THE LETTERS OF ELIZABETHBARRETT BROWNING

EDITED WITH BIOGRAPHICALADDITIONS BY FREDERIC 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 of acollection of her letters, is met at theoutset of his task by the knowledgethat both Mrs. Browning herself andher husband more than, once expressedtheir strong dislike of any suchpublicity in regard to matters of apersonal and private character affectingthemselves. The fact that expressions tothis effect are publicly extant is onewhich has to be faced or evaded; but ifit could not be fairly faced, and theapparent difficulty removed, the presentvolumes would never have seen the

light. It would be a poor qualificationfor the task of preparing a record ofMrs. Browning's life, to be willingtherein to do violence to her ownexpressed wishes and those of herhusband. But the expressions to whichreference has been made are limited,either formally or by implication, topublications made during their ownlifetime. They shrank, as any sensitiveperson must shrink, from seeing theirprivate lives, their personalcharacteristics, above all, their sorrowsand bereavements, offered to theinspection and criticism of the generalpublic; and it was to such publicationsthat their protests referred. They couldnot but be aware that the details of

their lives would be of interest to thepublic which read and admired theirworks, and there is evidence that theyrecognised that the public has someclaims with regard to writers who haveappealed to, and partly lived by, itsfavour. They only claimed that duringtheir own lifetime their feelings shouldbe consulted first; when they shouldhave passed away, the rights of thepublic would begin.

It is in this spirit that the followingcollection of Mrs. Browning's lettershas now been prepared, in theconviction that the lovers of Englishliterature will be glad to make a closerand more intimate acquaintance with

one or, it may truthfully be said, withtwo of the most interesting literarycharacters 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, reclaimed fromthe friends to whom they had beenwritten, or from their representatives.No doubt, Mr. Browning's primaryobject was to prevent publicationswhich would have been excessivelydistressing to his feelings; but theletters, when once thus collected, werenot destroyed (as was the case withmany of his own letters), but carefullypreserved, and so passed into thepossession of his son, Mr. R. Barrett

Browning, with whose consent they arenow published. In this collection arecomprised the letters to Miss Browning(the poet's sister, whose consent hasalso been freely given to thepublication), Mr. H.S. Boyd, Mrs.Martin, Miss Mitford, Mrs. Jameson,Mr. John Kenyon, Mr. Chorley, MissBlagden, Miss Haworth, and MissThomson (Madame Emil Braun).[1] Tothese have been added a number ofletters which have been kindly lent bytheir possessors for the purpose of thepresent volumes.

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Sutherland-Orr hadaccess to these letters for her biographyof Robert Browning, and quotes

several passages from them. With thisexception, none of the letters have beenpublished previously; and thepublished letters of Miss Barrett to Mr.R.H. Horne have not been drawnupon, except for biographicalinformation.]

The duties of the editor have beenmainly those of selection andarrangement. With regard to the formertask one word is necessary. It may bethought that the almost entire absenceof bitterness (except on certain politicaltopics), of controversy, of personal illfeeling of any kind, is due to editorialexcisions. This is not the case. Thenumber of passages that have been

removed for fear of hurting thefeelings of persons still living is almostinfinitesimal; and in these the cause ofoffence is always something inherent inthe facts recorded, not in the spirit inwhich they are mentioned. No personhad less animosity than Mrs. Browning;it seems as though she could hardlybring herself to speak harshly ofanyone. The omissions that have beenmade are almost wholly of passagescontaining little or nothing of interest,or repetitions of what has been saidelsewhere; and they have been madewith the object of diminishing the bulkand concentrating the interest of thecollection, never with the purpose ofmodifying the representation of the

writer's character.

The task of arranging the letters hasbeen more arduous owing to Mrs.Browning's unfortunate habit ofprefixing no date's, or incomplete ones,to her letters. Many of them are datedmerely by the day of the week ormonth, and can only be assigned totheir proper place in the series oninternal evidence. In some cases,however, the envelopes have beenpreserved, and the date is then oftenprovided by the postmarks. Thesesupply fixed points by which the otherscan be tested; and ultimately all havefallen into line in chronological order,and with at least approximate dates to

each letter.

