sister is rather inclined to come to us, I think, for a few weeks in the autumn perhaps. Only these are scarcely timesfor plans concerning foreign travel. It is something to talk of. Ithas been a great disappointment to me the not going to England thisyear, but I could not run the risk of the bitter pain to him. May Godbless you from all pain! Love me and write to me, who am ever and everyour affectionate E. B. B. 

_To Mrs. Jameson_Bagni di Lucca: August 11, 1849. 

I thank you, dearest friend, for your most affectionate and welcomeletter would seem to come by instinct, and we have thanked you in ourthoughts long before this moment, when I begin at last to write someof them. Do believe that to value your affection and to love you backagain are parts of our life, and that it must be always delightful tous to read in your handwriting or to hear in your voice that we arenot exiled from your life. Give us such an assurance whenever you can. Shall we not have it face to face at Florence, when the booksellerslet you go? And meantime there is the post; do write to us. .. . Didyou ever see this place, I wonder? The coolness, the charm of themountains, whose very heart you seem to hear beating in the rush ofthe little river, the green silence of the chestnut forests, and theseclusion which anyone may make for himself by keeping clear ofthe valley-villages; all these things drew us. We took a delightfulapartment over the heads of the whole world in the highest houseof the Bagni Caldi, where only the donkeys and the _portantini_ canpenetrate, and where we sit at the open windows and hear nothing butthe cicale. Not a mosquito! think of that! The thermometer rangesfrom sixty-eight to seventy-four, but the seventy-four has been arare excess: the nights, mornings, and evenings are exquisitely cool. Robert and I go out and lose ourselves in the woods and mountains, andsit by the waterfalls on the starry and moonlit nights, and neitherby night nor day have the fear of picnics before our eyes. We wereobserving the other day that we never met anybody except a monk girtwith a rope, now and then, or a barefooted peasant. The sight of apink parasol never startles us into unpleasant theories of comparativeanatomy. One cause, perhaps, may be that on account of politicalmatters it is a delightfully 'bad season, ' but, also, we are toohigh for the ordinary walkers, who keep to the valley and the flatterroads. Robert is better, looking better, and in more healthy spirits;and we are both enjoying this great sea of mountains and our way oflife here altogether. Of course, we remembered to go back to Florencefor baby and the rest of our little establishment, and we mean tostay as long as we can, perhaps to the end of October. Baby is inthe triumph of health and full-blown roses, and as he does not hidehimself in the woods like his ancestors, but smiles at everybody, heis the most popular of possible babies. .. . We had him baptisedbefore we left Florence, without godfathers and godmothers, in thesimplicities of the French Lutheran Church. I gave him your kiss as aprecious promise that you would love him one day like a true dearAunt Nina; and I promise you on my part that he shall be taughtto understand both the happiness and the honour of it. Robert isexpecting a visit from his sister in the course of this autumn. Shehas suffered much, and the change will be good for her, even if, asshe says, she can stay with us only a few weeks. With her we shallhave your book, to be disinherited of which so long has been hard onus. Robert's own we have not seen yet. It must be satisfactory to youto have had such a clear triumph after all the dust and toil of theway. And now tell me, won't it be _necessary_ for you to come again toItaly for what remains to be done? Poor Florence is quiet enough underthe heel of Austria, and Leopold 'l'intrepido, ' as he was happilycalled by a poet of Viareggio in a welcoming burst of inspiration, sits undisturbed at the Pitti. I despair of the republic in Italy, orrather of Italy altogether. The instructed are not patriotic, and thepatriots are not instructed. We want not only a _man_, but men, and wemust throw, I fear, the bones of their race behind us before the truedeliverers can spring up. Still, it is not all over; there will bedeliverance presently, but it will not be now. We are full of painfulsympathy for poor Venice. There! why write more about politics? Itmakes us sick enough to think of Austrians in our Florence withoutwriting the thought out into greater expansion. Only don't let the'Times' newspaper persuade you that there is no stepping with impunityout of England. . .. We have 'lectures on Shakespeare' just now by aMr. Stuart, who is enlightening the English barbarians at thelower village, and quoting Mrs. Jameson to make his discourse morebrilliant. We like to hear 'Mrs. Jameson observes. ' Give our love todear Gerardine. I am anxious for her happiness and yours involved init. Love and remember us, dearest friend. 

Your E. B. B. , or rather, BA. 

The following note is added in Mr. Browning's handwriting:

Dear Aunt Nina, --Will there be three years before I see you again? AndGeddie; does she not come to Italy? When we passed through Pisa theother day, we went to your old inn in love of you, and got your veryroom to dine in (the landlord is dead and gone, as is Peveruda--of theother house, you remember). There were the old vile prints, the oldlook-out into the garden, with its orange trees and painted sentinelwatching them. Ba must have told you about our babe, and the littleelse there is to tell--that is, for _her_ to tell, for she is notlikely to encroach upon _my_ story which I _could_ tell of herentirely angel nature, as divine a heart as God ever made; I know moreof her every day; I, who thought I knew something of her five yearsago! I think I know you, too, so I love you and am

Ever yours and dear Geddie'sR. B. 

_To Miss Mitford_Bagni di Lucca: August 31, 1849. 

I told Mr. Lever what you thought of him, dearest friend, and thenhe said, all in a glow and animation, that you were not only hisown delight but the delight of his children, which is affection byrefraction, isn't it? Quite gratified he seemed by the hold of yourgood opinion. Not only is he the notability _par excellence_ of theseBaths of Lucca, where he has lived a whole year, during the snows uponthe mountains, but he presides over the weekly balls at the casinowhere the English 'do congregate' (all except Robert and me), and issaid to be the light of the flambeaux and the spring of the dancers. There is a general desolation when he _will_ retire to play whist. In addition to which he really seems to be loving and loveable in hisfamily. You always see him with his children and his wife; he drivesher and her baby up and down along the only carriageable road ofLucca: so set down that piece of domestic life on the bright side inthe broad charge against married authors; now do. I believe he is toreturn to Florence this winter with his family, having had enough ofthe mountains. Have you read 'Roland Cashel, ' isn't _that_ the name ofhis last novel? The 'Athenaeum' said of it that it was '_new ground_, 'and praised it. I hear that he gets a hundred pounds for each monthlynumber. Oh, how glad I was to have your letter, written in such pain, read in such pleasure! It was only fair to tell me in the last linesthat the face-ache was better, to keep off a fit of remorse. I dohope that Mr. May is not right about neuralgia, because that is moredifficult to cure than pain which arises from the teeth. Tell me howyou are in all ways. I look into your letters eagerly for news of yourhealth, then of your spirits, which are a part of health. The choleramakes me very frightened for my dearest people in London, and silence, the last longer than usual, ploughs up my days and nights into longfurrows. The disease rages in the neighbourhood of my husband'sfamily, and though Wimpole Street has been hitherto clear, who cancalculate on what may be? My head goes round to think of it. And papa, who _will_ keep going into that horrible city! Even if my sisters andbrothers should go into the country as every year, he will be left, heis no more movable than St. Paul's. My sister-in-law will probably notcome to us as soon as she intended, through a consideration for herfather, who ought not, Robert thinks, to stay alone in the midst ofsuch contingencies, so perhaps we may go to seek her ourselves in thespring, if she does not seek us out before in Italy. God keep us all, and near to one another. Love runs dreadful risks in the world. YetLove is, how much the best thing in the world? We have had a greatevent in our house. Baby has cut a tooth. .. . His little happy laugh isalways ringing through the rooms. He is afraid of nobody or nothingin the world, and was in fits of ecstasy at the tossing of the horse'shead, when he rode on Wilson's knee five or six miles the other day toa village in the mountains--screaming for joy, she said. He is not sixmonths yet by a fortnight! His father loves him; passionately, and thesentiment is reciprocated, I assure you. We have had the coolestof Italian summers at these Baths of Lucca, the thermometer at thehottest hour of the hottest day only at seventy-six, and generally atsixty-eight or seventy. The nights invariably cool. Now the freshnessof the air is growing almost too fresh. I only hope we shall be able(for the cold) to keep our intention of staying here till the end ofOctober, I have enjoyed it so entirely, and shall be so sorry to breakoff this happy silence into the Austrian drums at poor Florence. Andthen we want to see the vintage. Some grapes are ripe already, butit is not vintage time. We have every kind of good fruit, greatwater-melons, which with both arms I can scarcely carry, at twopencehalfpenny each, and figs and peaches cheap in proportion. And theplace agrees with Baby, and has done good to my husband's spirits, though the only 'amusement' or distraction he has is looking at themountains and climbing among the woods with me. Yes, we have beenreading some French romances, 'Monte Cristo, ' for instance, I forthe second time--but I have liked it, to read it with him. That Dumascertainly has power; and to think of the scramble there was for hisbrains a year or two ago in Paris! For a man to write so much andso well together is a miracle. Do you mean that they have left offwriting--those French writers--or that they have tired you out withwriting that looks faint beside the rush of facts, as the range ofFrench politics show those? Has not Eugène Sue been illustratingthe passions? Somebody told me so. Do _you_ tell me how you likethe French President, and whether he will ever, in your mind, sit onNapoleon's throne. It seems to me that he has given proof, as faras the evidence goes, of prudence, integrity, and conscientiouspatriotism; the situation is difficult, and he fills it honorably. TheRome business has been miserably managed; this is the great blot onthe character of his government. But I, for my own part (my husband isnot so minded), do consider that the French motive has been good, theintention pure, the occupation of Rome by the Austrians being imminentand the French intervention the only means (with the exception of aEuropean war) of saving Rome from the hoof of the Absolutists. At thesame time if Pius IX. Is the obstinate idiot he seems to be, good andtenderhearted man as he surely is, and if the old abuses are to berestored, why Austria might as well have done her own dirty workand saved French hands from the disgrace of it. It makes us two veryangry. Robert especially is furious. We are not within reach of thebook you speak of, 'Portraits des Orateurs Français' oh, we mightnearly as well live on a desert island as far as modern books go. Andhere, at Lucca, even Robert can't catch sight of even the 'Athenaeum. 'We have a two-day old 'Galignani, ' and think ourselves royally off;and then this little shop with French books in it, just a few, and the'Gentilhomme Campagnard' the latest published. Yes, but somebody lentus the first volume of 'Chateaubriand's Mémoires. ' Have you seen it?Curiously uninteresting, considering 'the man and the hour. ' He writesof his youth with a grey goose quill; the paper is all wrinkled. And then he is not frank; he must have more to tell than he tells. Ilooked for a more intense and sincere book _outre tombe_ certainly. Iam busy about my new edition, that is all at present, but some thingsare written. Good of Mr. Chorley (he is _good_) to place you faceto face with Robert's books, and I am glad you like 'Colombe' and'Luria. ' Dear Mr. Kenyon's poems we have just received and are aboutto read, and I am delighted at a glance to see that he has insertedthe 'Gipsy Carol, ' which in MS. Was such a favorite of mine. Really, is he so rich? I am glad of it, if he is. Money could not be in moregenerous and intelligent hands. Dearest Miss Mitford, you are onlyjust in being trustful of my affection for you. Never do I forget norcease to love you. Write and tell me of your dear self; how you are_exactly_, and whether you have been at Three Mile Cross all thesummer. May God bless you. Robert's regards. Can you read? Love alittle your

 Ever affectionate E. B. B. 

_To Mrs. Jameson_Bagni di Lucca: October 1, [1849]. 

There seems to be a fatality about our letters, dearest friend, onlythe worst fate comes to me! I lose, and you are _near_ losing! And Ishould not have liked you to lose any least proof of my thinking ofyou, lest a worst loss should happen to me as a consequence, evenworse than the loss of your letters; for then, perhaps, and bydegrees, you might leave off thinking of Robert and me, which, richas we are in this mortal world, I do assure you we could neither ofus afford. .. . We have had much quiet enjoyment here in spite ofeverything, read some amusing books (Dumas and Sue--shake your head!), and seen our child grow fuller of roses and understanding day by day. Before he was six months old he would stretch out his hands and hisfeet too, when bidden to do so, and his little mouth to kiss you. Thisis said to be a miracle of forwardness among the learned. He knowsRobert and me quite well as 'Papa' and 'Mama, ' and laughs for joy whenhe meets us out of doors. Robert is very fond of him, and threwme into a fit of hilarity the other day by springing away from hisnewspaper in an indignation against me because he hit his head againstthe floor rolling over and over. 'Oh, Ba, I really can't trust you!'Down Robert was on the carpet in a moment, to protect the precioushead. He takes it to be made of Venetian glass, I am certain. We mayleave this place much sooner than the end of October, as everythingdepends upon the coming in of the cold. It will be the end of October, won't it, before Gerardine can reach Florence? I wish I knew. We havemade an excursion into the mountains, five miles deep, with all ourhousehold, baby and all, on horseback and donkeyback, and people opentheir eyes at our having performed such an exploit--I and the child. Because it is five miles straight up the Duomo; you wonder how anyhorse could keep its footing, the way is so precipitous, up theexhausted torrent courses, and with a palm's breadth between you andthe headlong ravines. Such scenery. Such a congregation of mountains:looking alive in the stormy light we saw them by. We dined with thegoats, and baby lay on my shawl rolling and laughing. He wasn't in theleast tired, not he! I won't say so much for myself. The Mr. Stuartwho lectured here on Shakespeare (I think I told you that) couldn'tget through a lecture without quoting you, and wound up by adeclaration that no English critic had done so much for the divinepoet as a woman--Mrs. Jameson. He appears to be a cultivated andrefined person, and especially versed in German criticism, and we meanto _use_ his society a little when we return to Florence, where heresides. .. . What am I to say about Robert's idleness and mine? Iscold him about it in a most anti-conjugal manner, but, you know, hisspirits and nerves have been shaken of late; we must have patience. As for me, I am much better, and do something, really, now and then. Wait, and you shall have us both on you; too soon, perhaps. May Godbless you. How are your friends? Lady Byron, Madame de Goethe. Thedreadful cholera has made us anxious about England. 

