Most faithfully yours,
E.B.B.
Am I the first with the great and good news for America and England that Harriet Martineau is better and likely to be better? She told me so herself, and attributes the change to the agency of mesmerism.
To H.S. Boyd
October 4, 1844.
My dearest Mr. Boyd, — ... As to ‘The Lost Bower,’ I am penitent about having caused you so much disturbance. I sometimes fancy that a little varying of the accents, though at the obvious expense of injuring the smoothness of every line considered separately, gives variety of cadence and fuller harmony to the general effect. But I do not question that I deserve a great deal of blame on this point as on others. Many lines in ‘Isobel’s Child’ are very slovenly and weak from a multitude of causes. I hope you will like ‘The Lost Bower’ better when you try it again than you did at first, though I do not, of course, expect that you will not see much to cry out against. The subject of the poem was an actual fact of my childhood.
Oh, and I think I told you, when giving you the history of ‘Lady Geraldine’s Courtship,’ that I wrote the thirteen last pages of it in one day. I ought to have said nineteen pages instead. But don’t tell anybody; only keep the circumstance in your mind when you need it and see the faults. Nobody knows of it except you and Mr. Kenyon and my own family for the reason I told you. I sent off that poem to the press piece-meal, as I never in my life did before with any poem. And since I wrote to you I have heard of Mr. Eagles, one of the first writers in ‘Blackwood’ and a man of very refined taste, adding another name to the many of those who have preferred it to anything in the two volumes. He says that he has read it at least six times aloud to various persons, and calls it a ‘beautiful sui generis drama.’ On which Mr. Kenyon observes that I am ‘ruined for life, and shall be sure never to take pains with any poem again.’
The American edition (did Arabel tell you?) was to be out in New York a week ago, and was to consist of fifteen hundred copies in two volumes, as in England.
She sends you the verses and asks you to make allowances for the delay in doing so. I cannot help believing that if you were better read in Wordsworth you would appreciate him better. Ever since I knew what poetry is, I have believed in him as a great poet, and I do not understand how reasonably there can be a doubt of it. Will you remember that nearly all the first minds of the age have admitted his power (without going to intrinsic evidence), and then say that he can be a mere Grub Street writer? It is not that he is only or chiefly admired by the profanum vulgus, that he is a mere popular and fashionable poet, but that men of genius in this and other countries unite in confessing his genius. And is not this a significant circumstance — significant, at least?...
Believe me, yourself, your affectionate and grateful
ELIBET B.B.
How kind you are, far too kind, about the Cyprus wine; I thank you very much.
To Mrs. Martin
October 5, 1844.
My dearest Mrs. Martin, — ... Well, papa came back from Cornwall just as I came back to my own room, and he was as pleased with his quarry as I was to have the sight again of his face. During his absence, Henrietta had a little polka (which did not bring the house down on its knees), and I had a transparent blind put up in my open window. There is a castle in the blind, and a castle gate-way, and two walks, and several peasants, and groves of trees which rise in excellent harmony with the fall of my green damask curtains — new, since you saw me last. Papa insults me with the analogy of a back window in a confectioner’s shop, but is obviously moved when the sunshine lights up the castle, notwithstanding. And Mr. Kenyon and everybody in the house grow ecstatic rather than otherwise, as they stand in contemplation before it, and tell me (what is obvious without their evidence) that the effect is beautiful, and that the whole room catches a light from it. Well, and then Mr. Kenyon has given me a new table, with a rail round it to consecrate it from Flush’s paws, and large enough to hold all my varieties of vanities.
I had another letter from Miss Martineau the other day, and she says she has a ‘hat of her own, a parasol of her own,’ and that she can ‘walk a mile with ease.’ What do miracles mean? Miracle or not, however, one thing is certain — it is very joyful; and her own sensations on being removed suddenly from the verge of the prospect of a most painful death — a most painful and lingering death — must be strange and overwhelming.
