Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Arabel has told me what Miss Harding told her of your being in the act of going through my ‘Seraphim’ for the second time. For the feeling of interest in me which brought this labour upon you, I thank you, my dear friend. What your opinion is, and will be, I am prepared to hear with a good deal of awe. You will certainly not approve of the poem.

  There now! You see I am prepared. Therefore do not keep back one rough word, for friendship’s sake, but be as honest as — you could not help being, without this request.

  If I should live, I shall write (I believe) better poems than ‘The Seraphim;’ which belief will help me to survive the condemnation heavy upon your lips.

  Affectionately yours,

  E.B. BARRETT.

  ‘The Seraphim, and other Poems,’ a duodecimo of 360 pages, at last made its appearance at the end of May. At the time of its publication, English poetry was experiencing one of its periods of ebb between two flood tides of great achievement. Shelley, Keats, Byron, Scott, Coleridge were dead; Wordsworth had ceased to produce poetry of the first order; no fresh inspiration was to be expected from Landor, Southey, Rogers, Campbell, and such other writers of the Georgian era as still were numbered with the living. On the other hand, Tennyson, though already the most remarkable among the younger poets, was still but exercising himself in the studies in language and metrical music by which his consummate art was developed; Browning had published only ‘Pauline,’ ‘Paracelsus,’ and ‘Strafford;’ the other poets who have given distinction to the Victorian age had not begun to write. And between the veterans of the one generation and the young recruits of the next there was a singular want of writers of distinction. There was thus every opportunity for a new poet when Miss Barrett entered the lists with her first volume of acknowledged verse.

  Its reception, on the whole, does credit alike to its own merits and to the critics who reviewed it. It does not contain any of those poems which have proved the most popular among its authoress’s complete works, except ‘Cowper’s Grave;’ but ‘The Seraphim’ was a poem which deserved to attract attention, and among the minor poems were ‘The Poet’s Vow,’ ‘Isobel’s Child,’ ‘The Romaunt of Margret,’ ‘My Doves,’ and ‘The Sea-mew.’ The volume did not suffice to win any wide reputation for Miss Barrett, and no second edition was called for; on the other hand, it was received with more than civility, with genuine cordiality, by several among the reviewers, though they did not fail to note its obvious defects. The ‘Athenaeum’ began its review with the following declaration:

  This is an extraordinary volume — especially welcome as an evidence of female genius and accomplishment — but it is hardly less disappointing than extraordinary. Miss Barrett’s genius is of a high order; active, vigorous, and versatile, but unaccompanied by discriminating taste. A thousand strange and beautiful views flit across her mind, but she cannot look on them with steady gaze; her descriptions, therefore, are often shadowy and indistinct, and her language wanting in the simplicity of unaffected earnestness.

  The ‘Examiner,’ after quoting at length from the preface and ‘The Seraphim,’ continued:

  Who will deny to the writer of such verses as these (and they are not sparingly met with in the volume) the possession of many of the highest qualities of the divine art? We regret to have some restriction to add to an admission we make so gladly. Miss Barrett is indeed a genuine poetess, of no common order; yet is she in danger of being spoiled by over-ambition; and of realising no greater or more final reputation than a hectical one, like Crashaw’s. She has fancy, feeling, imagination, expression; but for want of some just equipoise or other, between the material and spiritual, she aims at flights which have done no good to the strongest, and therefore falls infinitely short, except in such detached passages as we have extracted above, of what a proper exercise of her genius would infallibly reach.... Very various, and in the main beautiful and true, are the minor poems. But the entire volume deserves more than ordinary attention.

  The ‘Atlas,’ another paper whose literary judgments were highly esteemed at that date, was somewhat colder, and dwelt more on the faults of the volume, but added nevertheless that ‘there are occasional passages of great beauty, and full of deep poetical feeling. In ‘The Romaunt of Margret’ it detected the influence of Tennyson — a suggestion which Miss Barrett repudiated rather warmly; and it concluded with the declaration that the authoress ‘possesses a fine poetical temperament, and has given to the public, in this volume, a work of considerable merit.’

  Such were the principal voices among the critical world when Miss Barrett first ventured into its midst; and she might well be satisfied with them. Two years later, the ‘Quarterly Review’ included her name in a review of ‘Modern English Poetesses,’ along with Caroline Norton, ‘V.,’ and others whose names are even less remembered to-day. But though the reviewer speaks of her genius and learning in high terms of admiration, he cannot be said to treat her sympathetically. He objects to the dogmatic positiveness of her prefaces, and protests warmly against her ‘reckless repetition of the name of God’ — a charge which, in another connection, will be found fully and fairly met in one of her later letters. On points of technique he criticises her frequent use of the perfect participle with accented final syllable— ‘kissed,’ ‘bowed,’ and the like — and her fondness for the adverb ‘very;’ both of which mannerisms he charges to the example of Tennyson. He condemns the ‘Prometheus,’ though recognising it as ‘a remarkable performance for a young lady.’ He criticises the subject of ‘The Seraphim,’ ‘from which Milton would have shrunk;’ but adds, ‘We give Miss Barrett, however, the full credit of a lofty purpose, and admit, moreover, that several particular passages in her poem are extremely fine; equally profound in thought and striking in expression.’ He sums up as follows:

  In a word, we consider Miss Barrett to be a woman of undoubted genius and most unusual learning; but that she has indulged her inclination for themes of sublime mystery, not certainly without displaying great power, yet at the expense of that clearness, truth, and proportion, which are essential to beauty; and has most unfortunately fallen into the trammels of a school or manner of writing, which, of all that ever existed — Lycophron, Lucan, and Gongora not forgotten — is most open to the charge of being vitiis imitabile exemplar.