Your ever affectionateBA. 

Mr. Browning adds the following note:

Dear Aunt Nina, --Ba will have told you everything, and how we wishyou and Geddie all manner of happiness. I hope we shall be in Florencewhen she passes through it. The place is otherwise distasteful to me, with the creeping curs and the floggers of the same. But the weatheris breaking up here, and I suppose we ought to go back soon. Shallyou indeed come to Italy next year? That will indeed be pleasantto expect. We hope to go to England in the spring. What comes of'hoping, ' however, we [know] by this time. 

Ever yours affectionately, R. B. 

_To Miss Mitford_Bagni di Lucca: October 2, 1849. 

Thank you, my dearest Miss Mitford: It is great comfort to knowthat you are better, and that the cholera does not approach yourneighbourhood. My brothers and sisters have gone to Worthing for afew weeks; and though my father (dearest Papa!) is not persuadeable, Ifear, into joining them, yet it is something to know that the horriblepestilence is abating in London. Oh, it has made me so anxious: Ihave caught with such a frightened haste at the newspaper to readthe 'returns, ' leaving even such subjects as Rome and the President'sletter to quite the last, as if they were indifferent, or, at most, bits of Mrs. Manning's murder. By the way and talking of murder, howdo you account for the crown of wickedness which England bears justnow over the heads of the nations, in murders of all kinds, by poison, by pistol, by knife? In this poor Tuscany, which has not brains enoughto govern itself, as you observe, and as really I can't deny, therehave been two murders (properly so called) since we came, just threeyears ago, one from jealousy and one from revenge (respectable motivescompared to the advantages of the burying societies!), and the horroron all sides was great, as if the crime were some rare prodigy, which, indeed, it is in this country. We have _no punishment of death_ here, observe! The people are gentle, courteous, refined, and tenderhearted. What Balzac would call 'femmelette. ' All Tuscany is 'Lucien' himself. The leaning to the artistic nature without the strength of geniusimplies demoralisation in most cases, and it is this which makesyour 'good for nothing poets and poetesses, ' about which I love so tobattle with you. Genius, I maintain always, you know, is a purifyingpower and goes with high moral capacities. Well, and so you invite ushome to civilisation and 'the "Times" newspaper. ' We _mean_ to go nextspring, and shall certainly do so unless something happen to catch usand keep us in a net. But always something does happen: and I have sooften built upon seeing England, and been precipitated from the fourthstorey, that I have learnt to think warily now. I hunger and thirstfor the sight of some faces; must I not long, do you think, to seeyour face? And then, I shall be properly proud to show my childto those who loved me before him. He is beginning to understandeverything--chiefly in Italian, of course, as his nurse talks in hersleep, I fancy, and can't be silent a second in the day--and when toldto 'dare un bacio a questo povero Flush, ' he mixes his little facewith Flush's ears in a moment. .. . You would wonder to see Flush justnow. He suffered this summer from the climate somewhat as usual, though not nearly as much as usual; and having been insulted oftenerthan once by a supposition of 'mange, ' Robert wouldn't bear itany longer (he is as fond of Flush as I am), and, taking a pair ofscissors, clipped him all over into the likeness of a lion, muchto his advantage in both health and appearance. In the winter he isalways quite well; but the heat and the fleas together are too muchin the summer. The affection between baby and him is not equal, baby'slove being far the stronger. He, on the other hand, looks down uponbaby. What bad news you tell me of our French writers! What! Is itpossible that Dumas even is struck dumb by the revolution? His firstworks are so incomparably the worst that I can't admit your theory ofthe 'first runnings. ' So of Balzac. So of Sue! George Sand is probablywriting 'banners' for the 'Reds, ' which, considering the state ofparties in France, does not really give me a higher opinion ofher intelligence or virtue. Ledru Rollin's[190] _confidante_ andcouncillor can't occupy an honorable position, and I am sorry, forher sake and ours. When we go to Florence we must try to get the'Portraits' and Lamartine's autobiography, which I still more long tosee. So, two women were in love with him, were they? That must be acomfort to look back upon, now, when nobody will have him. I see byextracts from his newspaper in Galignani that he can't be accused oftemporising with the Socialists any longer, whatever other charge maybe brought against him: and if, as he says, it was he who made theFrench republic, he is by no means irreproachable, having made a badand false thing. The President's letter about Rome[191] has delightedus. A letter worth writing and reading! We read it first in theItalian papers (long before it was printed in Paris), and the amusingthing was that where he speaks of the 'hostile influences' (of thecardinals) they had misprinted it '_orribili_ influenze, ' which musthave turned still colder the blood in the veins of Absolutist readers. The misprint was not corrected until long after--more than a week, Ithink. The Pope is just a pope; and, since you give George Sandcredit for having known it, I am the more vexed that Blackwood (under'orribili influenze') did not publish the poem I wrote two yearsago, [192] in the full glare and burning of the Pope-enthusiasm, whichRobert and I never caught for a moment. Then, _I_ might have passeda little for a prophetess as well as George Sand! Only, to confess atruth, the same poem would have proved how fairly I was taken in byour Tuscan Grand Duke. Oh, the traitor!

I saw the 'Ambarvalia'[193] reviewed somewhere--I fancy in the'Spectator '--and was not much struck by the extracts. They may, however, have been selected without much discrimination, and probablywere. I am very glad that you like the gipsy carol in dear Mr. Kenyon's volume, because it is, and was in MS. , a great favorite ofmine. There are excellent things otherwise, as must be when he saysthem: one of the most radiant of benevolences with one of the mostrefined of intellects! How the paper seems to dwindle as I would faintalk on more. I have performed a great exploit, ridden on a donkeyfive miles deep into the mountains to an almost inaccessible volcanicground not far from the stars. Robert on horseback, and Wilson and thenurse (with baby) on other donkeys; guides, of course. We set off ateight in the morning and returned at six P. M. , after dining on themountain pinnacle, I dreadfully tired, but the child laughing asusual, and burnt Brick-colour for all bad effect. No horse or ass, untrained to the mountains, could have kept foot a moment where wepenetrated, and even as it was one could not help the natural thrill. No road except the bed of exhausted torrents above and through thechestnut forests, and precipitous beyond what you would think possiblefor ascent or descent. Ravines tearing the ground to pieces underyour feet. The scenery, sublime and wonderful, satisfied us wholly, however, as we looked round on the world of innumerable mountainsbound faintly with the grey sea, and not a human habitation. I hopeyou will go to London this winter; it will be good for you, it seemsto me. Take care of yourself, my much and ever loved friend! I loveyou and think of you indeed. Write of your health, remembering this, And your affectionate, E. B. B. 

My husband's regards always. You had better, I think, direct to_Florence_, as we shall be there in the course of October. 

[Footnote 190: Minister of the Interior in the Republic of 1848, andone of the most prominent f the advanced Republican leaders. ]

[Footnote 191: A letter, addressed to a private friend but intendedto be made public, denouncing the reactionary and oppressiveadministration of the restored Pope. ]

[Footnote 192: Probably the first part of _Casa Guidi Windows_. ]

[Footnote 193: By A. H. Clough and T. Burbidge. ]

To Florence, accordingly, they returned in October, and settled downonce more in Casa Guidi for the winter. Mrs. Browning's principalliterary occupation at this time was the preparation of a new editionof her poems, including nearly all the contents of the 'Seraphim'volume of 1838, more or less revised, as well as the 'Poems' of1844. This edition, published in 1850, has formed the basis of allsubsequent editions of her poems. Meanwhile her husband was engagedin the preparation of 'Christmas Eve and Easter Day, ' which was alsopublished in the course of 1850. 

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: December I, 1849. 

My ever loved friend, you will have wondered at this unusual silence;and so will my sisters to whom I wrote just now, after a pause aslittle in my custom. It was not the fault of my head and heart, but ofthis unruly body, which has been laid up again in the way of all fleshof mine. .. . 

I am well again now, only obliged to keep quiet and give up my grandwalking excursions, which poor Robert used to be so boastful of. If heis vain about anything in the world, it is about my improved health, and I used to say to him, 'But you needn't talk so much to people ofhow your wife walked here with you and there with you, as if a wifewith a pair of feet was a miracle of nature. ' Now the poor feet havefallen into their old ways again. Ah, but if God pleases it won't befor long. .. . 

The American authoress, Miss Fuller, with whom we had had some slightintercourse by letter, and who has been at Rome during the siege, asa devoted friend of the republicans and a meritorious attendant onthe hospitals, has taken us by surprise at Florence, retiring from theRoman field with a husband and child above a year old. Nobody had evensuspected a word of this underplot, and her American friends stood inmute astonishment before this apparition of them here. The husband isa Roman marquis, appearing amiable and gentlemanly, and having foughtwell, they say, at the siege, but with no pretension to cope with hiswife on any ground appertaining to the intellect. She talks, and helistens. I always wonder at that species of marriage; but people areso different in their matrimonial ideals that it may answer sometimes. This Mdme. Ossoli saw George Sand in Paris--was at one of hersoirées--and called her 'a magnificent creature. ' The soirée was 'fullof rubbish' in the way of its social composition, which George Sandlikes, _nota bene_. If Mdme. Ossoli called it '_rubbish_' it must havebeen really rubbish--not expressing anything conventionally so--shebeing one of the out and out _Reds_ and scorners of grades of society. She said that she did not see Balzac. Balzac went into the worldscarcely at all, frequenting the lowest cafés, so that it wasdifficult to track him out. Which information I receive doubtingly. The rumours about Balzac with certain parties in Paris are not likelyto be too favorable nor at all reliable, I should fancy; besides, I never entertain disparaging thoughts of my demi-gods unless theyshould be forced upon me by evidence you must know. I have not madea demi-god of Louis Napoleon, by the way--no, and I don't mean it. Iexpect some better final result than he has just proved himself to beof the French Revolution, with all its bitter and cruel consequenceshitherto, so I can't quite agree with you. Only so far, that hehas shown himself up to this point to be an upright man with nobleimpulses, and that I give him much of my sympathy and respect in thedifficult position held by him. A man of genius he does not seem tobe--and what, after all, will he manage to do at Rome? I don't takeup the frantic Republican cry in Italy. I know too well the want ofknowledge and the consequent want of i effective faith and energyamong the Italians; but there is a stain upon France in the presentstate of the Roman affair, and I don't shut my eyes to that either. Tocast Rome helpless and bound into the hands of the priests is dishonorto the actors, however we consider the act; and for the sake ofFrance, even more than for the sake of Italy, I yearn to see the actcancelled. Oh, we have had the sight of Clough and Burbidge, at last. Clough has more thought, Burbidge more music; but I am disappointedin the book on the whole. What I like infinitely better is Clough's'Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich, ' a 'long vacation pastoral, ' written inloose and more-than-need-be unmusical hexameters, but full of vigourand freshness, and with passages and indeed whole scenes of greatbeauty and eloquence. It seems to have been written before the otherpoems. Try to get it, if you have not read it already. I feel certainyou will like it and think all the higher of the poet. Oh, it strikesboth Robert and me as being worth twenty of the other little book, with its fragmentary, dislocated, unartistic character. Arnold'svolume has two good poems in it: 'The Sick King of Bokhara' and 'TheDeserted Merman. ' I like them both. But none of these writersare _artists_, whatever they may be in future days. Have you read'Shirley, ' and is it as good as 'Jane Eyre'? We heard not long sincethat Mr. Chorley had discovered the author, _the_ 'Currer Bell. ' Awoman, most certainly. We hear, too, that three large editions of the'Princess' are sold. So much the happier for England and poetry. 

Dearest dear Miss Mitford, mind you write to me, and don't pay me outin my own silence! _You_ have not been ill, I hope and trust. Writeand tell me every little thing of yourself--how you are, and whetherthere is still danger of your being uprooted from Three Mile Cross. Ilove and think of you always. Fancy Flush being taken in the lightof a rival by baby! Oh, baby was quite jealous the other day, andstrugggled and kicked to get to me because he saw Flush leaning hispretty head on my lap. There's a great strife for privileges betweenthose two. May God bless you! My husband's kind regards always, whileI am your most

AffectionateE. B. B. 

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: January 9, 1850. 

Thank you, ever dearest Miss Mitford, for this welcome letter writtenon your birthday! May the fear of small-pox have passed away longbefore now, and every hope and satisfaction have strengthened andremained!. .. 