The correspondence, thus arranged inchronological order, forms an almostcontinuous record of Mrs. Browning'slife, from the early days inHerefordshire to her death in Italy in1861; but in order to complete therecord, it has been thought well to addconnecting links of narrative, whichshould serve to bind the wholetogether into the unity of a biography.It is a chronicle, rather than a biographyin the artistic sense of the term; achronicle of the events of a life inwhich there were but few externalevents of importance, and in which thesubject of the picture is, for the most

part, left to paint her own portrait, andthat, moreover, unconsciously. Still, thisis a method which may be held to haveits advantages, in that it can hardly beaffected by the feelings or prejudices ofthe biographer; and if it does notpresent a finished portrait to the reader,it provides him with the materials fromwhich he can form a portrait forhimself. The external events are placedupon record, either in the letters or inthe connecting links of narrative; thecharacter and opinions of Mrs.Browning reveal themselves in hercorrespondence; and her genius isenshrined in her poetry. And thesethree elements make up all that may beknown of her personality, all with

which a biographer has to deal.

It is essentially her character, not hergenius, that is presented to the readerof these letters. There are some letter-writers whose genius is so closely alliedwith their daily life that it shinesthrough into their familiarcorrespondence with their friends, andtheir letters become literature. Such, intheir very different ways, with verydifferent types of genius and verydifferent habits of daily life, are Gray,Cowper, Lamb, perhaps Fitzgerald. Butletter-writers such as these are few.More often the correspondence of menand women of letters is valuable for thelight it throws upon the character and

opinions of those whose character andopinions we are led to regard withadmiration or respect, or at leastinterest, on account of their otherwritings. In these cases it may be heldthat the publication is justifiable or not,according as the character which itreveals is affected favourably or thereverse. Not all truth, even aboutfamous men, is useful for publication,but only such as enables us toappreciate better the works which havemade them famous. Their highest selvesare expressed in their literary work; andit is a poor service to truth to insist onbringing to light the fact that they alsohad lower selves common, dull, it maybe vicious. What illustrates their genius

and enhances our respect for theircharacter, may rightly be made known;but what shakes our belief and marsour enjoyment in them, is simply betterleft in obscurity.

With regard to Mrs. Browning,however, there is no room for doubtupon these points. These letters,familiarly written to her private friends,without the smallest idea ofpublication, treating of the thoughtsthat came uppermost in the ordinarylanguage of conversation, can lay noclaim to make a new revelation of hergenius. On the other hand, perhapsbecause the circumstances of Mrs.Browning's life cut her off to an

unusual extent from personalintercourse with her friends, and threwher back upon letter-writing as herprincipal means of communicationwith them, they contain an unusuallyfull revelation of her character. Andthis is not wholly unconnected with herliterary genius, since her personalconvictions, her moral character,entered more fully than is often the caseinto the composition of her poetry.Her best poetry is that which is mostfull of her personal emotions. The'Sonnets from the Portuguese,' the 'Cryof the Children,' 'Cowper's Grave,' the'Dead Pan,' 'Aurora Leigh,' and all theItalian poems, owe their value to thepure and earnest character, the strong

love of truth and right, the enthusiasmon behalf of what is oppressed and theindignation against all kinds ofoppression and wrong, which wereprominent elements in a personality ofexceptional worth and beauty.

An editor can generally serve hisreaders best by remaining in thebackground; but he is allowed onemoment for the expression of hispersonal feelings, when he thanks thosewho have assisted him in his work. Inthe present case there are many towhom it is a pleasure to offer suchthanks. In the first place, I have tothank Mr. R. Barrett Browning andMiss Browning most cordially for

having accepted the proposal of thepublishers (Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co.,to whom likewise my gratitude is due)to put so pleasant and congenial a taskinto my hands. Mr. Browning has alsocontributed a number of suggestionsand corrections while the sheets havebeen passing through the press. I havealso to thank those who have been kindenough to offer letters in theirpossession for inclusion in thesevolumes: Lady Alwyne Compton forthe letters to Mr. Westwood; Mrs.Arthur Severn for the letters to Mr.Ruskin; Mr. G.L. Craik for the letters toMiss Mulock; Mrs. Commeline for theletters to Miss Commeline; Mr. T.J. Wisefor the letters to Mr. Cornelius

Mathews; Mr. C. Aldrich for the letterto Mrs. Kinney; Col. T.W. Higginsonfor a letter to Miss Channing; and theRev. G. Bainton for a letter to Mr.Kenyon. It has not been possible toprint all the letters which have beenthus offered; but this does not diminishthe kindness of the lenders, nor thegratitude of the editor.

