Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Can it be true that Mr. Newman has at last joined the Church of Rome? If it is true, it will do much to prove to the most illogical minds the real character of the late movement. It will prove what the point of sight is, as by the drawing of a straight line. Miss Mitford told me that he had lately sent a message to a R. Catholic convert from the English Church, to the effect— ‘you have done a good deed, but not at a right time.’ It can but be a question of time, indeed, to the whole party; at least to such as are logical — and honest.... [Unsigned]

  To John Kenyan

  50 Wimpole Street: November 8, 1844.

  Thank you, my dear dear cousin, for the kind thought of sending me Mr. Eagles’s letter, and most for your own note. You know we both saw that he couldn’t have written the paper in question; we both were poets and prophets by that sign, but I hope he understands that I shall gratefully remember what his intention was. As to his ‘friend’ who told him that I had ‘imitated Tennyson,’ why I can only say and feel that it is very particularly provoking to hear such things said, and that I wish people would find fault with my ‘metre’ in the place of them. In the matter of ‘Geraldine’ I shall not be puffed up. I shall take to mind what you suggest. Of course, if you find it hard to read, it must be my fault. And then the fact of there being a story to a poem will give a factitious merit in the eyes of many critics, which could not be an occasion of vainglory to the consciousness of the most vainglorious of writers. You made me smile by your suggestion about the aptitude of critics aforesaid for courting Lady Geraldines. Certes — however it may be — the poem has had more attention than its due. Oh, and I must tell you that I had a letter the other day from Mr. Westwood (one of my correspondents unknown) referring to ‘Blackwood,’ and observing on the mistake about Goethe. ‘Did you not mean “fell” the verb,’ he said, ‘or do I mistake?’ So, you see, some people in the world did actually understand what I meant. I am eager to prove that possibility sometimes.

  How full of life of mind Mr. Eagles’s letter is. Such letters always bring me to think of Harriet Martineau’s pestilent plan of doing to destruction half of the intellectual life of the world, by suppressing every mental breath breathed through the post office. She was not in a state of clairvoyance when she said such a thing. I have not heard from her, but you observed what the ‘Critic’ said of William Howitt’s being empowered by her to declare the circumstances of her recovery?

  Again and again have I sent for Dr. Arnold’s ‘Life,’ and I do hope to have it to-day. I am certain, by the extracts, besides your opinion, that I shall be delighted with it.

  Why shouldn’t Miss Martineau’s apocalyptic housemaid tell us whether Flush has a soul, and what is its ‘future destination’? As to the fact of his soul, I have long had a strong opinion on it. The ‘grand peut-être,’ to which ‘without revelation’ the human argument is reduced, covers dog-nature with the sweep of its fringes.

  Did you ever read Bulwer’s ‘Eva, or the Unhappy Marriage’? That is a sort of poetical novel, with modern manners inclusive. But Bulwer, although a poet in prose, writes all his rhythmetical compositions somewhat prosaically, providing an instance of that curious difference which exists between the poetical writer and the poet. It is easier to give the instance than the reason, but I suppose the cause of the rhythmetical impotence must lie somewhere in the want of the power of concentration. For is it not true that the most prolix poet is capable of briefer expression than the least prolix prose writer, or am I wrong?...

  Your ever affectionate

  E.B.B.

  To Cornelius Mathews

  50 Wimpole Street: November 14, 1844.

  My dear Mr. Mathews, — I write to tell you — only that there is nothing to tell — only in guard of my gratitude, lest you should come to think all manner of evil of me and of my supposed propensity to let everything pass like Mr. Horne’s copies of the American edition of his work, sub silentio. Therefore I must write, and you are to please to understand that I have not up to this moment received either letter or book by the packet of October 10 which was charged, according to your intimation, with so much. I, being quite out of patience and out of breath with expectation, have repeatedly sent to Mr. Putnam, and he replies with undisturbed politeness that the ship has come in, and that his part and lot in her, together with mine, remain at the disposal of the Custom-house officers, and may remain some time longer. So you see how it is. I am waiting — simply waiting, and it is better to let you know that I am not forgetting instead.