May God bless you and give you many happy years, you who can do somuch towards the happiness of others. May I not answer for my own?. .. 

Little Wiedeman began to crawl on Christmas Day. Before, he used toroll. We throw things across the floor and he crawls for them like alittle dog, on all fours. .. . 

He has just caught a cold, which I make more fuss about than I ought, say the wise; but I can't get resigned to the association of any sortof suffering with his laughing dimpled little body--it is the blowingabout in the wind of such a heap of roses. So you prefer 'Shirley' to'Jane Eyre'! Yet I hear from nobody such an opinion; yet you are veryprobably right, for 'Shirley' may suffer from the natural reactionof the public mind. What you tell me of Tennyson interests meas everything about him must. I like to think of him digginggardens--room for cabbage and all. At the same time, what he saysabout the public '_hating_ poetry' is certainly not a word forTennyson. Perhaps no true poet, having claims upon attention _solely_through his poetry, has attained so certain a success with such shortdelay. Instead of being pelted (as nearly every true poet has been), he stands already on a pedestal, and is recognised as a master spiritnot by a coterie but by the great public. Three large editions of the'Princess' have already been sold. If he isn't satisfied after all, Ithink he is wrong. Divine poet as he is, and no laurel being too leafyfor him, yet he must be an unreasonable man, and not understandingof the growth of the laurel trees and the nature of a reading public. With regard to the other garden-digger, dear Mr. Home, I wish as youdo that I could hear something satisfactory of him. I wrote from Luccain the summer, and have no answer. The latest word concerning him isthe announcement in the 'Athenaeum' of a third edition of his 'Gregorythe Seventh, ' which we were glad to see, but very, very glad we shouldbe to have news of his prosperity in the flesh as well as in the_litterae scriptae_. .. . 

I have not been out of doors these two months, but people call me'looking well, ' and a newly married niece of Miss Bayley's, theaccomplished Miss Thomson, who has become the wife of Dr. Emil Braun(the learned German secretary of the Archaeological Society), and justpassed through Florence on her way to Rome, where they are to reside, declared that the change she saw in me was miraculous--'wonderfulindeed. ' I took her to look at Wiedeman in his cradle, fast asleep, and she won my heart (over again, for always she was a favorite ofmine) by exclaiming at his prettiness. Charmed, too, we both werewith Dr. Braun--I mean Robert and I were charmed. He has a mixture offervour and simplicity which is still more delightfully picturesquein his foreign English. Oh, he speaks English perfectly, only with anobvious accent enough. I am sure we should be cordial friends, if thelines had fallen to us in the same pleasant places; but he is fixedat Rome, and we are half afraid of the enervating effects of the Romanclimate on the constitutions of children. Tell me, do you hear oftenfrom Mr. Chorley? It quite pains us to observe from his manner ofwriting the great depression of his spirits. His mother was ill inthe summer, but plainly the sadness does not arise entirely or chieflyfrom this cause. He seems to me over-worked, taxed in the spirit. Iadvise nobody to give up work; but that 'Athenaeum' labour is a sortof treadmill discipline in which there is no progress, nor triumph, and I do wish he would give that up and come out to us with a new setof anvils and hammers. Only, of course, he couldn't do it, even if hewould, while there is illness in his family. May there be a whole sunof success shining on the new play! Robert is engaged on a poem, [194]and I am busy with my edition. So much to correct, I find, and manypoems to add. Plainly 'Jane Eyre' was by a woman. It used to astoundme when sensible people said otherwise. Write to me, will you? I longto hear again. Tell me everything of yourself; accept my husband'strue regards, and think of me as your

Ever affectionateE. B. B. 

[Footnote 194: _Christmas Eve and Easter Day_. ]

_To Miss Browning_Florence: January 29, 1850. 

My dearest Sarianna, --I have waited to thank you for your great andready kindness about the new edition, until now when it is fairly onits way to England. Thank you, thank you! I am only afraid, not thatyou will find anything too 'learned, ' as you suggest, but a good manythings too careless, I was going to say, only Robert, with variousdeep sighs for 'his poor Sarianna, ' devoted himself during severaldays to rearranging my arrangements, and simplifying my complications. It was the old story of Order and Disorder over again. He pulled outthe knotted silks with an indefatigable patience, so that reallyyou will owe to _him_ every moment of ease and facility which may beenjoyable in the course of the work. I am afraid that at the easiestyou will find it a vexatious business, but I throw everything onyour kindness, and am not distrustful on such a point of weights andmeasures. 

Your letter was full of sad news. Robert was deeply affected at theaccount of the illness of his cousin--was in tears before he could endthe letter. I do hope that in a day or two we may hear from you thatthe happy change was confirmed as time passed on. I do hope so; itwill be joy, not merely to Robert, but to me, for indeed I neverforget the office which his kindness performed for both of us at acrisis ripe with all the happiness of my life. 

Then it was sad to hear of your dear father suffering from lumbago. May the last of it have passed away long before you get what I amwriting! Tell him with my love that Wiedeman shall hear some day (ifwe all live) the verses he wrote to him; and I have it in my head thatlittle Wiedeman will be very sensitive to verses and kindness too--helikes to hear anything rhythmical and musical, and he likes tobe petted and kissed--the most affectionate little creature heis--sitting on my knee, while I give him books to turn the leavesover (a favorite amusement), every two minutes he puts up his littlerosebud of a mouth to have a kiss. His cold is quite gone, and he hastaken advantage of the opportunity to grow still fatter; as to hisactivities, there's no end to them. His nurse and I agree that hedoesn't remain quiet a moment in the day. .. . [195]

Now the love of nephews can't bear any more, Sarianna, can it? Onlyyour father will take my part and say that it isn't tedious--beyondpardoning. 

May God bless both of you, and enable you to send a brighter letternext time. Robert will be very anxious. 

Your ever affectionate sisterBA. Mention yourself, _do_. 

[Footnote 195: A long description of the baby's meals and dailyprogramme follows, the substance of which can probably be imagined byconnoisseurs in the subject. ]

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: February 18, 1850. 

Ever dearest Miss Mitford, you _always_ give me pleasure, so forlove's sake don't say that you 'seldom give it, ' and such a magicalact as conjuring up for me the sight of a new poem by AlfredTennyson[196] is unnecessary to prove you a right beneficentenchantress. Thank you, thank you. We are not so unworthy of yourredundant kindness as to abuse it by a word spoken or sign signified. You may trust us indeed. But now you know how free and sincere Iam always! Now tell me. Apart from the fact of this lyric's being afragment of fringe from the great poet's 'singing clothes' (as LeighHunt says somewhere), and apart from a certain sweetness and rise andfall in the rhythm, do you really see much for admiration in the poem?Is it _new_ in, any way? I admire Tennyson with the most worshippingpart of the multitude, as you are aware, but I do _not_ perceive muchin this lyric, which strikes me, and Robert also (who goes with methroughout), as quite inferior to the other lyrical snatches in the'Princess. ' By the way, if he introduces it in the 'Princess, ' itwill be the only _rhymed_ verse in the work. Robert thinks that he wasthinking of the Rhine echoes in writing it, and not of any heard inhis Irish travels. I hear that Tennyson has taken rooms above Mr. Forster's in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and is going to try a London life. So says Mr. Kenyon. .. . I am writing with an easier mind than whenI wrote last, for I was for a little time rendered very unhappy (sounhappy that I couldn't touch on the subject, which is always the waywith me when pain passes a certain point), by hearing accidentallythat papa was unwell and looking altered. My sister persisted inreplying to my anxieties that they were unfounded, that I was quiteabsurd, indeed, in being anxious at all; only people are not generallyreformed from their absurdities through being scolded for them. Now, however, it really appears that the evil has passed. He left hisdoctor who had given him lowering medicines, and, coincidently withthe leaving, he has recovered looks and health altogether. Arabel saysthat I should think he was looking as well as ever, if I saw him, andthat appetite and spirits are even redundant. Thank God. .. . Tohave this good news has made me very happy, and I overflow to youaccordingly. Oh, there is pain enough from that quarter, withouthearing of his being out of health. I write to him continually andhe does not now return my letters, which is a melancholy somethinggained. Now enough of such a subject. 

I certainly don't think that the qualities, half savage and halffreethinking, expressed in 'Jane Eyre' are likely to suit a modelgoverness or schoolmistress; and it amuses me to consider them inthat particular relation. Your account falls like dew upon the parchedcuriosity of some of our friends here, to whom (as mere gossip, whichdid not leave you responsible) I couldn't resist the temptationof communicating it. People _are_ so curious--even here among theRaffaels--about this particular authorship, yet nobody seems to haveread 'Shirley'; we are too slow in getting new books. First Galignanihas to pirate them himself, and then to hand us over the spoils. By the way, there's to be an international copyright, isn't there?Something is talked of it in the 'Athenaeum. ' Meanwhile the Americanshave already reprinted my husband's new edition. 'Landthieves, I meanpirates. ' I used to take that for a slip of the pen in Shakespeare;but it was a slip of the pen into prophecy. Sorry I am at Mrs. ----falling short of your warm-hearted ideas about her! Can you understanda woman's hating a girl because it is not a boy--her first child too?I understand it so little that scarcely I can believe it. Some women_have_, however, undeniably an indifference to children, just as manymen have, though it must be unnatural and morbid in both sexes. Men often affect it--very foolishly, if they count upon the sceniceffects; affectation never succeeds well, and this sort of affectationis peculiarly unbecoming, except in old bachelors, for there is apathetic side to the question so viewed. For my part and my husband's, we may be frank and say that we have caught up our parental pleasureswith a sort of passion. But then, Wiedeman is such a darling littlecreature; who _could_ help loving the child?. .. Little darling! Somuch mischief was not often put before into so small a body. Fancythe child's upsetting the water jugs till he is drenched (which charmshim), pulling the brooms to pieces, and having serious designs uponcutting up his frocks with a pair of scissors. He laughs like an impwhen he can succeed in doing anything wrong. Now, see what you get, inreturn for your kindness of 'liking to hear about' him! Almost I havethe grace to be ashamed a little. Just before I had your letter wesent my new edition to England. I gave much time to the revision, anddid not omit reforming some of the rhymes, although you must considerthat the irregularity of these in a certain degree rather falls inwith my system than falls out through my carelessness. So much theworse, you will say, when a person is _systematically_ bad. The workwill include the best poems of the 'Seraphim' volume, strengthened andimproved as far as the circumstances admitted of. I had not the heartto leave out the wretched sonnet to yourself, for your dear sake; butI rewrote the latter half of it (for really it wasn't a sonnet at all, and 'Una and her lion' are rococo), and so placed it with my otherpoems of the same class. There are some new, verses also. [197] TheMiss Hardings I have seen, and talked with them of _you_, a sure wayof finding them delightful. But, my dearest friend, I shall not seeany of the Trollope party--it is not likely. You can scarcely image toyourself the retired life we live, or how we have retreated fromthe kind advances of the English society here. Now people seem tounderstand that we are to be left alone; that nothing is to be made ofus. The fact is, we are not like our child, who kisses everybody whosmiles at him! Neither my health nor our pecuniary circumstances, norour inclinations perhaps, would admit of our entering into Englishsociety here, which is kept up much after the old English models, witha proper disdain for Continental simplicities of expense. We have justheard from Father Prout, who often, he says, sees Mr. Horne, 'who isas dreamy as ever. ' So glad I am, for I was beginning to be uneasyabout him. He has not answered my letter from Lucca. The verses in the'Athenaeum'[198] are on Sophia Cottrell's child. 

May God bless you, dearest friend. Speak of _yourself_ moreparticularly to your ever affectionate

E. B. B. 

Robert's kindest regards. Tell us of Mr. Chorley's play, do. 

[Footnote 196: Apparently the _Echo-song_ which now precedes cantoiv. Of the _Princess_, though one is surprised at the opinion hereexpressed of it. It will be remembered that this and the other lyricalinterludes did not appear in the original edition of the _Princess_. ]

[Footnote 197: Notably the _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. ]

[Footnote 198: 'A Child's Death at Florence, ' which appeared in the_Athenaeum_ of December 22, 1849. ]

_To Mrs. Martin_Florence: February 22, 1850. 