Finally, I should wish to offer mysincere thanks to Lady EdmondFitzmaurice for much assistance andadvice in the selection and revision ofthe letters; a labour which herfriendship with Mr. Browning towardsthe close of his life has prompted herto bestow most freely and fully upon

this memorial of his wife.

F.G.K.

July 1897.

CONTENTS OF THE FIRSTVOLUME

CHAPTER I 1806-1835

Birth Hope End Early PoemsSidmouth 'Prometheus'

CHAPTER II 1835-1841

London Magazine Poems 'TheSeraphim and other Poems' TorquayDeath of Edward Barrett Return toLondon

CHAPTER III 1841-1843

Wimpole Street 'The Greek ChristianPoets' 'The English Poets' 'The NewSpirit of the Age' Miscellaneous Letters

CHAPTER IV 1844-1846

The 'Poems' of 1844 Miss Martineauand Mesmerism Pro-posed Journey toItaly

CHAPTER V 1846-1849

Friendship with Robert Browning Loveand Marriage Paris and Pisa FlorenceVallombrosa Casa Guidi Italian Politicsin 1848

CHAPTER VI 1849-1851

Birth of a Son Death of Mrs.Browning, senior Bagni di Lucca NewEdition of Poems Siena Florentine Life

PORTRAIT OF ELIZABETHBARRETT BROWNING. FrontispieceCASA GUIDI

THE LETTERS OF ELIZABETHBARRETT BROWNING

CHAPTER I

1806-1835

Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, still betterknown to the world as ElizabethBarrett Browning, was born on March6, 1806, the eldest child of Edward andMary Moulton Barrett. I Both the dateand place of her birth have beenmatters of uncertainty and dispute, and

even so trustworthy an authority as the'Dictionary of National Biography' isinaccurate with respect to them. Alldoubt has, however, been set at rest bythe discovery of the entry of her birthin the parish register of Kelloe Church,in the county of Durham.[2] She wasborn at Coxhoe Hall, the residence ofMr. Barrett's only brother, Samuel,about five miles south of the city ofDurham. Her father, whose name wasoriginally Edward Barrett Moulton, hadassumed the additional surname ofBarrett on the death of his maternalgrandfather, to whose estates in Jamaicahe was the heir. Of Mr. Barrett it isrecorded by Mr. Browning, in the notesprefixed by him to the collected edition

of his wife's poems, that 'on the earlydeath of his father he was broughtfrom Jamaica to England when a veryyoung child, as a ward of the late ChiefBaron Lord Abinger, then Mr. Scarlett,whom he frequently accompanied inhis post-chaise when on circuit. He wassent to Harrow, but received there sosavage a punishment for a supposedoffence (burning the toast)' which,indeed, has been a 'supposed offence' atother schools than Harrow 'by theyouth whose fag he had become, thathe was withdrawn from the school byhis mother, and the delinquent wasexpelled. At the age of sixteen he wassent by Mr. Scarlett to Cambridge, andthence, for an early marriage, went to

Northumberland.' His wife was MissMary Graham-Clarke, daughter of J.Graham-Clarke, of Fenham Hall,Newcastle-upon-Tyne, but of hernothing seems to be known, and hercomparatively early death causes her tobe little heard of in the record of herdaughter's life.

[Footnote 2: See Notes and Queries forJuly 20, 1889, supplemented by a notefrom Mr. Browning himself in thesame paper on August 24.]