  In the meantime, your kindness will be glad to learn of the prosperity of my poems in my own country. I am more than satisfied in my most sanguine hope for them, and a little surprised besides. The critics have been good to me. ‘Blackwood’ and ‘Tait’ have this month both been generous, and the ‘New Monthly’ and ‘Ainsworth’s Magazine’ did what they could. Then I have the ‘Examiner’ in my favor, and such heads and hearts as are better and purer than the purely critical, and I am very glad altogether, and very grateful, and hope to live long enough to acknowledge, if not to justify, much unexpected kindness. Of course, some hard criticism is mixed with the liberal sympathy, as you will see in ‘Blackwood,’ but some of it I deserve, even in my own eyes; and all of it I am willing to be patient under. The strange thing is, that without a single personal friend among these critics, they should have expended on me so much ‘gentillesse,’ and this strangeness I feel very sensitively. Mr. Horne has not returned to England yet, and in a letter which I received from him some fortnight ago he desired to have my book sent to him to Germany, just as if he never meant to return to England again. I answered his sayings, and reiterated, in a way that would make you smile, my information about your having sent the American copies to him. I made my oyez very plain and articulate. He won’t say again that he never heard of it — be sure of that. Well, and then Mr. Browning is not in England either, so that whatever you send for him must await his return from the east or the west or the south, wherever he is. The new spirit of the age is a wandering spirit. Mr. Dickens is in Italy. Even Miss Mitford talks of going to France, which is an extreme case for her. Do you never feel inclined to flash across the Atlantic to us, or can you really remain still in one place?

  I must not forget to assure you, dear Mr. Mathews, as I may conscientiously do, even before I have looked into or received the ‘Democratic Review,’ that whatever fault you may find with me, my strongest feeling on reading your article will or must be the sense of your kindness. Of course I do not expect, nor should I wish, that your personal interest in me (proved in so many ways) would destroy your critical faculty in regard to me. Such an expectation, if I had entertained it, would have been scarcely honorable to either of us, and I may assure you that I never did entertain it. No; be at rest about the article. It is not likely that I shall think it ‘inadequate.’ And I may as well mention in connection with it that before you spoke of reviewing me I (in my despair of Mr. Horne’s absence, and my impotency to assist your book) had thrown into my desk, to watch for some opportunity of publication, a review of your ‘Poems on Man,’ from my own hand, and that I am still waiting and considering and taking courage before I send it to some current periodical. There is a difficulty — there is a feeling of shyness on my part, because, as I told you, I have no personal friend or introduction among the pressmen or the critics, and because the ‘Athenaeum,’ which I should otherwise turn to first, has already treated of your work, and would not, of course, consent to reconsider an expressed opinion. Well, I shall do it somewhere. Forgive me the appearance of my impotency under a general aspect.

  Ah, you cannot guess at the estate of poetry in the eyes of even such poetical English publishers as Mr. Moxon, who can write sonnets himself. Poetry is in their eyes just a desperate speculation. A poet must have tried his public before he tries the publisher — that is, before he expects the publisher to run a risk for him. But I will make any effort you like to suggest for any work of yours; I only tell you how things are. By the way,
if I ever told you that Tennyson was ill, I may as rightly tell you now that he is well, again, or was when I last heard of him. I do not know him personally. Also Harriet Martineau can walk five miles a day with ease, and believes in mesmerism with all her strength. Mr. Putnam had the goodness to write and open his reading room to me, who am in prison instead in mine.

  May God bless you. Do let me hear from you soon, and believe me ever your friend,

  E.B. BARRETT.

  To Mrs. Martin

  November 16, 1844.

  My dearest Mrs. Martin, ... To-day I perceive in the ‘contents’ of the new ‘Westminster Review’ that my poems are reviewed in it, and I hope that you will both be interested enough in my fortunes to read at the library what may be said of them. Did George tell you that he imagined (as I also did) the ‘Blackwood’ paper to be by Mr. Phillimore the barrister? Well, Mr. Phillimore denies it altogether, has in fact quarrelled with Christopher North, and writes no more for him, so that I am quite at a loss now where to carry my gratitude.