I hope I may hear soon from you that you had much pleasure at Clifton, and some benefit in the air and change, and that dear Mr. Martin and yourself are both as well as possible. Do you take in ‘Punch’? If not, you ought. Mr. Kenyon and I agreed the other day that we should be more willing ‘to take our politics’ from ‘Punch’ than from any other of the newspaper oracles. ‘Punch’ is very generous, and I like him for everything, except for his rough treatment of Louis Philippe, whom I believe to be a great man — for a king. And then, it is well worth fourpence to laugh once a week. I do recommend ‘Punch’ to you. Douglas Jerrold is the editor, I fancy, and he has a troop of ‘wits,’ such as Planché, Titmarsh, and the author of ‘Little Peddlington,’ to support him....
Now I have written enough to tire you, I am sure. May God bless you both! Did you read ‘Coningsby,’ that very able book, without character, story, or specific teaching? It is well worth reading, and worth wondering over. D’Israeli, who is a man of genius, has written, nevertheless, books which will live longer, and move deeper. But everybody should read ‘Coningsby.’ It is a sign of the times. Believe me, my dearest Mrs. Martin,
Your very affectionate
BA.
To John Kenyon
Tuesday, October 8, 1844.
Thank you, my dearest cousin, for your kind little note, which I run the chance of answering by that Wednesday’s post you think you may wait for. So (via your table) I set about writing to you, and the first word, of course, must be an expression of my contentment with the ‘Examiner’ review. Indeed, I am more than contented — delighted with it. I had some dread, vaguely fashioned, about the ‘Examiner’; the very delay looked ominous. And then, I thought to myself, though I did not say, that if Mr. Forster praised the verses on Flush to you, it was just because he had no sympathy for anything else. But it is all the contrary, you see, and I am the more pleased for the want of previous expectation; and I must add that if you were so kind as to be glad of being associated with me by Mr. Forster’s reference, I was so human as to be very very glad of being associated with you by the same. Also you shall criticise ‘Geraldine’ exactly as you like — mind, I don’t think it all so rough as the extracts appear to be, and some variety is attained by that playing at ball with the pause, which causes the apparent roughness — still you shall criticise ‘Geraldine’ exactly as you like. I have a great fancy for writing some day a longer poem of a like class — a poem comprehending the aspect and manners of modern life, and flinching at nothing of the conventional. I think it might be done with good effect. You said once that Tennyson had done it in ‘Locksley Hall,’ and I half agreed with you. But looking at ‘Locksley Hall’ again, I find that not much has been done in that way, noble and passionate and full as the poem is in other ways. But there is no story, no manners, no modern allusion, except in the grand general adjuration to the ‘Mother-age,’ and no approach to the treatment of a conventionality. But Crabbe, as you say, has done it, and Campbell in his ‘Theodore’ in a few touches was near to do it; but Hayley clearly apprehends the species of poem in his ‘Triumphs of Temper’ and ‘Triumphs of Music,’ and so did Miss Seward, who called it the ‘poetical novel.’ Now I do think that a true poetical novel — modern, and on the level of the manners of the day — might be as good a poem as any other, and much more popular besides. Do you not think so?
I had a letter from dear Miss Mitford this morning, with yours, but I can find nothing in it that you will care to hear again. She complains of the vagueness of ‘Coningsby,’ and praises the French writers — a sympathy between us, that last,
which we wear hidden in our sleeves for the sake of propriety. Not a word of coming to London, though I asked. Neither have I heard again from Miss Martineau....
Ever most affectionately and gratefully yours,
E.B.B.
To Mrs. Martin
October 15, 1844.
... Not a word more have I heard from Miss Martineau; and shall not soon, perhaps, as she is commanded not to write, not to read — to do nothing, in fact, except the getting better. I am not, I confess, quite satisfied myself. But she herself appears to be so altogether, and she speaks of ‘symptoms having given way,’ implying a structural change. Yes, I use the common phrase in respect to mesmerism, and think ‘there is something in it.’ Only I think, besides, that, if something, there must be a great deal in it. Clairvoyance has precisely the same evidence as the phenomenon of the trance has, and scientific and philosophical minds are recognising all the phenomena as facts on all sides of us. Mr. Kenyon’s is the best distinction, and the immense quantity of humbug which embroiders the truth over and over, and round and round, makes it needful: ‘I believe in mesmerism, but not in mesmerists.’