Nothing is to be gained by trying totrace back the genealogy of the Barrettfamily, and it need merely be noted thatit had been connected for some

generations with the island of Jamaica,and owned considerable estates there.[3] It is a curious coincidence thatRobert Browning was likewise in partof West Indian descent, and so, too,was John Kenyon, the lifelong friendof both, by whose means the poet andpoetess were first introduced to oneanother.

[Footnote 3: These estates still remainin the family, and Mr. Charles Barrett,the eldest surviving brother of Mrs.Browning, now lives there.]

The family of Mr. Edward Barrett wasa fairly large one, consisting, besidesElizabeth, of two daughters, Henrietta

and Arabel, and eight sons Edward,whose tragic death at Torquay saddenedso much of his sister's life, Charles (the'Stormie' of the letters), Samuel,George, Henry, Alfred, Septimus, andOctavius; Mr. Barrett's inventivenesshaving apparently given out with thelast two members of his family,reducing him to the primitive methodof simple enumeration, an enumerationin which, it may be observed, thedaughters counted for nothing. Notmany of these, however, can have beenborn at Coxhoe; for while Elizabethwas still an infant apparently about thebeginning of the year 1809 Mr. Barrettremoved to his newly purchased estateof Hope End, in Herefordshire, among

the Malvern hills, and only a few milesfrom Malvern itself. It is to Hope Endthat the admirers of Mrs. Browningmust look as the real home of herchildhood and youth. Here she spenther first twenty years of conscious life.Here is the scene of the childishreminiscences which are to be foundamong her earlier poems, of 'Hector inthe Garden,' 'The Lost Bower,' and 'TheDeserted Garden.' And here too herearliest verses were written, and thefoundations laid of that omnivorousreading of literature of all sorts andkinds, which was so strong acharacteristic of her tastes and leanings.

On this subject she may be left to tell

her own tale. In a letter written onOctober 5, 1843, to Mr. R.H. Horne,she furnishes him with the followingbiographical details for his study of herin 'The New Spirit of the Age.' Theysupply us with nearly all that we knowof her early life and writings.

'And then as to stories, my storyamounts to the knife-grinder's, withnothing at all for a catastrophe. A birdin a cage would have as good a story,Most of my events, and nearly all myintense pleasures, have passed in mythoughts. I wrote verses as I dare saymany have done who never wrote anypoems very early; at eight years old andearlier. But, what is less common, the

early fancy turned into a will, andremained with me, and from that day tothis, poetry has been a distinct objectwith me an object to read, think, andlive for. And I could make you laugh,although you could not make thepublic laugh, by the narrative ofnascent odes, epics, and didactics cryingaloud on obsolete muses from childishlips. The Greeks were my demi-gods,and haunted me out of Pope's Homer,until I dreamt more of Agamemnonthan of Moses the black pony. Andthus my great "epic" of eleven ortwelve years old, in four books, andcalled "The Battle of Marathon," andof which fifty copies were printedbecause papa was bent upon spoiling

me is Pope's Homer done over again,or rather undone; for, although acurious production for a child, it givesevidence only of an imitative facultyand an ear, and a good deal of readingin a peculiar direction. The love ofPope's Homer threw me into Pope onone side and into Greek on the other,and into Latin as a help to Greek andthe influence of all these tendencies ismanifest so long afterwards as in my"Essay on Mind," a didactic poemwritten when I was seventeen oreighteen, and long repented of asworthy of all repentance. The poem isimitative in its form, yet is not withouttraces of an individual thinking andfeeling the bird pecks through the shell

in it. With this it has a pertness andpedantry which did not even thenbelong to the character of the author,and which I regret now more than I dothe literary defectiveness.

'All this time, and indeed the greaterpart of my life, we lived at Hope End, afew miles from Malvern, in a retirementscarcely broken to me except by booksand my own thoughts, and it is abeautiful country, and was a retirementhappy in many ways, although the verypeace of it troubles the heart as it looksback. There I had my fits of Pope, andByron, and Coleridge, and read Greekas hard under the trees as some of yourOxonians in the Bodleian; gathered

visions from Plato and the dramatists,and eat and drank Greek and made myhead ache with it. Do you know theMalvern Hills The hills of PiersPlowman's Visions They seem to memy native hills; for, although I wasborn in the county of Durham, I wasan infant when I went first into theirneighbourhood, and lived there until Ihad passed twenty by several years.Beautiful, beautiful hills they are! Andyet, not for the whole world's beautywould I stand in the sunshine and theshadow of them any more. It would bea mockery, like the taking back of abroken flower to its stalk.'[4]

[Footnote 4: R.H. Horne, Letters of E.B.

