Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Although you did not find a letter from me on your return to Colwall, I do hope that you found me — viz. my book, which Mr. Burden took charge of, and promised to deliver or see delivered. When you have read it, do let me hear your own and Mr. Martin’s true impression; and whether you think it worse or better than ‘The Seraphim.’ The only review which has yet appeared or had time to appear has been a very kind and cordial one in the ‘Athenaeum.’ ...

  Your ever affectionate

  BA.

  To Mr. Westwood

  August 31, 1844.

  My dear Mr. Westwood, — I send you the manuscript you ask for, and also my certificate that, although I certainly was once a little girl, yet I never in my life had fair hair, or received lessons when you mention. I think a cousin of mine, now dead, may have done it. The ‘Barrett Barrett’ seems to specify my family. I have a little cousin with bright fair hair at this moment who is an Elizabeth Barrett (the subject of my ‘Portrait’), but then she is a ‘Georgiana’ besides, and your friend must refer to times past. My hair is very dark indeed, and always was, as long as I remember, and also I have a friend who makes serious affidavit that I have never changed (except by being rather taller) since I was a year old. Altogether, you cannot make a case of identity out, and I am forced to give up the glory of being so long remembered for my cleverness.

  You do wrong in supposing me inclined to underrate Mr. Melville’s power. He is inclined to High-Churchism, and to such doctrines as apostolical succession, and I, who, am a Dissenter, and a believer in a universal Christianity, recoil from the exclusive doctrine.

  But then, that is not depreciatory of his power and eloquence — surely not.

  E.B.

  To Mr. Chorley

  50 Wimpole Street: Monday.

  [About the end of August 1844.]

  Dear Mr. Chorley, — Kindnesses are more frequent things with me than gladnesses, but I thank you earnestly for both in the letter I have this moment received. You have given me a quick sudden pleasure which goes deeper (I am very sure) than self-love, for it must be something better than vanity that brings the tears so near the eyes. I thank you, dear Mr. Chorley.

  After all, we are not quite strangers. I have had some early encouragement and direction from you, and much earlier (and later) literary pleasures from such of your writings as did not refer to me. I have studied ‘Music and Manners’ under you, and found an excuse for my love of romance-reading from your grateful fancy. Then, as dear Miss Mitford’s friend, you could not help being (however against your will!) a little my acquaintance; and this she daringly promised to make you in reality some day, till I took the fervour for prophecy.

  Altogether I am justified, while I thank you as a stranger, to say one more word as a friend, and that shall be the best word— ‘May God bless you!’ The trials with which He tries us all are different, but our faces may be turned towards the end in cheerfulness, for ‘to the end He has loved us.’ I remain,

  Very faithfully, your obliged

  ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

  You may trust me with the secret of your kindness to me. It shall not go farther.

  To H.S. Boyd

  Monday, September 1, 1844.

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

  Moreover, there will be plenty of counter-irritation to prevent me from growing feverish under your praises. And as a beginning, I hear that the ‘John Bull’ newspaper has cut me up with sanguinary gashes, for the edification of its Sabbath readers. I have not seen it yet, but I hear so. The ‘Drama’ is the particular victim. Do not send for the paper. I will let you have it, if you should wish for it.

  One thing is left to me to say. Arabel told you of a letter I had received from a professional critic, and I am sorry that she should have told you so without binding you to secrecy on the point at the same time. In fact, the writer of the letter begged me not to speak of it, and I took an engagement to him not to speak of it. Now it would be very unpleasant to me, and dishonorable to me, if, after entering into this engagement, the circumstance of the letter should come to be talked about. Of course you will understand that I do not object to your having been informed of the thing, only Arabel should have remembered to ask you not to mention again the name of the critic who wrote to me.

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

  Your ever affectionate

  ELIBET.

  There is no review in the ‘Examiner’ yet, nor any continuation in the ‘Athenaeum.’

  To Mrs. Martin

  September 10, 1844.

  My dearest Mrs. Martin, — I will not lose a post in assuring you that I was not silent because of any disappointment from your previous letter. I could only feel the kindness of that letter, and this was certainly the chief and uppermost feeling at the time of reading it, and since. Your preference of ‘The Seraphim’ one other person besides yourself has acknowledged to me in the same manner, and although I myself — perhaps from the natural leaning to last works, and perhaps from a wise recognition of the complete failure of the poem called ‘The Seraphim ‘ — do disagree with you, yet I can easily forgive you for such a thought, and believe that you see sufficient grounds for entertaining it. More and more I congratulate myself (at any rate) for the decision I came to at the last moment, and in the face of some persuasions, to call the book ‘Poems,’ instead of trusting its responsibility to the ‘Drama,’ by such a title as ‘A Drama of Exile, and Poems.’ It is plain, as I anticipated, that for one person who is ever so little pleased with the ‘Drama,’ fifty at least will like the smaller poems. And perhaps they are right. The longer sustaining of a subject requires, of course, more power, and I may have failed in it altogether.