My dearest Mrs. Martin, --Have you wondered that I did not writebefore? It was not that I did not thank you in my heart for your kind, considerate letter, but I was unconquerably uncomfortable about papa;and, what with the weather, which always has me in its power somehow, and other things, I fell into a dislike of writing, which I hope youdidn't mistake for ingratitude, because it was not in the least likethe same fault. Now the severe weather (such weather for Italy!) hasbroken up, and I am relieved in all ways, having received the mosthappy satisfactory news from Wimpole Street, and the assurance from mysisters that if I were to see papa I should think him looking as wellas ever. He grew impatient with Dr. Elliotson's medicines which, itappears, were of a very lowering character--suddenly gave them up, and as suddenly recovered his looks and all the rest, and everybodyat home considers him to be _quite well_. It has relieved me of amountain's weight, and I thank God with great joy. Oh, you must haveunderstood how natural it was for me to be unhappy under the othercircumstances. But if you thought, dearest friend, that _they_were necessary to induce me to write to him the humblest and mostbeseeching of letters, you do not know how I feel his alienation or myown love for him. I With regard to my brothers, it is quite different, though even towards _them_ I may faithfully say that my affectionhas borne itself higher than my pride. But as to papa, I have nevercontended about the right or the wrong, I have never irritated him byseeming to suppose that his severity to me has been more than justice. I have confined myself simply to a supplication for--his forgivenessof what he called, in his own words, the only fault of my life towardshim, and an expression of the love which even I must feel I for him, whether he forgives me or not. This has been done in letter afterletter, and they are not sent back--it is all. In my last letter, Iventured to ask him to let it be an understood thing that he shouldbefore the world, and to every practical purpose, act out his idea ofjustice by excluding me formally, me and mine, from every advantagehe intended his other children--that, having so been just, he mightafford to be merciful by giving me his forgiveness and affection--allI asked and desired. My husband and I had talked this over again andagain; only it was a difficult thing to say, you see. At last I tookcourage and said it, because, doing it, papa might seem to himself toreconcile his notion of strict justice, and whatever remains of pityand tenderness might still be in his heart towards me, if there areany such. I _know_ he has strong feelings at bottom--otherwise, shouldI love him so?--but he has adopted a bad system, and he (as well as I)is crushed by it. .. . If I were to write to you the political rumourswe hear every day, you would scarcely think our situation improved insafety by the horrible Austrian army. Florence bristles with cannon onall sides, and at the first movement we are promised to be bombarded. On the other hand, if the red republicans get uppermost there will bea universal massacre; not a priest, according to their own profession, will be left alive in Italy. The constitutional party hope they aregaining strength, but the progress which depends on intellectualgrowth must necessarily be slow. That the Papacy has for ever lost itsprestige and power over souls is the only evident truth; bright andstrong enough to cling to. I hear even devout women say: 'This cursedPope! it's all his fault. ' Protestant places of worship are throngedwith Italian faces, and the minister of the Scotch church at Leghornhas been threatened with exclusion from the country if he admitsTuscans to the church communion. Politically speaking, much willdepend upon France, and I have strong hope for France, though it isso strictly the fashion to despair of her. Tell me dear Mr. Martin'simpression and your own--everything is good that comes from you. Butmost _particularly_, tell me how you both are--tell me whether you arestrong again, dearest Mrs. Martin, for indeed I do not like to hear ofyour being in the least like an invalid. Do speak of yourself a littlemore. Do you know, you are very unsatisfactory as a letter-writer whenyou write about yourself--the reason being that you never do writeabout yourself except by the suddenest snatches, when you can'tpossibly help the reference. .. . 

Robert sends his true regards with those of yourGratefully affectionateBA. 

_To Mrs. Jameson_April 2, [1850]. 

You have perhaps thought us ungrateful people, my ever dear friend, for this long delay in thanking you for your beautiful and welcomepresent. [199] Here is the truth. Though we had the books from Romelast month, they were snatched from us by impatient hands before wehad finished the first volume. The books are hungered and thirstedfor in Florence, and, although the English reading club has them, they can't go fast enough from one to another. Four of our friendsentreated us for the reversion, and although it really is onlyjust that we should be let read our own books first, yet Robert'sgenerosity can't resist the need of this person who is 'going away, 'and of that person who is 'so particularly anxious'--for particularreasons perhaps--so we renounce the privilege you gave us (with thepomps of this world) and are still waiting to finish even the firstvolume. Our cultivated friends the Ogilvys, who had the work from usearliest, because they were going to Naples, were charmed with it. Mr. Kirkup the artist, who disputes with Mr. Bezzi the glory of findingDante's portrait--yes, and breathes fire in the dispute--has it now. Madame Ossoli, Margaret Fuller, the American authoress, who broughtfrom the siege of Rome a noble marquis as her husband, asks for it. And your adorer Mr. Stuart, who has lectured upon Shakespeare allthe winter, entreats for it. So when we shall be free to enjoy itthoroughly for ourselves remains doubtful. Robert promises every day, 'You shall have it next, certainly, ' and I only hope you will puthim and me in your next edition of the martyrs, for such a splendidexercise of the gifts of self-renunciation. But don't fancy thatwe have not been delighted with the sight of the books, with yourkindness, and besides with the impressions gathered from a rapidexamination of the qualities of the work. It seems to us in everyway a valuable and most interesting work; it must render itselfa _necessity_ for art students, and general readers and seers ofpictures like me, who carry rather sentiment than science intothe consideration of such subjects. We much admire yourintroduction--excellent in all ways, besides the grace and eloquence. Altogether, the work must set you higher with a high class of thepublic, and I congratulate you on what is the gain of all of us. Robert has begun a little pencil list of trifling criticisms he meansto finish. We both cry aloud at what you say of Guercino's angels, and never would have said if you had been to Fano and seen his divinepicture of the 'Guardian Angel, ' which affects me every time I thinkof it. Our little Wiedeman had his part of pleasure in the book bybeing let look at the engravings. He screamed for joy at the miracleof so many bird-men, and kissed some of them very reverentially, whichis his usual way of expressing admiration. .. . 

Whether you will like Robert's new book I don't know, but I am sureyou will admit the originality and power in it. I wish we had theoption of giving it to you, but Chapman & Hall never seem to thinkof our giving copies away, nor leave them at our disposal. There isnothing _Italian_ in the book; poets are apt to be most present withthe distant. A remark of Wilson's[200] used to strike me as eminentlytrue--that the perfectest descriptive poem (descriptive of ruralscenery) would _be_ naturally produced in a London cellar. I have read'Shirley' lately; it is not equal to 'Jane Eyre' in spontaneousnessand earnestness. I found it heavy, I confess, though in the mechanicalpart of the writing--the compositional _savoir faire_--there is anadvance. Robert has exhumed some French books, just now, from a littlecirculating library which he had not tried, and we have been makingourselves uncomfortable over Balzac's 'Cousin Pons. ' But what awonderful writer he is! Who else could have taken such a subject, outof the lowest mud of humanity, and glorified and consecrated it? He iswonderful--there is not another word for him--profound, as Nature is. S I complain of Florence for the want of books. We have to dig and digbefore we can get anything new, and _I_ can read the newspapers onlythrough Robert's eyes, who only can read them at Vieusseux's in a roomsacred from the foot of woman. And this isn't always satisfactory tome, as whenever he falls into a state of disgust with any political_régime_, he throws the whole subject over and won't read a wordmore about it. Every now and then, for instance, he ignores Francealtogether, and I, who am more tolerant and more curious, find myselfsuspended over an hiatus _(valde deflendus_), and what's to be saidand done? M. Thiers' speech--'Thiers is a rascal; I make a point ofnot reading one word said by M. Thiers. ' M. Prudhon--'Prudhon is amadman; who cares for Prudhon?' The President--'The President's anass; _he_ is not worth thinking of. ' And so we treat of politics. 

I wish you would write to us a little oftener (or rather, a good deal)and tell us much of yourself. It made me very sorry that you shouldbe suffering in the grief of your sister--you whose sympathies are sotender and quick! May it be better with you now! Mention Lady Byron. Ishall be glad to hear that she is stronger notwithstanding this cruelwinter. We have lovely weather here now, and I am quite well and ableto walk out, and little Wiedeman rolls with Flush on the grass ofthe Cascine. Dear kind Wilson is doatingly fond of the child, andsometimes gives it as her serious opinion that 'there never _was_ sucha child before. ' Of course I don't argue the point much. Now, willyou write to us? Speak of your plans particularly when you do. We havetaken this apartment on for another year from May. May God bless you!Robert unites in affectionate thanks and thoughts of all kinds, withyour

E. B. B. --rather, BA. 

This letter has waited some days to be sent away, as you will see bythe date. 

[Footnote 199: Mrs. Jameson's _Legends of the Monastic Orders_, whichhad just been published. ]

[Footnote 200: Presumably _not_ Mrs. Browning's maid, but 'ChristopherNorth. ']

At the end of March 1850, the long-deferred marriage of Mrs. Browning's sister, Henrietta, to Captain Surtees Cook took place. Itis of interest here mainly as illustrating Mr. Barrett's behaviourto his daughters. An application for his consent only elicited thepronouncement, 'If Henrietta marries you, she turns her back on thishouse for ever, ' and a letter to Henrietta herself reproaching herwith the 'insult' she had offered him in asking his consent when shehad evidently made up her mind to the conclusion, and declaringthat, if she married, her name should never again be mentioned in hispresence. The marriage having thereupon taken place, his decision wasforthwith put into practice, and a second child was thenceforward anexile from her father's house. 

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: [end of] April 1850. 

You will have seen in the papers, dearest friend, the marriage of mysister Henrietta, and will have understood why I was longer silentthan usual. Indeed, the event has much moved me, and so much of theemotion was painful--painfulness being inseparable from events of thesort in our family--that I had to make an effort to realise to myselfthe reasonable degree of gladness and satisfaction in her release froma long, anxious, transitional state, and her prospect of happinesswith a man who has loved her constantly and who is of an upright, honest, reliable, and religious mind. Our father's objections were tohis Tractarian opinions and insufficient income. I have no sympathymyself with Tractarian opinions, but I cannot under the circumstancesthink an objection of the kind tenable by a third person, and in truthwe all know that if it had not been this objection, it would have beenanother--there was no escape any way. An engagement of five yearsand an attachment still longer were to have some results; and I can'tregret, or indeed do otherwise than approve from my heart, what shehas done from hers. Most of her friends and relatives have consideredthat there was no choice, and that her step is abundantly justified. At the same time, I thank God that a letter sent to me to ask myadvice never reached me (the _second_ letter of my sisters' lost, since I left them), because no advice _ought_ to be given on anysubject of the kind, and because I, especially, should have shrunkfrom accepting such a responsibility. So I only heard of the marriagethree days before it took place--no, four days before--and was upset, as you may suppose, by the sudden news. Captain Surtees Cook's sisterwas one of the bridesmaids, and his brother performed the ceremony. The _means_ are very small of course--he has not much, and my sisterhas nothing--still it seems to me that they will have enough to liveprudently on, and he looks out for a further appointment. Papa 'willnever again let her name be mentioned in his hearing, ' he _says_, butwe must hope. The dreadful business passed off better on the wholethan poor Arabel expected, and things are going on as quietly asusual in Wimpole Street now. I feel deeply for _her_, who in herpure disinterestedness just pays the price and suffers the loss. She represents herself, however, to be relieved at the crisis beingpassed. I earnestly hope for her sake that we may be able to get toEngland this year--a sight of us will be some comfort. Henrietta is tolive at Taunton for the present, as he has a military situation there, and they are preparing for a round of visits among their many friendswho are anxious to have them previous to their settling. All this, yousee, will throw me back with papa, even if I can be supposed to havegained half a step, and I doubt it. Oh yes, dearest Miss Mitford. Ihave indeed again and again thought of your 'Emily, ' stripping thesituation of 'the favour and prettiness' associated with that heroine. Wiedeman might compete, though, in darlingness with the child, as thepoem shows him. Still, I can accept no omen. My heart sinks when Idwell upon peculiarities difficult to analyse. I love him very deeply. When I write to him, I lay myself at his feet. Even if I had gainedhalf a step (and I doubt it, as I said), see how I must be thrown backby the indisposition to receive others. But I cannot write of thissubject. Let us change it. .. . 