Browning, i. 158-161.]

So, while the young Robert Browningwas enthusiastically declaiming passagesof Pope's Homer, and measuring outheroic couplets with his hand roundthe dining table in Camberwell,Elizabeth Barrett was drinking from thesame fount of inspiration among theMalvern Hills, and was already turningit to account in the production of herfirst epic. The fifty copies of the 'Battleof Marathon,' which Mr. Barrett, proudof his daughter's precocity, insisted onhaving printed, bear the date of 1819.Only five of them are now known toexist, and these are all in private hands;even the British Museum possesses

only the reprint which the hero-worship of the present generationcaused to be produced in 1891. Sevenyears later, when she had just reachedthe age of twenty, her first volume ofverse was offered to the world ingeneral. It was entitled 'An Essay onMind, and other Poems,' and included,besides the didactic poem after themanner of Pope which formed the piecede resistance, a number of shorter pieces,several of which, as she informedHorne,[5] had been written when shewas not more than thirteen.

[Footnote 5: R.H. Horne, Letters of E.B.Browning, i. 164.]

It was during the years at Hope Endthat Elizabeth Barrett was first attackedby serious illness. 'At fifteen,' she says inher autobiographical letter, alreadyquoted in part, 'I nearly died;' and thismay be connected with a statement byMrs. Richmond Ritchie, to the effectthat 'one day, when Elizabeth wasabout fifteen, the young girl, impatientfor her ride, tried to saddle her ponyalone, in a field, and fell with the saddleupon her, in some way injuring herspine so seriously that she was for yearsupon her back.'[6] The latter part ofthis statement cannot indeed be quiteaccurate; for her period of longconfinement to a sick-room was oflater date, and began, according to her

own statement, from a different cause.Mr. R. Barrett Browning states that theinjury to the spine was not discoveredfor some time, but was afterwardsattributed, not to a fall, but to a strainwhilst tightening her pony's girths. Nodoubt this injury contributed towardsthe general weakness of health towhich she was always subject.

[Footnote 6: Dict. of Nat. Biography, vii.78.]

Of her earliest letters, belonging to theHope End period, very few have beenpreserved, and most of those whichremain are of little interest. The first tobe printed here belongs to the period

of her mother's last illness, whichended in her death on October 1, 1828.It is addressed to Mrs. James Martin, alifelong friend, whose name will appearfrequently in these pages. At the timewhen it was written she was living nearTewkesbury, within visiting distance ofthe Barretts.

To Mrs. Martin Hope End: Thursday,[about September 1828].

My dear Mrs. Martin, I am happy to beable to tell you that Mr. Garden washere two days ago, and that he has notthought it necessary to adopt anyviolent measure with regard to ourbeloved invalid. He seems entirely to

rely, for her ultimate restoration, upon adiscipline as to diet, and a course ofstrengthening medicine. This is mostsatisfactory to us; and her spirits havebeen soothed and tranquillised by hisvisit. She has slept quietly for the lastfew nights, and reports herself to bebrisker and stronger, and to becomparatively free from pain. Thisaccount is, perhaps, too favorable,[7]and will appear so to you when you seeher, as I am afraid you will, not lookingmuch better, much more cheerful, thanwhen you paid us your last visit. Butwhen we are very willing to hope, we areapt to be too ready to hope: thoughreally, without being too sanguine, wemay consider quiet nights and

diminished pain to be satisfactory signsof amendment. I know you will be gladto hear of them, and I hope you willwitness them very soon, in spite of thisrepulsive snow. It will do mama good,and I am sure it will give us all pleasure,to benefit by some of your charitablepilgrimages over the hill.

With our best regards, and sincerestthanks for your kind interest

Believe me, dear Mrs. Martin, mosttruly yours,

E.B. BARRETT.