We have had no other letter from our Egyptians, but can wait a little longer without losing our patience.
The blind rises in favour, and the ivy would not fall, if it would but live. Alas! I am going to try guano as a last resource. You see, in painting the windows, papa was forced to have it taken down, and the ivy that grows on ruins and oaks is not usually taken down ‘for the nonce.’ I think I shall have a myrtle grove in two or three large pots inside the window. I have a mind to try it.
I heard twice from dear Mr. Kenyon at Dover, where he was detained by the weather, but not since his entrance into France. Which is grand enough word for the French Majesty itself— ‘entrance into France.’ By the way, I do hope you have some sympathy with me in my respect for the King of the French — that right kingly king, Louis Philippe. If France had borne more liberty, he would not have withheld it, and, for the rest, and in all truly royal qualities, he is the noblest king, according to my idea, in Europe — the most royal king in the encouragement of art and literature, and in the honoring of artists and men of letters. Let a young unknown writer accomplish a successful tragedy, and the next day he sits at the king’s table — not in a metaphor, but face to face. See how different the matter is in our court, where the artists are shown up the back stairs, and where no poet (even by the back stairs) can penetrate, unless so fortunate as to be a banker also. What is the use of kings and queens in these days, except to encourage arts and letters? Really I cannot see. Anybody can hunt an otter out of a box — who has nerve enough.
I had a letter from America to-day, and heard that my book was not published there until the fifth of this October. Still, a few copies had preceded the publication, and made way among the critics, and several reviews were in the course of germinating very greenly. Yes, I was delighted with the ‘Examiner,’ and all the more so from having interpreted the long delay of the notice, the gloomiest manner possible. My friends try to persuade me that the book is making some impression, and I am willing enough to be convinced. Thank you for all your kind sympathy, my dear friend.
Now, do write to me soon again! Have you read Dr. Arnold’s Life? I have not, but am very anxious to do so, from the admirable extracts in the ‘Examiner’ of last Saturday, and also from what I hear of it in other quarters. That Dr. Arnold must have been a man, in the largest and noblest sense. May God bless you, both of you! I think of you, dearest Mrs. Martin, much, and remain
Your very affectionate
BA.
To John Kenyon
Saturday, October 29, 1844.
The moral of your letter, my dearest cousin, certainly is that no green herb of a secret will spring up and flourish between you and me.
The loss of Flush was a secret. My aunt’s intention of coming to England (for I know not how to explain what she said to you, but by the supposition of an unfulfilled intention!) was a secret. And Mr. Chorley’s letter to me was a third secret. All turned into light!
For the last, you may well praise me for discretion. The letter he wrote was pleasanter to me than many of the kindnesses (apart from your own) occasioned by my book — and when you asked me once ‘what letters I had received,’ if ever a woman deserved to be canonised for her silence, I did! But the effort was necessary — for he particularly desired that I would not mention to ‘our common friends’ the circumstance of his having written to me; and ‘common friends’ could only stand for ‘Mr. Kenyon and Miss Mitford.’ Of course what you tell me, of his liking the poems better still, is delightful to hear; but he reviewed them in the ‘Athenaeum’ surely! The review we read in the ‘Athenaeum’ was by his hand — could not be mistaken ...