  So much for the reception of ‘The Seraphim’ volume by the outside world. The letters show how it appeared to the authoress herself.

  The first of them deserves a word of special notice, because it is likewise the first in these volumes addressed to Miss Mary Russell Mitford, whose name holds a high and honourable place in the roll of Miss Barrett’s friends. Her own account of the beginning of the friendship should be quoted in any record of Mrs. Browning’s life.

  ‘My first acquaintance with Elizabeth Barrett commenced about fifteen years ago. She was certainly one of the most interesting persons that I had ever seen. Everybody who then saw her said the same; so that it is not merely the impression of my partiality or my enthusiasm. Of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower of dark curls falling on either side of a most expressive face, large tender eyes, richly fringed by dark eyelashes, a smile like a sunbeam, and such a look of youthfulness that I had some difficulty in persuading a friend, in whose carriage we went together to Chiswick, that the translatress of the “Prometheus” of Aeschylus, the authoress of the “Essay on Mind,” was old enough to be introduced into company, in technical language, was ‘out.’ Through the kindness of another invaluable friend, to whom I owe many obligations, but none so great as this, I saw much of her during my stay in town. We met so constantly and so familiarly that, in spite of the difference of age, intimacy ripened into friendship, and after my return into the country we corresponded freely and frequently, her letters being just what letters ought to be — her own talk put upon paper.’

  Miss Barrett’s letters show how warmly she returned this feeling of friendship, which lasted until Miss Mitford’s death in 1855. Of the earlier letters many must hav
e disappeared: for it is evident from Miss Mitford’s just quoted words, and also from many references in her published correspondence, that they were in constant communication during these years of Miss Barrett’s life in London. After her marriage, however, the extant letters are far more frequent, and will be found to fill a considerable place in the later pages of this work.

  To Miss Mitford

  50 Wimpole Street: Thursday [June 1838].

  We thank you gratefully, dearest Miss Mitford. Papa and I and all of us thank you for your more than kindnesses. The extracts were both gladdening and surprising — and the one the more for being the other also. Oh! it was so kind of you, in the midst of your multitude of occupations, to make time (out of love) to send them to us!

  As to the ballad, dearest Miss Mitford, which you and Mr. Kenyon are indulgent enough to like, remember that he passed his criticism over it — before it went to you — and so if you did not find as many obscurities as he did in it, the reason is — his merit and not mine. But don’t believe him — no! — don’t believe even Mr. Kenyon — whenever he says that I am perversely obscure. Unfortunately obscure, not perversely — that is quite a wrong word. And the last time he used it to me (and then, I assure you, another word still worse was with it) I begged him to confine them for the future to his jesting moods. Because, indeed, I am not in the very least degree perverse in this fault of mine, which is my destiny rather than my choice, and comes upon me, I think, just where I would eschew it most. So little has perversity to do with its occurrence, that my fear of it makes me sometimes feel quite nervous and thought-tied in composition....

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

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

  I feel as if I had not said half, and they have come to ask me if I have not said all! My beloved friend, may you be happy in all ways!

  Do write whenever you wish to talk and have no one to talk to nearer you than I am! Indeed, I did not forget Dr. Mitford when I wrote those words, although they look like it.

  Your gratefully affectionate

  E.B. BARRETT.

  To H.S. Boyd

  50 Wimpole Street: Wednesday morning [June 1838].

  My dear Friend, — Do not think me depraved in ingratitude for not sooner thanking you for the pleasure, made so much greater by the surprise, which your note of judgment gave me. The truth is that I have been very unwell, and delayed answering it immediately until the painful physical feeling went away to make room for the pleasurable moral one — and this I fancied it would do every hour, so that I might be able to tell you at ease all that was in my thoughts. The fancy was a vain one. The pain grew worse and worse, and Dr. Chambers has been here for two successive days shaking his head as awfully as if it bore all Jupiter’s ambrosial curls; and is to be here again to-day, but with, I trust, a less grave countenance, inasmuch as the leeches last night did their duty, and I feel much better — God be thanked for the relief. But I am not yet as well as before this attack, and am still confined to my bed — and so you must rather imagine than read what I thought and felt in reading your wonderful note. Of course it pleased me very much, very very much — and, I dare say, would have made me vain by this time, if it had not been for the opportune pain and the sight of Dr. Chambers’s face.