  Do write to me soon. I hear that everybody should read Dr. Arnold’s ‘Life.’ Do you know also ‘Eō then,’ a work of genius? You have read, perhaps, Hewitt’s ‘Visits to Remarkable Places’ in the first series and second; and Mrs. Jameson’s ‘Visits and Sketches’ and ‘Life in Mexico.’ Do you know the ‘Santa Fé Expedition,’ and Custine’s ‘Russia,’ and ‘Forest Life’ by Mrs. Clavers? You will think that my associative process is in a most disorderly state, by all this running up and down the stairs of all sorts of subjects, in the naming of books. I would write a list, more as a list should be written, if I could see my way better, and this will do for a beginning in any case. You do not like romances, I believe, as I do, and then nearly every romance now-a-days sets about pulling the joints of one’s heart and soul out, as a process of course. ‘Ellen Middleton’ (which I have not read yet) is said to be very painful. Do you know Leigh Hunt’s exquisite essays called ‘The Indicator and Companion’ &c., published by Moxon? I hold them at once in delight and reverence. May God bless you both.

  I am ever your affectionate

  BA.

  To Mrs. Martin

  50 Wimpole Street:

  Tuesday, November 26, 1844 [postmark].

  My dearest Mrs. Martin, — I thank you much for your little notes; and you know too well how my sympathy answers you, ‘as face to face in a glass,’ for me to assure you of it here. Your account of yourselves altogether I take to be satisfactory, because I never expected anybody to gain strength very rapidly while in the actual endurance of hard medical discipline. I am glad you have found out a trustworthy adviser at Dover, but I feel nevertheless that you may both trust and hope in Dr. Bright, of whom I heard the very highest praises the other day....

  Now really I don’t know why I should fancy you to be so deeply interested in Dr. Bright, that all this detail should be necessary. What I do want you to be interested in, is in Miss Martineau’s mesmeric experience, for a copy of which, in the last ‘Athenaeum,’ I have sent ever since yesterday, in the intention of sending it to you. You will admit it to be curious as philosophy, and beautiful as composition; for the rest, I will not answer. Believing in mesmerism as an agency, I hesitate to assent to the necessary connection between Miss Martineau’s cure and the power; and also I am of opinion that unbelievers will not very generally become converts through her representations. There is a tone of exaltation which will be observed upon, and one or two sentences are suggestive to scepticism. I will send it to you when I get the number. I understand that an intimate friend of hers (a lady) travelled down from the south of England to Tynemouth, simply to try to prevent the public exposition, but could not prevail. Mr. Milnes has, besides, been her visitor. He is fully a believer, she says, and affirms to having seen the same phenomena in the East, but regards the whole subject with horror. This still appears to be Mrs. Jameson’s feeling, as you know it is mine. Mrs. Jameson came again to this door with a note, and overcoming by kindness, was let in on Saturday last; and sate with me for nearly an hour, and so ran into what my sisters call ‘one of my sudden intimacies’ that there was an embrace for a farewell. Of course she won my affections through my vanity (Mr. Martin will be sure to say, so I hasten to anticipate him) and by exaggerations about my poetry; but really, and although my heart beat itself almost to pieces for fear of seeing her as she walked upstairs, I do think I should have liked her without the flattery. She is very light — has the lightest of eyes, the lightest of complexions; no eyebrows, and what looked to me like very pale red hair, and thin lips of no colour at all. But with all this indecision of exterior the expression is rather acute than soft; and the conversation in its principal characteristics, analytical and examinative; throwing out no thought which is not as clear as glass — critical, in fact, in somewhat of an austere sense. I use ‘austere,’ of course, in its intellectual relation, for nothing in the world could be kinder, or more graciously kind, than her whole manner and words were to me. She is coming again in two or three days, she says. Yes, and she said of Miss Martineau’s paper in the ‘Athenaeum,’ that she very much doubted the wisdom of publishing it now; and that for the public’s sake, if not for her own, Miss M. should have waited till the excitement of recovered health had a little subsided. She said of mesmerism altogether that she was inclined to believe it, but had not finally made up her convictions. She used words so exactly like some I have used myself that I must repeat them, ‘that if there was anything in it, there was so much, it became scarcely possible to limit consequences, and the subject grew awful to contemplate.’ ...