Madame Ossoli sails for America in a few days, with the hope ofreturning to Italy, and indeed I cannot believe that her Roman husbandwill be easily naturalised among the Yankees. A very interestingperson she is, far better than her writings--thoughtful, spiritualin her habitual mode of mind; not only exalted, but _exaltée_ in heropinions, and yet calm in manner. We shall be sorry to lose her. Wehave lost, besides, our friends Mr. And Mrs. Ogilvy, cultivated andrefined people: they occupied the floor above us the last winter, andat the Baths of Lucca and Florence we have seen much of them fora year past. She published some time since a volume of 'ScottishMinstrelsy, ' graceful and flowing, and aspires strenuously towardspoetry; a pretty woman with three pretty children, of quickperceptions and active intelligence and sensibility. They are upright, excellent people in various ways, and it is a loss to us that theyshould have gone to Naples now. Dearest friend, how your letterdelighted me with its happy account of your improved strength. Takecare of yourself, do, to lose no ground. The power of walking mustrefresh your spirits as well as widen your daily pleasures. I am soglad. Thank God. We have heard from Mr. Chorley, who seems to havereceived very partial gratification in respect to his play and yetprepares for more plays, more wrestlings in the same dust. Well, Ican't make it out. A man of his sensitiveness to choose to appeal tothe coarsest side of the public--which, whatever you dramatists maysay, you all certainly do--is incomprehensible to me. Then I cannothelp thinking that he might achieve other sorts of successes moreeasily and surely. Your criticism is very just. But _I_ like his'Music and Manners in Germany' better than anything he has done. Ibelieve I always _did_ like it best, and since coming to Florence Ihave heard cultivated Americans speak of it with enthusiasm, yes, withenthusiasm. 'Pomfret' they would scarcely believe to be by the sameauthor. I agree with you, but it is a pity indeed for him to tiehimself to the wheels of the 'Athenaeum, ' to _approfondir_ the ruts;what other end? And, by the way, the 'Athenaeum, ' since Mr. Dilkeleft it, has grown duller and duller, colder and colder, flatterand flatter. Mr. Dilke was not brilliant, but he was a Brutus incriticism; and though it was his speciality to condemn his mostparticular friends to the hangman, the survivors thought there wassomething grand about it on the whole, and nobody could hold him incontempt. Now it is all different. We have not even 'public virtue' tofasten our admiration to. You will be sure to think I am vexed at thearticle on my husband's new poem. [201] Why, certainly I am vexed! Whowould _not_ be vexed with such misunderstanding and mistaking. DearMr. Chorley writes a letter to appreciate most generously: so you seehow little power he has in the paper to insert an opinion, or stop aninjustice. On the same day came out a burning panegyric of six columnsin the 'Examiner, ' a curious cross-fire. If you read the little book(I wish I could send you a copy, but Chapman & Hall have not offeredus copies, and you will catch sight of it somewhere), I hope you willlike things in it at least. It seems to me full of power. Two hundredcopies went off in the first fortnight, which is a good beginningin these days. So I am to confess to a satisfaction in the Americanpiracies. Well, I confess, then. Only it is rather a complex smilewith which one hears: 'Sir or Madam, we are selling your book at halfprice, as well printed as in England. ' 'Those apples we stole fromyour garden, we sell at a halfpenny, instead of a penny as you do;they are much appreciated. ' Very gratifying indeed. It's worthwhile to rob us, that's plain, and there's something magnificent insupplying a distant market with apples out of one's garden. Still thesmile is complex in its character, and the morality--simple, that'sall I meant to say. A letter from Henrietta and her husband, glowingwith happiness; it makes _me_ happy. She says, 'I wonder if I shall beas happy as you, Ba. ' God grant it. It was signified to her that sheshould at once give up her engagement of five years, or leave thehouse. She married directly. I do not understand how it could beotherwise, indeed. My brothers have been kind and affectionate, I amglad to say; in her case, poor dearest papa does injustice chiefly tohis own nature, by these severities, hard as they seem. Write soon andtalk of yourself to

Ever affectionateBA. 

I am rejoicing in the People's Edition of your work. 'Viva!' (Robert'sbest regards. )

[Footnote 201: The _Athenaeum_ review of _Christmas Eve and EasterDay_, while recognising the beauty of many passages in the two poems, criticised strongly the discussion of theological subjects in 'doggrelverse;' and its analysis of the theology would hardly be satisfactoryto the author. ]

_To Mrs. Jameson_Florence: May 4, [1850], Dearest Friend, --This little note will be given to you by the Mr. Stuart of whom I once told you that he was holding you up to theadmiration of all Florence and the Baths of Lucca as the best Englishcritic of Shakespeare, in his lectures on the great poet. .. . 

Robert bids me say that he wrote you a constrained half-dozen linesby Mr. Henry Greenough, who asked for a letter of introduction to you, while the asker was sitting in the room, and the form of 'dear Mrs. Jameson' couldn't well be escaped from. He loves you as well as ever, you are to understand, through every complication of forms, and youare to love him, and _me_, for I come in as a part of him, if youplease. Did you get my thanks for the dear Petrarch pen (so steeped indouble-distilled memories that it seems scarcely fit to be steeped inink), and our appreciation as well as gratitude for the books--which, indeed, charm us more and more? Robert has been picking up pictures ata few pauls each, 'hole and corner' pictures which the 'dealers' hadnot found out; and the other day he covered himself with glory bydiscovering and seizing on (in a corn shop a mile from Florence) fivepictures among heaps of trash; and one of the best judges in Florence(Mr. Kirkup) throws out such names for them as Cimabue, Ghirlandaio, Giottino, a crucifixion painted on a banner, Giottesque, if notGiotto, but _unique_, or nearly so, on account of the linen material, and a little Virgin by a Byzantine master. The curious thing is thattwo angel pictures, for which he had given a scudo last year, proveto have been each sawn off the sides of the Ghirlandaio, so called, representing the 'Eterno Padre' clothed in a mystical garment andencircled by a rainbow, the various tints of which, together with thescarlet tips of the flying seraphs' wings, are darted down into thesmaller pictures and complete the evidence, line for line. It has beena grand altar-piece, cut to bits. Now come and see for yourself. Wecan't say decidedly yet whether it will be possible or impossible forus to go to England this year, but in any case you must come to seeGerardine and Italy, and we shall manage to catch you by the skirtsthen--so do come. Never mind the rumbling of political thunders, because, even if a storm breaks, you will slip under cover in thesedays easily, whether in France or Italy. I can't make out, for mypart, how anybody can be afraid of such things. 

Will you be among the likers or dislikers, I wonder sometimes, ofRobert's new book? The _faculty_, you will recognise, in all cases; hecan do anything he chooses. I have complained of the _asceticism_ inthe second part, but he said it was 'one side of the question. ' Don'tthink that he has taken to the cilix--indeed he has not--but it is hisway to _see_ things as passionately as other people _feel_ them. .. . 

Chapman & Hall offer us no copies, or you should have had one, ofcourse. So Wordsworth is gone--a great light out of heaven. 

May God bless you, my dear friend!

Love your affectionate and grateful, for so manyreasons, BA. 

The death of Wordsworth on April 23 left the Laureateship vacant, and though there was probably never any likelihood of Mrs. Browning'sbeing invited to succeed him, it is worth noticing that her claimswere advocated by so prominent a paper as the 'Athenaeum, ' which notonly urged that the appointment would be eminently suitable under afemale sovereign, but even expressed its opinion that 'there is noliving poet of either sex who can prefer a higher claim than Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. ' No doubt there would have been a certainappropriateness in the post of Laureate to a Queen being held by apoetess, but the claims of Tennyson to the primacy of English poetrywere rightly regarded as paramount. The fact that in Robert Browningthere was a poet of equal calibre with Tennyson, though of sodifferent a type, seems to have occurred to no one. 

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: June 15, 1850. 

My ever dear Friend, --How it grieves me that you should have beenso unwell again! From what you say about the state of the house, Iconclude that your health suffers from that cause precisely; and thatwhen you are warmly and dryly walled in, you will be less liable tothese attacks, grievous to your friends as to you. Oh, I don't praiseanybody, I assure you, for wishing to entice you to live near them. We come over the Alps for a sunny climate; what should we not do fora moral atmosphere like yours? I dare say you have chosen excellentlyyour new residence, and I hope you will get over the fuss of it withgreat courage, remembering the advantages which it is likely to secureto you. Tell me as much as you can about it all, that I may shift thescene in the right grooves, and be able to imagine you to myself outof Three Mile Cross. You have the local feeling so eminently that Ihave long been resolved on never asking you to migrate. Doveswon't travel with swallows; who should persuade them? This is nomigration--only a shifting from one branch to another. With Readingon one side of you still, you will lose nothing, neither sight norfriend. Oh, do write to me as soon as you can, and say that thedeepening summer has done you good and given you strength; say it, if possible. I shall be very anxious for the next letter. .. . My onlyobjection to Florence is the distance from London, and the expense ofthe journey. One's heart is pulled at through different Englishties and can't get the right rest, and I think we shall movenorthwards--try France a little, after a time. The present year hasbeen full of petty vexation to us about the difficulty of going toEngland, and it becomes more and more doubtful whether we can attainto the means of doing it. There are four of us and the child, yousee, and precisely this year we are restricted in means, as far as ourpresent knowledge goes; but I can't say yet, only I do very muchfear. Nobody will believe our promises, I think, any more, and mypoor Arabel will be in despair, and I shall lose the opportunity of_authenticating_ Wiedeman; for, as Robert says, all our fine storiesabout him will go for nothing, and he will be set down as a shamchild. If not sham, how could human vanity resist the showing him offbodily? That sounds reasonable. .. . 

Certainly you are disinterested about America, and, of course, allof us who have hearts and heads must feel the sympathy of a greaternation to be more precious than a thick purse. Still, it is not justand dignified, this vantage ground of American pirates. Liking theends and motives, one disapproves the means. Yes, even _you_ do; andif I were an American I should dissent with still more emphasis. Itshould be made a point of honour with the nation, if there is nopoint of law against the re publishers. For my own part, I have everypossible reason to thank and love America; she has been very kind tome, and the visits we receive here from delightful and cordial personsof that country have been most gratifying to us. The American ministerat the court of Vienna, with his family, did not pass through Florencethe other day without coming to see us--General Watson Webbe-withan air of moral as well as military command in his brow and eyes. Helooked, and talked too, like one of oar dignities of the Old World. The go-ahead principle didn't seem the least over-strong in him, norlikely to disturb his official balance. What is to happen next inFrance? Do you trust still your President? He is in a hard position, and, if he leaves the Pope where he is, in a dishonored one. As forthe change in the electoral law and the increase of income, I seenothing in either to make an outcry against. There is great injusticeeverywhere and a rankling party-spirit, and to speak the truth and actit appears still more difficult than usual. I was sorry, do you know, to hear of dear Mr. Horne's attempt at Shylock; he is fit for higherthings. Did I tell you how we received and admired his Judas Iscariot?Yes, surely I did. He says that Louis Blanc is a friend of his andmuch with him, speaking with enthusiasm. I should be more sorry athis being involved with the Socialists than with Shylock--still moresorry; for I love liberty so intensely that I hate Socialism. I holdit to be the most desecrating and dishonouring to humanity of allcreeds. I would rather (for _me_) live under the absolutism ofNicholas of Russia than in a Fourier machine, with my individualitysucked out of me by a social air-pump. Oh, if you happen to writeagain to Mrs. Deane, thank her much for her kind anxiety; but, indeed, if I had lost my darling I should not write verses about it. [202] Asfor the Laureateship, it won't be given to _me_, be sure, though thesuggestion has gone the round of the English newspapers--'Galignani'and all--and notwithstanding that most kind and flatteringrecommendation of the 'Athenaeum, ' for which I am sure we shouldbe grateful to Mr. Chorley. I think Leigh Hunt should have theLaureateship. He has condescended to wish for it, and has 'worn hissinging clothes' longer than most of his contemporaries, deservingthe price of long as well as noble service. Whoever has it will be, ofcourse, exempted from Court lays; and the distinction of the title andpension should remain for Spenser's sake, if not for Wordsworth's. Weare very anxious to know about Tennyson's new work, 'In Memoriam. 'Do tell us about it. You are aware that it was written years ago, andrelates to a son of Mr. Hallam, who was Tennyson's intimate friendand the betrothed of his sister. I have heard, through someone who hadseen the MS. , that it is full of beauty and pathos. .. . Dearest, everdear Miss Mitford, speak particularly of your health. May God blessyou, prays

Your ever affectionateE. B. B. Robert's kindest regards. 

[Footnote 202: Referring to the lines entitled _A Child's Grave atFlorence_, which had apparently been misunderstood as implying thedeath of Mrs. Browning's own child. ]

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: July 8, 1850. 

My dearest Miss Mitford, --I this moment have your note; and as apacket of ours is going to England, I snatch up a pen to do what I canwith it in the brief moments between this and post time. I don't waittill it shall be possible to write at length, because I have somethingimmediate to say to you. Your letter is delightful, yet it is notfor _that_ that I rush so upon answering it. Nor even is it for theexcellent news of your consenting, for dear Mr. Chorley's sake, togive us some more of your 'papers, '[203] though 'blessed be the hour, and month, and year' when he set about editing the 'Ladies' Companion'and persuading you to do such a thing. No, what I want to say isstrictly personal to me. You are the kindest, warmest-hearted, mostaffectionate of critics, and precisely as such it is that you havethrown me into a paroxysm of terror. My dearest friend, _for thelove of me_--I don't argue the point with you--but I beseech youhumbly, --kissing the hem of your garment, and by all sacred and tenderrecollections of sympathy between you and me, _don't_ breathe a wordabout any juvenile performance of mine--_don't_, if you have any loveleft for me. Dear friend, 'disinter' anybody or anything you please, but don't disinter _me_, unless you mean the ghost of my vexation tovex you ever after. 'Blessed be she who spares these stones. ' All thesaints know that I have enough to answer for since I came to mymature mind, and that I had difficulty enough in making most of the'Seraphim' volume presentable a little in my new edition, because itwas too ostensible before the public to be caught back; but if thesins of my rawest juvenility are to be thrust upon me--and sins areextant of even twelve or thirteen, or earlier, and I was in print oncewhen I was ten, I think--what is to become of me? I shall groanas loud as Christian did. Dearest Miss Mitford, now forgive thisingratitude which is gratitude all the time. I love you and thank you;but, right or wrong, mind what I say, and let me love and thank youstill more. When you see my new edition you will see that everythingworth a straw I ever wrote is there, and if there were strength inconjuration I would conjure you to pass an act of oblivion on thestubble that remains--if anything does remain, indeed. Now, more thanenough of this. For the rest, I am delighted. I am even so generous asnot to be jealous of Mr. Chorley for prevailing with you when nobodyelse could. I had given it up long ago; I never thought you would stira pen again. By what charm did he prevail? Your series of papers willbe delightful, I do not doubt; though I never could see anything insome of your heroes, American or Irish. Longfellow is a poet; I don'trefer to _him_. Still, whatever you say will be worth hearing, and the_guide_ through 'Pompeii' will be better than many of the ruins. 'ThePleader's Guide' I never heard of before. Praed has written somesweet and tender things. Then I shall like to hear you on Beaumont andFletcher, and Andrew Marvell. 