[Footnote 7: Mrs. Browning usually

spells such words as 'favour,' 'honour,'and the like, without the u, after thefashion which one is accustomed toregard as American.]

To Miss Commeline Hope End: Monday,[October 1828].

My dear Miss Commeline, Thank youfor the sympathy and interest whichyou have extended towards us in ourheavy affliction. Even you cannot knowall that we have lost; but God knows,and it has pleased Him to take away theblessing that He gave. And all must beright since He doeth all! Indeed we did

not foresee this great grief! If we hadwe could not have felt it less; but Ishould not then have been denied theconsolation of being with her at thelast.

It is idle to speak now of suchthoughts, and circumstances haveunquestionably been rightly andmercifully ordered. We are all well andcomposed poor papa supporting us byhis own surpassing fortitude. It is aninexpressible comfort to me to witnesshis calmness.

I cannot say that we shall not be glad tosee you, but the weather is dreary andthe distance long: and if you were to

come, we might not be able to meetyou and to speak to you with calmness.In that case you would receive amelancholy impression which I shouldlike to spare you. Perhaps it would bebetter for you and less selfish in us, ifwe were to defer this meeting a littlewhile longer but do what you preferdoing! I can never forget the regard andesteem entertained for you by onewhose tenderness and watchfulness Ihave felt every day and hour since shegave me that life which her lossembitters whose memory is moreprecious to me than any earthlyblessing left behind; I have writtenwhat is ungrateful, and what I oughtnot to have written, and what I ought

not to feel, and do not always feel, but Idid not just then remember that I hadso much left to love.

To Mrs. Boyd Hope End: Saturdaymorning, [1828-1832].

My dear Mrs. Boyd, You were quitewrong in supposing that papa waslikely to complain about 'the numberof letters from Malvern;' and as to mydoing so, why did you suggest that Tofill up a sentence, or to conjure upsome kind of limping excuse for idlepeople Among idle people, perhapsyou have written me down. But thereason of my silence was far morereasonable than yours. I have been

engaged in alternately wishing inearnest and wishing in vain for thepower of saying when I could go toMalvern and in being unwell besides.For the last week I have not been at allwell, and indeed was obliged yesterdayto go to bed after breakfast instead ofafter tea, where I contrived to abstractmyself out of a good deal of pain intoLord Byron's Life by Moore. To-daythis abstraction is not necessary; I ammuch better; and, indeed, little remainsof the indisposition but the vulgarfractions of a cough and cold. I dare say(and Occyta[8] agrees with me) coldwas at the bottom of it all, for I was sovery wise as to lie down upon the grasslast Monday, when the sun was shining

deceitfully, though the snow was staringat me from the hedges, with anexpression anything but dog-daysical!

Henrietta's face-ache is quite well, and Idon't mean to give any more bulletinsto-day. I hope your 'tolerably well' isturned into 'quite well' too by this time.

In reply to your query, I will mentionthat the existence actually extended untilThursday without the visit here aphenomenon in physics andmetaphysics. I was desired by a note ashort time previously, 'to embrace allmy circle with the utmost tenderness,' asproxy. Considering the extent of thesaid circle, this was a very

comprehensive request, and a veryunreasonable one to offer to anyoneless than the hundred-armed Indiangod Baly. I am glad that your alternativeof a house is so near to the right sideof the turnpike in which case, a miss iscertainly not as bad as a mile. May Placeis to be vacated in May, though itspresent inhabitants do not leaveMalvern. I mention this to you, butpray don't re-mention it to anybody. Therent is 15L. Mr. Boyd[9] will not beangry with me for not going to see himsooner than I can. At least, I am sure heought not. Though you are all kindenough to wish me to go, I alwaysthink and know (which is consolatoryto everything but my vanity) that no

one can wish it half as much as Imyself do.

Believe me, dear Mrs. Boyd,affectionately yours,

E.B. BARRETT.

[Footnote 8: Octavius, her youngestbrother.]