Well; but Flushie! It is too true that he has been lost — lost and won; and true besides that I was a good deal upset by it meo more; and that I found it hard to eat and sleep as usual while he was in the hands of his enemies. It is a secret too. We would not tell papa of it. Papa would have been angry with the unfortunate person who took Flush out without a chain; and would have kicked against the pricks of the necessary bribing of the thief in order to the getting him back. Therefore we didn’t tell papa; and as I had a very bad convenient headache the day my eyes were reddest, I did not see him (except once) till Flush was on the sofa again. As to the thieves, you are very kind to talk daggers at them; and I feel no inclination to say ‘Don’t.’ It is quite too bad and cruel. And think of their exceeding insolence in taking Flush away from this very door, while Arabel was waiting to have the door opened on her return from her walk; and in observing (as they gave him back for six guineas and a half) that they intended to have him again at the earliest opportunity and that then they must have ten guineas! I tell poor Flushie (while he looks very earnestly in my face) that he and I shall be ruined at last, and that I shall have no money to buy him cakes; but the worst is the anxiety! Whether I am particularly silly, or not, I don’t know; they say here, that I am; but it seems to me impossible for anybody who really cares for a dog, to think quietly of his being in the hands of those infamous men. And then I know how poor Flushie must feel it. When he was brought home, he began to cry in his manner, whine, as if his heart was full! It was just what I was inclined to do myself— ‘ and thus was Flushie lost and won.’
But we are both recovered now, thank you; and intend to be very prudent for the future. I am delighted to think of your being in England; it is the next best thing to your being in London. In regard to Miss Martineau, I agree with you word for word; but I cannot overcome an additional horror, which you do not express, or feel probably.
There is an excellent refutation of Puseyism in the ‘Edinburgh Review’ — by whom? and I have been reading besides the admirable paper by Macaulay in the same number. And now I must be done; having resolved to let you hear without a post’s delay. Otherwise I might have American news for you, as I hear that a packet has come in.
My brothers arrived in great spirits at Malta, after a three weeks’ voyage from Gibraltar; and must now be in Egypt, I think and trust.
May God bless you, my dear cousin.
Most affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
To John Kenyan
50 Wimpole Street: November 5, 1844.
Well, but am I really so bad? ‘ Et tu!’ Can you call me careless? Remember all the altering of manuscript and proof — and remember how the obscurities used to fly away before your cloud-compelling, when you were the Jove of the criticisms! That the books (I won’t call them our books when I am speaking of the faults) are remarkable for defects and superfluities of evil, I can see quite as well as another; but then I won’t admit that ‘ it comes’ of my carelessness, and refusing to take pains. On the contrary, my belief is, that very few writers called ‘ correct ‘ who have selected classical models to work from, pay more laborious attention than I do habitually to the forms of thought and expression. ‘ Lady Geraldine ‘
was an exception in her whole history. If I write fast sometimes (and the historical fact is that what has been written fastest, has pleased most), l am not apt to print without consideration. I appeal to Philip sober, if I am! My dearest cousin, do remember! As to the faults, I do not think of defending them, be very sure. My consolation is, that I may try to do better in time, if I may talk of time. The worst fault of all, as far as expression goes (the adjective-substantives, whether in prose or verse, I cannot make up my mind to consider faulty), is that kind of obscurity which is the same thing with inadequate expression. Be very sure — try to be very sure — that I am not obstinate and self-opiniated beyond measure. To you in case, who have done so much for me, and who think of me so more than kindly, I feel it to be both duty and pleasure to defer and yield. Still, you know, we could not, if we were ten years about it, alter down the poems to the terms of all these reviewers. You would not desire it, if it were possible. I do not remember that you suggested any change in the verse on Aeschylus. The critic mistakes my allusion, which was to the fact that in the acting of the Eumenides, when the great tragic poet did actually ‘frown as the gods did,’ women fell down fainting from the benches. I did not refer to the effect of his human countenance ‘during composition.’ But I am very grateful to the reviewer whoever he may be — very — and with need. See how the ‘Sun’ shines in response to ‘Blackwood’ (thank you for sending me that notice), when previously we had had but a wintry rag from the same quarter! No; if I am not spoilt by your kindness, I am not likely to be so by any of these exoteric praises, however beyond what I expected or deserved. And then I am like a bird with one wing broken. Throw it out of the window; and after the first feeling of pleasure in liberty, it falls heavily. I have had moments of great pleasure in hearing whatever good has been thought of the poems; but the feeling of elation is too strong or rather too long for me....
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 160