I have seen nothing of Tennyson's new poem. Do you know if theecho-song is the most popular of his verses? It is only another proofto my mind of the no-worth of popularity. That song would be eminentlysweet for a common writer, but Tennyson has done better, surely; hiseminences are to be seen above. As for the laurel, in a sense he isworthier of it than Leigh Hunt; only Tennyson can wait, that is thesingle difference. 

So anxious I am about your house. Your health seems to me mainlyto depend on your moving, and I do urge your moving; if not there, elsewhere. May God bless you, ever dear friend!

I dare say you will think I have given too much importance to therococo verses you had the goodness to speak of; but I have a horror ofbeing disinterred, there's the truth! Leave the violets to growover me. Because that wretched school-exercise of a version of the'Prometheus' had been named by two or three people, wasn't I at thepains of making a new translation before I left England, so to erase asort of half-visible and half invisible 'Blot on the Scutcheon'? Aftersuch an expenditure of lemon-juice, you will not wonder that I shouldtrouble you with all this talk about nothing. .. . 

I am so delighted that you are to lift up your voice again, and sograteful to Mr. Chorley. 

Ah yes, if we go to Paris we shall draw you. Mr. Chorley shan't haveall the triumphs to himself. 

Not a word more, says Robert, or the post will be missed. God blessyou! Do take care of yourself, and _don't_ stay in that damp house. And do make allowances for love. 

Your ever affectionateBA. 

How glad I shall be if it is true that Tennyson is married! I believein the happiness of marriage, for men especially. 

[Footnote 203: These are the papers subsequently published under thetitle _Recollections of a Literary Life_. Among them was an articleon the Brownings, giving biographical detail with respect to Mrs. Browning's early life, especially as to the loss of her brother, which caused extreme pain to her sensitive nature, as a later lettertestifies. ]

Through the greater part of the summer of 1850 the Brownings held fastin Florence, and it was not until September, when Mrs. Browning wasrecovering from a rather sharp attack of illness, that they took ashort holiday, going for a few weeks to Siena, a place which they wereagain to visit some years later, during the last two summers of Mrs. Browning's life. The letter announcing their arrival is the first inthe present collection addressed to Miss Isa Blagden. Miss Blagden wasa resident in Florence for many years, and was a prominent member ofEnglish society there. Her friendship, not only with Mrs. Browning, but with her husband, was of a very intimate character, and wascontinued after Mrs. Browning's death until the end of her own life in1872. 

_To Miss I. Blagden_Siena: September [1850]. 

Here I am keeping my promise, my dear Miss Blagden. We arrived quitesafely, and I was not too tired to sleep at night, though tired ofcourse, and the baby was a miracle of goodness all the way, onlyinclining once to a _rabbia_ through not being able to get at theelectric telegraph, but in ecstasies otherwise at everything new. Wehad to stay at the inn all night. We heard of a multitude of villas, none of which could be caught in time for the daylight. On Sunday, however, just as we were beginning to give it up, in Robert came withgood news, and we were settled in half an hour afterwards here, asmall house of some seven rooms, two miles from Siena, and situateddelightfully in its own grounds of vineyard and olive ground, not toboast too much of a pretty little square flower-garden. The grapeshang in garlands (too tantalising to Wiedeman) about the walls andbefore them, and, through and over, we have magnificent views of anoble sweep of country, undulating hills and various verdure, and, on one side, the great Maremma extending to the foot of the Romanmountains. Our villa is on a hill called 'poggio dei venti, ' and thewinds give us a turn accordingly at every window. It is delightfullycool, and I have not been able to bear my window open at night sinceour arrival; also we get good milk and bread and eggs and wine, andare not much at a loss for anything. Think of my forgetting to tellyou (Robert would not forgive me for that) how we have a _specola_ orsort of belvedere at the top of the house, which he delights in, andwhich I shall enjoy presently, when I have recovered my taste forclimbing staircases. He carried me up once, but the being carrieddown was so much like being carried down the flue of a chimney, that Iwaive the whole privilege for the future. What is better, to my mind, is the expected fact of being able to get books at Siena--_nearly_ aswell as at Brecker's, really; though Dumas fils seems to fill up manyof the interstices where you think you have found something. _Three_ pauls a month, the subscription is; and for seven, we get a'Galignani, ' or are promised to get it. We pay for our villa ten scudithe month, so that altogether it is not ruinous. The air is as freshas English air, without English dampness and transition; yes, andwe have English lanes with bowery tops of trees, and brambles andblackberries, and not a wall anywhere, except the walls of our villa. 

For my part, I am recovering strength, I hope and believe. CertainlyI can move about from one room to another, without reeling much: butI still look so ghastly, as to 'back recoil, ' perfectly knowing 'Why, 'from everything in the shape of a looking glass. Robert has found anarmchair for me at Siena. To say the truth, my time for enjoying thiscountry life, except the enchanting silence and the look from thewindow, has not come yet: I must wait for a little more strength. Wiedeman's cheeks are beginning to redden already, and he delightsin the pigeons and the pig and the donkey and a great yellow dog andeverything else now; only he would change all your trees (except theapple trees), he says, for the Austrian band at any moment. He israther a town baby. .. . 

Our drawback is, dear Miss Blagden, that we have not room to take youin. So sorry we both are indeed. Write and tell me whether you havedecided about Vallombrosa. I hope we shall see much of you still atFlorence, if not here. We could give you everything here except a bed. 

Robert's kindest regards with those ofYour ever affectionateELIZABETH B. BROWNING. 

My love to Miss Agassiz, whenever you see her. 

_To Miss Mitford_Siena: September 24, 1850. 

To think that it is more than two months since I wrote last to you, mybeloved friend, makes the said two months seem even longer to me thanotherwise they would necessarily be--a slow, heavy two months in everycase, 'with all the weights of care and death hung at them. ' Yourletter reached me when I was confined to my bed, and could scarcelyread it, for all the strength at my heart. .. . As soon as I could bemoved, and before I could walk from one room to another, Dr. Hardinginsisted on the necessity of change of air (for my part, I seemed tomyself more fit to change the world than the air), and Robert carriedme into the railroad like a baby, and off we came here to Siena. Wetook a villa a mile and _a_ half from the town, a villa situated on awindy hill (called 'poggio al vento'), with magnificent views fromall the windows, and set in the midst of its own vineyard and oliveground, apple trees and peach trees, not to speak of a little squareflower-garden, for which we pay _eleven shillings one pennyfarthing the week_; and at the end of these three weeks, our medicalcomforter's prophecy, to which I listened so incredulously, isfulfilled, and I am able to walk a mile, and am really as well as everin all essential respects. .. . Our poor little darling, too (seewhat disasters!), was ill four-and-twenty hours from a species ofsunstroke, and frightened us with a heavy hot head and glassy staringeyes, lying in a half-stupor. Terrible, the silence that fell suddenlyupon the house, without the small pattering feet and the singingvoice. But God spared us; he grew quite well directly and sang louderthan ever. Since we came here his cheeks have turned into roses. .. . 

What still further depressed me during our latter days at Florencewas the dreadful event in America--the loss of our poor friend MadameOssoli, [204] affecting in itself, and also through association withthat past, when the arrowhead of anguish was broken too deeply into mylife ever to be quite drawn out. Robert wanted to keep the newsfrom me till I was stronger, but we live too _close_ for him to keepanything from me, and then I should have known it from the firstletter or visitor, so there was no use trying. The poor Ossolis spentpart of their last evening in Italy with us, he and she and theirchild, and we had a note from her off Gibraltar, speaking of thecaptain's death from smallpox. Afterwards it appears that herchild caught the disease and lay for days between life and death;_recovered_, and then came the final agony. 'Deep called unto deep, 'indeed. Now she is where there is no more grief and 'no more sea;' andnone of the restless in this world, none of the ship-wrecked in heartever seemed to me to want peace more than she did. We saw much of herlast winter; and over a great gulf of differing opinion we both feltdrawn strongly to her. High and pure aspiration she had--yes, and atender woman's heart--and we honoured the truth and courage in her, rare in woman or man. The work she was preparing upon Italy wouldprobably have been more equal to her faculty than anything previouslyproduced by her pen (her other writings being curiously inferior tothe impressions her conversation gave you); indeed, she told me it wasthe only production to which she had given time and labour. But, if rescued, the manuscript would be nothing but the raw material. Ibelieve nothing was finished; nor, if finished, could the workhave been otherwise than deeply coloured by those blood colours ofSocialistic views, which would have drawn the wolves on her, with astill more howling enmity, both in England and America. Therefore itwas better for her to go. Only God and a few friends can be expectedto distinguish between the pure personality of a woman and herprofessed opinions. She was chiefly known in America, I believe, byoral lectures and a connection with the newspaper press, neither ofthem happy means of publicity. Was she happy in anything, I wonder?She told me that she never was. May God have made her happy in herdeath!

Such gloom she had in leaving Italy! So full she was of sadpresentiment! Do you know she gave a _Bible_ as a parting giftfrom her child to ours, writing in it '_In memory of_ Angelo EugeneOssoli'--a strange, prophetical expression? That last evening aprophecy was talked of jestingly--an old prophecy made to poor MarquisOssoli, 'that he should shun the sea, for that it would be fatal tohim. ' I remember how she turned to me smiling and said, 'Our ship iscalled the "Elizabeth, " and I accept the omen. '

Now I am making you almost dull perhaps, and myself certainly duller. Rather let me tell you, dearest Miss Mitford, how delightedly I lookforward to reading whatever you have written or shall write. You write'as well as twenty years ago'! Why, I should think so, indeed. Don't Iknow what your letters are? Haven't I had faith in you always? Haven'tI, in fact, teased you half to death in proof of it? I, who was a sortof Brutus, and oughtn't to have done it, you hinted. Moreover, Robertis a great admirer of yours, as I must have told you before, and hasthe pretension (unjustly though, as I tell _him_) to place you stillhigher among writers than I do, so that we are two in expectancy here. May Mr. Chorley's periodical live a thousand years!

As my 'Seagull' won't, but you will find it in my new edition, and the'Doves' and everything else worth a straw of my writing. Here's afact which you must try to settle with your theories of simplicity andpopularity: _None of these simple poems of mine have been favoriteswith general readers_. The unintelligible ones are always preferred, Iobserve, by extracters, compilers, and ladies and gentlemen who writeto tell me that I'm a muse. The very Corn Law Leaguers in the Northused to leave your 'Seagulls' to fly where they could, and clap handsover mysteries of iniquity. Dearest Miss Mitford--for the rest, don'tmistake what I write to you sometimes--don't fancy that I undervaluesimplicity and think nothing of legitimate fame--I only mean to saythat the vogue which begins with the masses generally comes to nought(Béranger is an exceptional case, from the _form_ of his poems, obviously), while the appreciation beginning with the few always endswith the masses. Wasn't Wordsworth, for instance, both simple andunpopular, when he was most divine? To go to the great from the small, when I complain of the lamentable weakness of much in my 'Seraphim'volume, I don't complain of the 'Seagull' and 'Doves' and the simpleverses, but exactly of the more ambitious ones. I have had to rewritepages upon pages of that volume. Oh, such feeble rhymes, and turns ofthought--such a dingy mistiness! Even Robert couldn't say a word formuch of it. I took great pains with the whole, and made considerableportions new, only your favourites were not touched--not a wordtouched, I think, in the 'Seagull, ' and scarcely a word in the'Doves. ' You won't complain of me a great deal, I do hope and trust. Also I put back your 'little words' into the 'House of Clouds. ' Thetwo volumes are to come out, it appears, at the end of October; notbefore, because Mr. Chapman wished to inaugurate them for his newhouse in Piccadilly. There are some new poems, and one rather longballad written at request of anti-slavery friends in America. [205]I arranged that it should come next to the 'Cry of the Children, ' toappear impartial as to national grievances. .. . 

Oh--Balzac--what a loss! One of the greatest and (most) originalwriters of the age gone from us! To hear this news made Robert and mevery melancholy. Indeed, there seems to be fatality just now with thewriters of France. Soulié, Bernard, gone too; George Sand translatingMazzini; Sue in a socialistical state of decadence--what he meansby writing such trash as the 'Péchés' I really can't make out; onlyAlexandre Dumas keeping his head up gallantly, and he seems to me towrite better than ever. Here is a new book, just published, byJules Sandeau, called 'Sacs et Parchemins'! Have you seen it? Itmiraculously comes to us from the little Siena library. 