  Yes, I think I may say that I am satisfied so far with the aspect of things in relation to the book. You see there has scarcely been time yet to give any except a sanguine or despondent judgment — I mean, there is scarcely room yet for forming a very rational inference of what will ultimately be, without the presentiments of hope or fear. The book came out too late in August for any chance of a mention in the September magazines, and at the dead time of year, when the very critics were thinking more of holiday innocence than of their carnivorous instincts. This will not hurt it ultimately, although it might have hurt a novel. The regular critics will come back to it; and in the meantime the newspaper critics are noticing it all round, with more or less admissions to its advantage. The ‘Atlas’ is the best of the newspapers for literary notices; and it spoke graciously on the whole; though I do protest against being violently attached to a ‘school.’ I have faults enough, I know; but it is just to say that they are at least my own. Well, then! It is true that the ‘Westminster Review’ says briefly what is great praise, and promises to take the earliest opportunity of reviewing me ‘at large.’ So that with regard to the critics, there seems to be a good prospect. Then I have had some very pleasant private letters — one from Carlyle; an oath from Miss Martineau to give her whole mind to the work and tell me her free and full opinion, which I have not received yet; an assurance from an acquaintance of Mrs. Jameson that she was much pleased. But the letter which pleased me most was addressed to me by a professional critic, personally unknown to me, who wrote to say that he had traced me up, step by step, ever since I began to print, and that my last volumes were so much better than any preceding them, and were such living books, that they restored to him the impulses of his youth and constrained him to thank me for the pleasant emotions they had excited. I cannot say the name of the writer of this le
tter, because he asked me not to do so, but of course it was very pleasant to read. Now you will not call me vain for speaking of this. I would not speak of it; only I want (you see) to prove to you how faithfully and gratefully I have a trust in your kindness and sympathy. It is certainly the best kindness to speak the truth to me. I have written those poems as well as I could, and I hope to write others better. I have not reached my own ideal; and I cannot expect to have satisfied other people’s expectation. But it is (as I sometimes say) the least ignoble part of me, that I love poetry better than I love my own successes in it.

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

  It is very true, my dearest Mrs. Martin, all that you say about the voyage to Alexandria. And I do not feel the anxiety I thought I should. In fact, I am surprised to feel so little anxiety. Still, when they are at home again, I shall be happier than I am now, that I feel strongly besides.

  What I missed most in your first letter was what I do not miss in the second, the good news of dear Mr. Martin. Both he and you are very vainglorious, I suppose, about O’Connell; but although I was delighted on every account at his late victory, or rather at the late victory of justice and constitutional law, he never was a hero of mine and is not likely to become one. If he had been (by the way) a hero of mine, I should have been quite ashamed of him for being so unequal to his grand position as was demonstrated by the speech from the balcony. Such poetry in the position, and such prose in the speech! He has not the stuff in him of which heroes are made. There is a thread of cotton everywhere crossing the silk....

  With our united love to both of you,

  Ever, dearest Mrs. Martin, most affectionately yours,

  BA.

  To Mrs. Martin

  Wednesday [about September 1844].

  My dearest Mrs. Martin, ... Did I tell you that Miss Martineau had promised and vowed to me to tell me the whole truth with respect to the poems? Her letter did not come until a few days ago, and for a full month after the publication; and I was so fearful of the probable sentence that my hands shook as they broke the seal. But such a pleasant letter! I have been overjoyed with it. She says that her ‘predominant impression is of the originality’ — very pleasant to hear. I must not forget, however, to say that she complains of ‘want of variety’ in the general effect of the drama, and that she ‘likes Lucifer less than anything in the two volumes.’ You see how you have high backers. Still she talks of ‘immense advances,’ which consoles me again. In fact, there is scarcely a word to require consolation in her letter, and what did not please me least — nay, to do myself justice, what put all the rest out of my head for some minutes with joy — is the account she gives of herself. For she is better and likely still to be better; she has recovered appetite and sleep, and lost the most threatening symptoms of disease; she has been out for the first time for four years and a half, lying on the grass flat, she says, with my books open beside her day after day. (That does sound vain of me, but I cannot resist the temptation of writing it!) And the means — the means! Such means you would never divine! It is mesmerism. She is thrown into the magnetic trance twice a day; and the progress is manifest; and the hope for the future clear. Now, what do you both think? Consider what a case it is! No case of a weak-minded woman and a nervous affection; but of the most manlike woman in the three kingdoms — in the best sense of man — a woman gifted with admirable fortitude, as well as exercised in high logic, a woman of sensibility and of imagination certainly, but apt to carry her reason unbent wherever she sets her foot; given to utilitarian philosophy and the habit of logical analysis; and suffering under a disease which has induced change of structure and yielded to no tried remedy! Is it not wonderful, and past expectation? She suggests that I should try the means — but I understand that in cases like mine the remedy has done harm instead of good, by over-exciting the system. But her experience will settle the question of the reality of magnetism with a whole generation of infidels. For my own part, I have long been a believer, in spite of papa. Then I have had very kind letters from Mrs. Jameson, the ‘Ennuyée’ and from Mr. Serjeant Talfourd and some less famous persons. And a poet with a Welsh name wrote to me yesterday to say that he was writing a poem ‘similar to my “Drama of Exile,”’ and begged me to subscribe to it. Now I tell you all this to make you smile, and because some of it will interest you more gravely. It will prove to dear unjust Mr. Martin that I do not distrust your sympathy. How could he think so of me? I am half vexed that he should think so. Indeed — indeed I am not so morbidly vain. Why, if you had told me that the books were without any sort of value in your eyes, do you imagine that I should not have valued you, reverenced you ever after for your truth, so sacred a thing in friendship? I really believe it would have been my predominant feeling. But you proved your truth without trying me so hardly; I had both truth and praise from you, and surely quite enough, and more than enough, as many would think, of the latter.