  I sent a copy of my book to Nelly Bordman before I read your suggestion. I knew that her kind feeling for me would interest her in the sight of it.

  Thank you once more, dear Mr. Boyd! May all my critics be gentle after the pattern of your gentleness!

  Believe me, affectionately yours,

  E.B. BARRETT.

  To H.S. Boyd

  50 Wimpole Street: June 17 .

  My dear Friend, — I send you a number of the ‘Atlas’ which you may keep. It is a favorable criticism, certainly — but I confess this of my vanity, that it has not altogether pleased me. You see what it is to be spoilt.

  As to the ‘Athenaeum,’ although I am not conscious of the quaintness and mannerism laid to my charge, and am very sure that I have always written too naturally (that is, too much from the impulse of thought and feeling) to have studied ‘attitudes,’ yet the critic was quite right in stating his opinion, and so am I in being grateful to him for the liberal praise he has otherwise given me. Upon the whole, I like his review better than even the ‘Examiner,’ notwithstanding my being perfectly satisfied with that.

  Thank you for the question about my health. I am very tolerably well — for me: and am said to look better. At the same time I am aware of being always on the verge of an increase of illness — I mean, in a very excitable state — with a pulse that flies off at a word and is only to be caught by digitalis. But I am better — for the present — while the sun shines.

  Thank you besides for your criticisms, which I shall hold in memory, and use whenever I am not particularly obstinate, in all my SUCCEEDING EDITIONS!

  You will smile at that, and so do I.

  Arabel is walking in the Zoological Gardens with the Cliffes — but I think you will see her before long.

  Your affectionate friend,

  E.B. BARRETT.

  Don’t let me forget to mention the Essays. You shall have yours — and Miss Bordman hers — and the delay has not arisen from either forgetfulness or indifference on my part — although I never deny that I don’t like giving the Essay to anybody because I don’t like it. Now that sounds just like ‘a woman’s reason,’ but it isn’t, albeit so reasonable! I meant to say ‘because I don’t like the ESSAY.’

  To H.S. Boyd

  50 Wimpole Street: Thursday, June 21 .

  My dear Friend, — Notwithstanding this silence so ungrateful in appearance, I thank you at last, and very sincerely, for your kind letter. It made me laugh, and amused me — and gratified me besides. Certainly your ‘quality of mercy is not strained.’

  My reason for not writing more immediately is that Arabel has meant, day after day, to go to you, and has had a separate disappointment for every day. She says now, ‘Indeed, I hope to see Mr. Boyd to-morrow.’ But I say that I will not keep this answer of mine to run the risk of another day’s contingencies, and that it shall go, whether she does or not.

  I am better a great deal than I was last week, and have been allowed by Dr. Chambers to come downstairs again, and occupy my old place on the sofa. My health remains, however, in what I cannot help considering myself, and in what, I believe, Dr. Chambers considers, a very precarious state, and my weakness increases, of course, under the remedies which successive attacks render necessary. Dr. Chambers deserves my confidence — and besides the skill with which he has met the different modifications of the complaint, I am grateful to him for a feeling and a sympathy which are certainly rare in such of his profession as have their attention diverted, as his must be, by an immense practice, to fifty objects in a day. But, notwithstanding all, one breath of the east wind undoes whatever he labours to do. It is well to look up and remember that in the eternal reality these second causes are no causes at all.

  Don’t leave this note about for Arabel to see. I am anxious not to alarm
her, or any one of my family: and it may please God to make me as well and strong again as ever. And, indeed, I am twice as well this week as I was last.

  Your affectionate friend, dear Mr. Boyd,

  E.B. BARRETT.

  I have seen an extract from a private letter of Mr. Chorley, editor of the ‘Athenaeum,’ which speaks huge praises of my poems. If he were to say a tithe of them in print, it would be nine times above my expectation!

  To H.S. Boyd

  [June 1838.]

  My dear Friend, — I begged your servant to wait — how long ago I am afraid to think — but certainly I must not make this note very long. I did intend to write to you to-day in any case. Since Saturday I have had my thanks ready at the end of my fingers waiting to slide along to the nib of my pen. Thank you for all your kindness and criticism, which is kindness too — thank you at last. Would that I deserved the praises as well as I do most of the findings-fault — and there is no time now to say more of them. Yet I believe I have something to say, and will find a time to say it in.

  Dr. Chambers has just been here, and does not think me quite as well as usual. The truth is that I was rather excited and tired yesterday by rather too much talking and hearing talking, and suffer for it to-day in my pulse. But I am better on the whole.

  Mr. Cross, the great lion, the insect-making lion, came yesterday with Mr. Kenyon, and afterwards Lady Dacre. She is kind and gentle in her manner. She told me that she had ‘placed my book in the hands of Mr. Bobus Smith, the brother of Sidney Smith, and the best judge in England,’ and that it was to be returned to her on Tuesday. If I should hear the ‘judgment,’ I will tell you, whether you care to hear it or not. There is no other review, as far as I am aware.