We stay in this villa till our month is out, and then we go for a weekinto Siena that I may be nearer the churches and pictures, and seesomething of the cathedral and Sodomas. We calculated that it wascheaper to move our quarters than to have a carriage to and fro, andthen Dr. Harding recommended repeated change of air for me, and he hasproved his ability so much (so kindly too!) that we are bound toact on his opinions as closely as we can. Perhaps we may even go toVolterra afterwards, if the _finances_ will allow of it. If we do, itmay be for another week at farthest, and then we return to Florence. You had better direct there as usual. And do write and tell me much ofyourself, and set _me_ down in your thoughts as quite well, and everyours in warm and grateful affection. 

E. B. B. 

[Footnote 204: Drowned with her husband on their way to America. ]

[Footnote 205: _The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point_. ]

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: November 13, 1850 [postmark]. 

I _meant_ to cross your second letter, and so, my very dear friend, you are a second time a prophetess as to my intentions, while Iam still more grateful than I could have been with the literalfulfilment. Delightful it is to hear from you--do always write whenyou can. And though this second letter speaks of your having beenunwell, still I shall continue to flatter myself that upon the whole'the better part prevails, ' and that if the rains don't wash you awaythis winter, I may have leave to think of you as strengthening and tostrengthen still. Meanwhile you certainly, as you say, have roots toyour feet. Never was anyone so pure as you from the drop of gypseyblood which tingles in my veins and my husband's, and gives us everynow and then a fever for roaming, strong enough to carry us to MountCaucasus if it were not for the healthy state of depletion observablein the purse. I get fond of places, so does he. We both of us grewrather pathetical on leaving our Sienese villa, and shrank fromparting with the pig. But setting out on one's travels has a greatcharm; oh, I should like to be able to pay our way down the Nile, andinto Greece, and into Germany, and into Spain! Every now and thenwe take out the road-books, calculate the expenses, and groan in thespirit when it's proved for the hundredth time that we can't doit. One must have a home, you see, to keep one's books in and one'sspring-sofas in; but the charm of a home is a home _to come back to_. Do you understand? No, not you! You have as much comprehension of thepleasure of 'that sort of thing' as in the peculiar taste of thethree ladies who hung themselves in a French balloon the otherday, operatically _nude_, in order, I conjecture, to the ultimateperfection of French delicacy in morals and manners. .. . 

I long to see your papers, and dare say they are charming. At the sametime, just because they are sure to be charming (and notwithstandingtheir kindness to me, notwithstanding that I live in a glass housemyself, warmed by such rare stoves!) I am a little in fear that yourgenerosity and excess of kindness may run the risk of lowering theideal of poetry in England by lifting above the mark the names of somepoetasters. Do you know, you take up your heart sometimes by mistake, to admire with, when you ought to use it only to love with? and thisis apt to be dangerous, with your reputation and authority in mattersof literature. See how impertinent I am! But we should all take careto teach the world that poetry is a divine thing, should we not? thatis, not mere verse-making, though the verses be pretty in their way. Rather perish every verse _I_ ever wrote, for one, than help to dragdown an inch that standard of poetry which, for the sake of humanityas well as literature, should be kept high. As for simplicity andclearness, did I ever deny that they were excellent qualities? Never, surely. Only, they will not _make_ poetry; and absolutely vain theyare, and indeed all other qualities, without the essential thing, the genius, the inspiration, the insight--let us call it what weplease--without which the most accomplished verse-writers had farbetter write prose, for their own sakes as for the world's--don't youthink so? Which I say, because I sighed aloud over many names in yourlist, and now have taken pertly to write out the sigh at length. Toocharmingly you are sure to have written--and see the danger! But MissFanshawe is well worth your writing of (let me say that I am sensiblewarmly of that) as one of the most witty of our wits in verse, men orwomen. I have only seen manuscript copies of some of her verses, andthat years ago, but they struck me very much; and really I do notremember another female wit worthy to sit beside her, even in Frenchliterature. Motherwell is a true poet. But oh, I don't believe in yourJohn Clares, Thomas Davises, Whittiers, Hallocks--and still less inother names which it would be invidious to name again. How pert I am!But you give me leave to be pert, and you know the meaning of it all, after all. Your editor quarrelled a little with me once, and I withhim, about the 'poetesses of the united empire, ' in whom I couldn't orwouldn't find a poet, though there are extant two volumes of them, andLady Winchilsea at the head. I hold that the writer of the ballad of'Robin Gray' was our first poetess rightly so called, before JoannaBaillie. 

Mr. Lever is in Florence, I believe, now, and was at the Baths ofLucca in the summer. We never see him; it is curious. He made his wayto us with the sunniest of faces and cordialest of manners at Lucca;and I, who am much taken by manner, was quite pleased with him, andwondered how it was that I didn't like his books. Well, he onlywanted to see that we had the right number of eyes and no odd fingers. Robert, in return for his visit, called on him three times, I think, and I left my card on Mrs. Lever. But he never came again--he hadseen enough of us, he could put down in his private diary that we hadneither claw nor tail; and there an end, properly enough. In fact, he lives a different life from ours: he in the ballroom and we in thecave, nothing could be more different; and perhaps there are not manysubjects of common interest between us. I have seen extracts inthe 'Examiner' from Tennyson's 'In Memoriam' which seemed to meexquisitely beautiful and pathetical. Oh, there's a poet, talking ofpoets. Have you read Wordsworth's last work--the legacy? With regardto the elder Miss Jewsbury, do you know, I take Mr. Chorley's partagainst you, because, although I know her only by her writings, thewritings seem to me to imply a certain vigour and originality of mind, by no means ordinary. For instance, the fragments of her letters inhis 'Memorials of Mrs. Hemans' are much superior to any other lettersalmost in the volume--certainly to Mrs. Hemans's own. Isn't this so?And so you talk, you in England, of Prince Albert's 'folly, ' do youreally? Well, among the odd things we lean to in Italy is to an actualbelief in the greatness and importance of the future exhibition. We have actually imagined it to be a noble idea, and you take me bysurprise in speaking of the general distaste to it in England. Isit really possible? For the agriculturists, I am less surprised atcoldness on their part; but do you fancy that the manufacturers andfree-traders are cold too? Is Mr. Chorley against it equally? Yes, Iam glad to hear of Mrs. Butler's success--or Fanny Kemble's, ought Ito say? Our little Wiedeman, who can't speak a word yet, waxes hotterin his ecclesiastical and musical passion. Think of that baby (justcutting his eyeteeth) screaming in the streets till he is taken intothe churches, kneeling on his knees to the first sound of music, andfolding his hands and turning up his eyes in a sort of ecstaticalstate. One scarcely knows how to deal with the sort of thing: it istoo soon for religious controversy. He crosses himself, I assure you. Robert says it is as well to have the eyeteeth and the Puseyisticalcrisis over together. The child is a very curious imaginative child, but too excitable for his age, that's all I complain of . .. God blessyou, my much loved friend. Write to

Your ever affectionateE. B. B. 

What books by Soulié have appeared since his death? Do you remember?I have just got 'Les Enfants de l'Amour, ' by Sue. I suppose he willprove in it the illegitimacy of legitimacy, and _vice versâ_. Sue isin decided decadence, for the rest, since he has taken to illustratingSocialism!

_To Miss I. Blagden_[Florence:] Sunday morning [about 1850]. 

My dear Miss Blagden, --In spite of all your _drawing_ kindness, wefind it impossible to go to you on Monday. We are expecting friendsfrom Rome who will remain only a few days, perhaps, in Florence. Nowit seems to me that you very often pass our door. Do you not too oftenleave the trace of your goodness with me? And would it not be betterof you still, if you would at once make use of us and give us pleasureby pausing here, you and Miss Agassiz, to rest and refresh yourselveswith tea, coffee, or whatever else you may choose? We shall bedelighted to see you always, and don't fancy that I say so out of formor 'tinkling cymbalism. '

Thank you for your intention about the 'Leader. ' Robert and I shalllike much to see anything of John Mill's on the subject of Socialismor any other. By the 'British Review, ' do you mean the _NorthBritish_? I read a clever article in that review some months ago onthe German Socialists, ably embracing in its analysis the fraternityin France, and attributed, I have since heard, to Dr. Hanna, theson-in-law and biographer of Chalmers. Christian Socialists are by nomeans a new sect, the Moravians representing the theory with aslittle offence and absurdity as may be. What is it, after all, but anout-of-door extension of the monastic system? The religious principle, more or less apprehended, may bind men together so, absorbing theirindividualities, and presenting an aim _beyond the world_; but uponmerely human and earthly principles no such system can stand, I feelpersuaded, and I thank God for it. If Fourierism could be realised(which it surely cannot) out of a dream, the destinies of our racewould shrivel up under the unnatural heat, and human nature would, in my mind, be desecrated and dishonored--because I do not believein purification without suffering, in progress without struggle, invirtue without temptation. Least of all do I consider happiness theend of man's life. We look to higher things, have nobler ambitions. 

Also, in every advancement of the world hitherto, the individual hasled the masses. Thus, to elicit individuality has been the object ofthe best political institutions and governments. Now, in these newtheories, the individual is ground down into the multitude, andsociety must be 'moving all together if it moves at all'--restrictingthe very possibility of progress by the use of the lights of genius. Genius is _always individual_. 

Here's a scribble upon grave matters! I ought to be acknowledginginstead your scrupulous honesty, as illustrated by five-franc piecesand Tuscan florins. Make us as useful as you can do, for the future;and please us by coming often. I am afraid your German Baroness couldnot make an arrangement with you, as you do not mention her. Giveour best regards to Miss Agassiz, and accept them yourself, dear MissBlagden, from

Your affectionateELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

_To Mr. Westwood_Florence: Thursday, December 12, 1850. 

My dear Mr. Westwood, --Your book has not reached us yet, and so if Iwaited for that, to write, I might wait longer still. But I don't waitfor that, because you bade me not to do so, and besides we have onlythis moment finished reading 'In Memoriam, ' and it was a sort ofmiracle with us that we got it so soon. .. . 

_December_ 13. --The above sentences were written yesterday, and hardlyhad they been written when your third letter came with its enclosure. How very kind you are to me, and how am I to thank you enough! If youhad not sent me the 'Athenaeum' article I never should have seen itprobably, for my husband only saw it in the reading room, where womendon't penetrate (because in Italy we can't read, you see), and wherethe periodicals are kept so strictly, like Hesperian apples, by thedragons of the place, that none can be stolen away even for half anhour. So he could only wish me to catch sight of that article--and youare good enough to send it and oblige us both exceedingly. For whichkindness thank you, thank you! The favor shown to me in it is extreme, and I am as grateful as I ought to be. Shall I ask the 'Note andQuery' magazine why the 'Athenaeum' does show me so much favor, while, as in a late instance, so little justice is shown to my husband? It'sa problem, like another. As for poetry, I hope to do better thingsin it yet, though I _have_ a child to 'stand in my sunshine, ' as yousuppose he must; but he only makes the sunbeams brighter with hisglistening curls, little darling--and who can complain of that? Youcan't think what a good, sweet, curious, imagining child he is. Halfthe day I do nothing but admire him--there's the truth. He doesn'ttalk yet much, but he gesticulates with extraordinary force ofsymbol, and makes surprising revelations to us every half-hour or so. Meanwhile Flush loses nothing, I assure you. On the contrary, he ishugged and kissed (rather too hard sometimes), and never is permittedto be found fault with by anybody under the new _régime_. If Flush isscolded, Baby cries as matter of course, and he would do admirably fora 'whipping-boy' if that excellent institution were to be revived byYoung England and the Tractarians for the benefit of our deterioratedgenerations. I was ill towards the end of last summer, and we had togo to Siena for the sake of getting strength again, and there we livedin a villa among a sea of little hills, and wrapt up in vineyardsand olive yards, enjoying everything. Much the worst of Italy is, thedrawback about books. Somebody said the other day that we 'sate herelike posterity'--reading books with the gloss off them. But our casein reality is far more dreary, seeing that Prince Posterity will haveglossy books of his own. How exquisite 'In Memoriam' is, how earnestand true; after all, the gloss never can wear off books like that. 

And as to your book, it will come, it will come, and meantime I mayassure you that posterity is very impatient for it. The Italian poemwill be read with the interest which is natural. You know it's amore than doubtful point whether Shakespeare ever saw Italy out ofa vision, yet he and a crowd of inferior writers have written aboutVenice and vineyards as if born to the manner of them. We hear ofCarlyle travelling in France and Germany--but I must leave room forthe words you ask for from a certain hand below. 

Ever dear Mr. Westwood's obliged and faithful

E. B. B. 

And the 'certain hand' will write its best (and far better than anypoor 'Pippa Passes') in recording a feeling which does not pass atall, that of gratitude for all such generous sympathy as dear Mr. Westwood's for E. B. B. And (in his proper degree) R. BROWNING. 

_To Miss Mitford_Florence: December 13, 1850. 