  My dearest papa left us this morning to go for a few days into Cornwall for the purpose of examining a quarry in which he has bought or is about to buy shares, and he means to strike on for the Land’s End and to see Falmouth before he returns. It depresses me to think of his being away; his presence or the sense of his nearness having so much cheering and soothing influence with me; but it will be an excellent change for him, even if he does not, as he expects, dig an immense fortune out of the quarries....

  Your affectionate and ever obliged

  BA.

  To Cornelius Mathews

  London, 50 Wimpole Street: October 1, 1844.

  My dear Mr. Mathews, — I have just received your note, which, on the principle of single sighs or breaths being wafted from Indies to the poles, arrived quite safely, and I was very glad to have it. I shall fall into monotony if I go on to talk of my continued warm sense of your wonderful kindness to me, a stranger according to the manner of men; and, indeed, I have just this moment been writing a note to a friend two streets away, and calling it ‘wonderful kindness.’ I cannot, however, of course, allow you to run the tether of your impulse and furnish me with the reviews of my books and other things you speak of at your own expense, and I should prefer, if you would have the goodness to give the necessary direction to Messrs. Putnam & Co., that they should send what would interest me to see, together with a note of the pecuniary debt to themselves. I shall like to see the reviews, of course; and that you should have taken the first word of American judgment into your own mouth is a pleasant thought to me, and leaves me grateful. In England I have no reason so far to be otherwise than well pleased. There has not, indeed, been much yet besides newspaper criticisms — except ‘Ainsworth’s Magazine,’ which is benignant! — there has not been time. The monthly reviews give themselves ‘pause’ in such matters to set the plumes of their dignity, and I am rather glad than otherwise not to have the first fruits of their haste. The ‘Atlas,’ the best newspaper for literary reviews, excepting always the ‘Examiner,’ who does not speak yet, is generous to me, and I have reason to be satisfied with others. And our most influential quarterly (after the ‘Edinburgh’ and right ‘Quarterly’), the ‘Westminster Review,’ promises an early paper with passing words of high praise. What vexed me a little in one or two of the journals was an attempt made to fix me in a school, and the calling me a follower of Tennyson for my habit of using compound words, noun-substantives, which I used to do before I knew a page of Tennyson, and adopted from a study of our old English writers, and Greeks and even Germans. The custom is so far from being peculiar to Tennyson, that Shelley and Keats and Leigh Hunt are all redolent of it, and no one can read our old poets without perceiving the leaning of our Saxon to that species of coalition. Then I have had letters of great kindness from ‘Spirits of the Age,’ whose praises are so many crowns, and altogether am far from being out of spirits about the prospect of my work. I am glad, however, that I gave the name of ‘Poems’ to the work instead of admitting
the ‘Drama of Exile’ into the title-page and increasing its responsibility; for one person who likes the ‘Drama,’ ten like the other poems. Both Carlyle and Miss Martineau select as favorite ‘Lady Geraldine’s Courtship,’ which amuses and surprises me somewhat. In that poem I had endeavoured to throw conventionalities (turned asbestos for the nonce) into the fire of poetry, to make them glow and glitter as if they were not dull things. Well, I shall soon hear what you like best — and worst. I wonder if you have been very carnivorous with me! I tremble a little to think of your hereditary claim to an instrument called the tomahawk. Still, I am sure I shall have to think most, ever as now, of your kindness; and truth must be sacred to all of us, whether we have to suffer or be glad by it. As for Mr. Horne, I cannot answer for what he has received or not received. I had one note from him on silver paper (fear of postage having reduced him to a transparency) from Germany, and that is all, and I did not think him in good spirits in what he said of himself. I will tell him what you have the goodness to say, and something, too, on my own part. He has had a hard time of it with his ‘Spirit of the Age;’ the attacks on the book here being bitter in the extreme. Your ‘Democratic’ does not comfort him for the rest, by the way, and, indeed, he is almost past comfort on the subject. I had a letter the other day from Dr. Shelton Mackenzie, whom I do not know personally, but who is about to publish a ‘Living Author Dictionary,’ and who, by some association, talked of the effeminacy of ‘the American poets,’ so I begged him to read your poems on ‘Man’ and prepare an exception to his position. I wish to write more and must not.