  On Saturday I had some copies of my American edition, which dazzle the English one; and one or two reviews, transatlantically transcendental in ‘oilie flatterie.’ And I heard yesterday from the English publisher Moxon, and he was ‘happy to tell me that the work was selling very well,’ and this without an inquiry on my part. To say the truth, I was afraid to inquire. It is good news altogether. The ‘Westminster Review’ won’t be out till next month.

  Wordsworth is so excited about the railroad that his wife persuaded him to go away to recover his serenity, but he has returned raging worse than ever. He says that fifty members of Parliament have promised him their opposition. He is wrong, I think, but I also consider that if the people remembered his genius and his age, and suspended the obnoxious Act for a few years, they would be right....

  May God bless you both.

  Most affectionately yours,

  BA.

  To James Martin

  December 10, 1844.

  I have been thinking of you, my dear Mr. Martin, more and more the colder it has been, and had made up my mind to write to-day, let me feel as dull as I might. So, the vane only turns to you instead of to dearest Mrs. Martin in consequence of your letter — your letter makes that difference. I should have written to Dover in any case....

  You are to know that Miss Martineau’s mesmeric experience is only peculiar as being Harriet Martineau’s, otherwise it exhibits the mere commonplaces of the agency. You laugh, I see. I wish I could laugh too. I mean, I seriously wish that I could disbelieve in the reality of the power, which is in every way most repulsive to me....

  Mrs. Martin is surprised at me and others on account of our ‘horror.’ Surely it is a natural feeling, and she would herself be liable to it if she were more credulous. The agency seems to me like the shaking of the flood-gates placed by the Divine Creator between the unprepared soul and the unseen world. Then — the subjection of the will and vital powers of one individual to those of another, to the extent of the apparent solution of the very identity, is abhorrent from me. And then (as to the expediency of the matter, and to prove how far believers may be carried) there is even now a religious sect at Cheltenham, of persons who call themselves advocates of the ‘third revelation,’ and profess to receive their system of theology entirely from patients in the sleep.

  In the meantime, poor Miss Martineau, as the consequence of her desire to speak the truth
as she apprehends it, is overwhelmed with atrocious insults from all quarters. For my own part I would rather fall into the hands of God than of man, and suffer as she did in the body, instead of being the mark of these cruel observations. But she has singular strength of mind, and calmly continues her testimony.

  Miss Mitford writes to me: ‘Be sure it is all true. I see it every day in my Jane’ — her maid, who is mesmerised for deafness, but not, I believe, with much success curatively. As a remedy, the success has been far greater in the Martineau case than in others. With Miss Mitford’s maid, the sleep is, however, produced; and the girl professed, at the third 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 have thought it. Pincher will help to reconcile me to the Law Lords perhaps.

  And, to turn from Tory legislators, I am vainglorious in announcing to you that the Anti-Corn-Law League has taken up my poems on the top of its pikes as antithetic to ‘War and Monopoly.’ Have I not had a sonnet from Gutter Lane? And has not the journal called the ‘League’ reviewed me into the third heaven, high up — above the pure ether of the five points? Yes, indeed. Of course I should be a (magna) chartist for evermore, even without the previous predilection.

  And what do you and Mrs. Martin say about O’Connell? Did you read last Saturday’s ‘Examiner’? Tell her that I welcomed her kind letter heartily, and that this is an answer to both of you. My best love to her always. May God bless you, dear Mr. Martin! Probably I have written your patience to an end. If papa or anybody were in the room, I should have a remembrance for you.