_Did_ I write a scolding letter, dearest Miss Mitford? So much thebetter, when people deserve to be scolded. The worst is, however, that it sometimes does them no sort of good, and that they will siton among the ruins of Carthage, let ever so many messages come fromItaly. My only hope now is, that you will have a mild winter inEngland, as we seem likely to have it here; and that in the spring, by the help of some divine interposition of friends supernaturallyendowed (after the manner of Mr. Chorley), you may be made to go awayinto a house with fast walls and chimneys. Certainly, if you could bemade to _write_, anything else is possible. That's my comfort. Andthe other's my hope, as I said; and so between hope and consolationI needn't scold any more. Let me tell you what I have heard of Mrs. Gaskell, for fear I should forget it later. She is connected bymarriage with Mrs. A. T. Thompson, and from a friend of Mrs. Thompson'sit came to me, and really seems to exonerate Chapman & Hall from thecharge advanced against them. 'Mary Barton' was shown in manuscriptto Mrs. Thompson, and failed to please her; and, in deference to herjudgment, certain alterations were made. Subsequently it was offeredto all or nearly all the publishers in London and rejected. Chapman& Hall accepted and gave a hundred pounds, as you heard, for thecopyright of the work; and though the success did not, perhaps (thatis quite possible), induce any liberality with regard to copies, theygave _another hundred pounds_ upon printing the second edition, andit was not in the bond to do so. I am told that the liberality ofthe proceeding was appreciated by the author and her friendsaccordingly--and there's the end of my story. Two hundred pounds is agood price--isn't it?--for a novel, as times go. Miss Lynn had onlya hundred and fifty for her Egyptian novel, or perhaps for the Greekone. Taking the long run of poetry (if it runs at all), I am halfgiven to think that it pays better than the novel does, in spite ofeverything. Not that we speak out of golden experience; alas, no! Wehave had not a sou from our books for a year past, the booksellersbeing bound of course to cover their own expenses first. Then thisChristmas account has not yet reached us. But the former editions paidus regularly so much a year, and so will the present ones, I hope. Only I was not thinking of _them_, in preferring what may strike youas an extravagant paradox, but of Tennyson's returns from Moxon lastyear, which I understand amounted to five hundred pounds. To besure, 'In Memoriam' was a new success, which should not prevent ourconsidering the fact of a regular income proceeding from the previousbooks. A novel flashes up for a season and does not often outlast it. For 'Mary Barton' I am a little, little disappointed, do you know. Ihave just done reading it. There is power and truth--she can shake andshe can pierce--but I wish half the book away, it is so tediousevery now and then; and besides I want more beauty, more air from theuniversal world--these classbooks must always be defective as worksof art. How could I help being disappointed a little when Mrs. Jamesontold me that 'since the "Bride of Lammermoor, " nothing had appearedequal to "Mary Barton"?' Then the style of the book is slovenly, and given to a kind of phraseology which would be vulgar even ascolloquial English. Oh, it is a powerful book in many ways. You arenot to set me down as hypercritical. Probably the author will, writeherself clear of many of her faults: she has strength enough. As to'In Memoriam, ' I have seen it, I have read it--dear Mr. Kenyon had thegoodness to send it to me by an American traveller--and now I reallydo disagree with you, for the book has gone to my heart and soul;I think it full of deep pathos and beauty. All I wish away isthe marriage hymn at the end, and _that_ for every reason I wishaway--it's a discord in the music. The monotony is a part of theposition--(the sea is monotonous, and so is lasting grief. ) Yourcomplaint is against fate and humanity rather than against the poetTennyson. Who that has suffered has not felt wave after wavebreak dully against one rock, till brain and heart, with all theirradiances, seemed lost in a single shadow? So the effect of the bookis artistic, I think, and indeed I do not wonder at the opinion whichhas reached us from various quarters that Tennyson stands higherthrough having written it. You see, what he appeared to want, according to the view of many, was an earnest personality and directpurpose. In this last book, though of course there is not room in itfor that exercise of creative faculty which elsewhere establishedhis fame, he appeals heart to heart, directly as from his own to theuniversal heart, and we all feel him nearer to us--_I_ do--and sodo others. Have you read a poem called 'the Roman' which was praisedhighly in the 'Athenaeum, ' but did not seem to Robert to justify thepraise in the passages extracted? written by somebody with certainlya _nom de guerre_--Sidney Yendys. Observe, _Yendys_ is _Sidney_reversed. Have you heard anything about it, or seen? The 'Athenaeum'has been gracious to me beyond gratitude almost; nothing could bypossibility be kinder. A friend of mine sent me the article fromBrussels--a Mr. Westwood, who writes poems himself; yes, and poeticalpoems too, written with an odorous, fresh sense of poetry about them. He has not original power, more's the pity: but he has stayed near therose in the 'sweet breath and buddings of the spring, ' and althoughthat won't make anyone live beyond spring-weather, it is theexpression of a sensitive and aspirant nature; and the man isinteresting and amiable--an old correspondent of mine, and kind to mealways. From the little I know of Mr. Bennett, I should say that Mr. Westwood stood much higher in the matter of gifts, though I fearthat neither of them will make way in that particular department ofliterature selected by them for action. Oh, my dearest friend, you maytalk about coteries, but the English society at Florence (from what Ihear of the hum of it at a distance) is worse than any coterie-societyin the world. A coterie, if I understand the thing, is informed by aunity of sentiment, or faith, or prejudice; but this society here isnot informed at all. People come together to gamble or dance, and ifthere's an end, why so much the better; but there's _not_ an endin most cases, by any manner of means, and against every sortof innocence. Mind, I imply nothing about Mr. Lever, who livesirreproachably with his wife and family, rides out with his childrenin a troop of horses to the Cascine, and yet is as social a personas his joyous temperament leads him to be. But we live in a cave, andperadventure he is afraid of the damp of us--who knows? We know veryfew residents in Florence, and these, with chance visitors, chieflyAmericans, are all that keep us from solitude; every now and then inthe evening somebody drops in to tea. Would, indeed, you were near!but should I be satisfied with you 'once a week, ' do you fancy. Ah, you would soon love Robert. You couldn't help it, I am sure. I shouldbe soon turned down to an underplace, and, under the circumstances, would not struggle. Do you remember once telling me that 'all men aretyrants'?--as sweeping an opinion as the Apostle's, that 'all menare liars. ' Well, if you knew Robert you would make an exceptioncertainly. Talking of the artistical English here, somebody told methe other day of a young Cambridge or Oxford man who deducted fromhis researches in Rome and Florence that 'Michael Angelo was a wag. 'Another, after walking through the Florentine galleries, exclaimed toa friend of mine, 'I have seen nothing here equal to those magnificentpictures in Paris by Paul de Kock. ' My friend humbly suggested that hemight mean Paul de la Roche. But see what English you send us forthe most part. We have had one very interesting visitor lately, thegrandson of Goethe. He did us the honour, he said, of spending twodays in Florence on our account, he especially wishing to see Roberton account of some sympathy of view about 'Paracelsus. ' There canscarcely be a more interesting young man--quite young he seems, andfull of aspiration of the purest kind towards the good and true andbeautiful, and not towards the poor laurel crowns attainable fromany possible public. I don't know when I have been so charmed by avisitor, and indeed Robert and I paid him the highest compliment wecould, by wishing, one to another, that our little Wiedeman might belike him some day. I quite agree with you about the church of yourHenry. It surprises me that a child of seven years should findpleasure even once a day in the long English service--too long, according to my doxy, for matured years. As to fanaticism, it dependson a defect of intellect rather than on an excess of the adoringfaculty. The latter cannot, I think, be too fully developed. How Ishall like you to see our Wiedeman! He is a radiant little creature, really, yet he won't talk; he does nothing but gesticulate, onlymaking his will and pleasure wonderfully clear and supreme, I assureyou. He's a tyrant, ready made for your theory. If your book is'better than I expect, ' what will it be? God bless you! Be well, andlove me, and write to me, for I am your ever affectionate

BA. 

_To Mrs. Martin_Florence: January 30, 1851. 

Here I am at last, dearest friend. But you forget how you told me, when you wrote your 'long letter, ' that you were going away into chaossomewhere, and that your address couldn't be known yet. It was thiswhich made me delay the answer to that welcome letter--and to beginto 'put off' is fatal, as perhaps you know. Now forgive me, and I willbehave better in future, indeed. .. . 

I am quite well, and looking well, they say; but the frightfulillness of the autumn left me paler and thinner long after the perfectrecovery. The physician told Robert afterwards that few women wouldhave recovered at all; and when I left Siena I was as able towalk, and as well in every respect as ever, notwithstandingeverything--think, for instance, of my walking to St. Miniato, herein Florence! You remember, perhaps, what that pull is. I dare say youheard from Henrietta how we enjoyed our rustication at Siena. It ispleasant even to look back on it. We were obliged to look narrowlyat the economies, more narrowly than usual; but the cheapness of theplace suited the occasion, and the little villa, like a mere tentamong the vines, charmed us, though the doors didn't shut, and though(on account of the smallness) Robert and I had to whisper all our talkwhenever Wiedeman was asleep. Oh, I wish you were in Italy. I wishyou had come here this winter which has been so mild, and which, withordinary prudence, would certainly have suited dear Mr. Martin. .. . Itried to dissuade the Peytons from making the experiment, through thefear of its not answering. .. . We can't get them into society, yousee, because we are out of it, having struggled to keep out of itwith hands and feet, and partially having succeeded, knowing scarcelyanybody except bringers of letters of introduction, and those chieflyAmericans and not residents in Florence. The other day, however, Mrs. Trollope and her daughter-in-law called on us, and it is settled thatwe are to know them; though Robert had made a sort of vow never tosit in the same room with the author of certain books directed againstliberal institutions and Victor Hugo's poetry. I had a longer battleto fight, on the matter of this vow, than any since my marriage, andhad some scruples at last of taking advantage of the pure goodnesswhich induced him to yield to my wishes; but I _did_, because I hateto seem ungracious and unkind to people; and human beings, besides, are better than their books, than their principles, and even thantheir everyday actions, sometimes. I am always crying out: 'Blessed bethe inconsistency of men. ' Then I thought it probable that, the firstshock of the cold water being over, he would like the proposed newacquaintances very much--and so it turns out. She was very agreeable, and kind, and good-natured, and talked much about _you_, which wasa charm of itself; and we mean to be quite friends, and to lendeach other books, and to forget one another's offences, in print orotherwise. Also, she admits us on her private days; for she has publicdays (dreadful to relate!), and is in the full flood and flow ofFlorentine society. Do write to me, will you? or else I shall setyou down as vexed with me. The state of politics here is dismal. Newspapers put down; Protestant places of worship shut up. It is sobad that it must soon be better. What are you both thinking of the'Papal aggression'?[206] 'Are you frightened? Are you frenzied? For mypart I can't get up much steam about it. The 'Great Insult' was simplya great mistake, the consequence (natural enough) of the Tractarianidiocies as enacted in Italy. 

God bless both of you, dearest and always remembered friends! Robert'sbest regards, he says. 

Your affectionateBA. 

Tell me your thoughts about France. I am so anxious about the crisisthere. [207] We have had a very interesting visit lately from thegrandson of Goethe. 

[Footnote 206: The Papal Bull appointing Roman Catholic bishopsthroughout England was issued on September 24, 1850, and England wasnow in the throes of the anti-papal excitement produced by it. ]

[Footnote 207: "Where Louis Napoleon was engaged in his series ofencroachments on the power of the Assembly and intrigues for theimperial throne. "]

_To Miss Browning_Florence: April 23, 1851 [postmark]. 

My dearest Sarianna, --I do hope that Robert takes his share of theblame in using and abusing you as we have done. It was altogether toobad--shameful--to send that last MS. For you to copy out; and I did, indeed, make a little outcry about it, only he insisted on having itso. Was it very wrong, I wonder? Your kindness and affectionateness Inever doubt of; but if you are not quite strong just now, you might beteased, in spite of your heart, by all that copying work--not pleasantat any time. Well, believe that I thank you, at least gratefully, forwhat you have done. So quickly too! The advertisement at the endof the week proves how you must have worked for me. Thank you, dearSarianna. 

Robert will have told you our schemes, and how we are going to work, and are to love you _near_ for the future, I hope. You, who are wise, will approve of us, I think, for keeping on our Florentine apartment, so as to run no more risk than is necessary in making the Parisexperiment. We shall let the old dear rooms, and make money by them, and keep them to fall back upon, in case we fail at Paris. 'Butwe'll not fail. ' Well, I hope not, though I am very brittle still andsusceptible to climate. Dearest Sarianna, it will do you infinitegood to come over to us every now and then--you want change, absolutechange of scene and air and climate, I am confident; and you neverwill be right till you have had it. We talk, Robert and I, of carryingyou back with us to Rome next year as an English trophy. Meanwhile youwill see Wiedeman, you and dear Mr. Browning. Don't expect to see ababy of Anak, that's all. Robert is always measuring him on the door, and reporting such wonderful growth (some inch a week, I think), thatif you receive his reports you will cry out on beholding the child. Atleast, you'll say: 'How little he must have been to be no larger now. 'You'll fancy he must have begun from a mustard-seed! The fact is, heis small, only full of life and joy to the brim. I am not afraid ofyour not loving him, nor of his not loving you. He has a loving littleheart, I assure you. If anyone pricks a finger with a needle he beginsto cry--he can't bear to see the least living thing hurt. And whenhe loves, it is well. Robert says I must finish, so here ends dearestSarianna's

Ever affectionate sisterBA. 

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