[Footnote 9: Hugh Stuart Boyd, theblind scholar whose friendship withElizabeth Barrett is commemorated inher poem, 'Wine of Cyprus,' and inthree sonnets expressly addressed tohim. He was at this time living at GreatMalvern, where Miss Barrett frequently

visited him, reading and discussingGreek literature with him, especially theworks of the Greek Christian Fathers.But to call him her tutor, as has morethan once been done, is a mistake: seeMiss Barrett's letter to; him of March 3,1845. Her knowledge of Greek wasdue to her volunteering to share herbrother Edward's work under his tutor,Mr. MacSwiney.]

The fear 1832 brought a great changein the fortunes of the Barrett family,and may be said to mark the end of thepurely formative period in ElizabethBarrett's life. Hitherto she had beenliving in the home and among thesurroundings of her childhood,

absorbing literature rather thanproducing it; or if producing it, stillmainly for her own amusement andinstruction, rather than with any viewof appealing to the general public. Butin 1832 this home was broken up bythe sale, of Hope End,[10] and withthe removal thence we seem to find herembarking definitely on literature as theavowed pursuit and occupation of herlife. Sidmouth in Devonshire was theplace to which the Barrett family nowremoved, and the letters beginhenceforth to be longer and morefrequent, and to tell a more connectedtale.

[Footnote 10: Mr. Ingram, in his Life of

E.B. Browning ('Eminent Women' Series)connects this fact with the abolition ofcolonial slavery, and a consequentdecrease in Mr. Barrett's income; butsince the abolition only took place in1833, while Hope End was given up inthe preceding year, this conclusion doesnot appear to be certain.]

To Mrs. Martin [Sidmouth: September1832.]

How can I thank you enough, dearestMrs. Martin, for your letter How kindof you to write so soon and so verykindly! The postmark and handwritingwere in themselves pleasant sights tome, and the kindness yet more

welcome. Believe that I am grateful toyou for all your kindness for yourkindness now, and your kindness in thedays which are past. Some of thosepast days were very happy, and some ofthem very sorrowful more sorrowfulthan even our last days at dear, dearHope End. Then, I well recollect,though I could not then thank you as Iought, how you felt for us and with us.Do not think I can ever forget that time,or you. I had written a note to you,which the bearer of Bummy's andArabel's to Colwall[11] omitted to take.Afterwards I thought it best to spareyou any more farewells, which are uponhuman lips, of all words, the mostnatural, and of all the most painful.

They told us of our having past yourcarriage in Ledbury. Dear Mrs. Martin, Icannot dwell upon the pain of that firsthour of our journey; but you willknow what it must have been. Thedread of it, for some hours before, wasalmost worse; but it is all over now,blessed be God. Before the first day'sjourney was at end, we feltinexpressibly relieved relieved from therestlessness and anxiety which have solong oppressed us and now we arecalmer and happier than we have beenfor very long. If we could only havepapa and Bro and Sette[12] with us!About half an hour before we set off,papa found out that he could not part

with Sette, who sleeps with him, and isalways an amusing companion to him.Papa was, however, unwilling toseparate him perforce from his littleplayfellows, and asked him whether hewished very much to go. Sette's heartwas quite full, but he answeredimmediately, 'Oh, no, papa, I wouldmuch rather stay with you.' He is a dearaffectionate little thing. He and Brobeing with poor Papa, we are far morecomfortable about him than we shouldotherwise be and perhaps our goingwas his sharpest pang. I hope it was, asit is over. Do not think, dear Mrs.Martin, that you or Mr. Martin can ever'intrude' you know you use that wordin your letter. I have often been afraid,

on account of papa not having beenfor so long a time at Colwall, lest youshould fancy that he did not value yoursociety and your kindness. Do notfancy it. Painful circumstances produceas we have often had occasion toobserve different effects upon differentminds; and some feeling, with which Icertainly have no sympathy has madepapa shrink from society of any kindlately. He would not even attend thereligious societies in Ledbury, which hewas so much pledged to support, andso interested in supporting. If youknew how much he has talked of you,and asked every particular about you,you could not fancy that his regard foryou was estranged. He has an

extraordinary degree of strength ofmind on most points and strongfeeling, when it is not allowed to run inthe natural channel, will sometimesforce its way where it is not expected.You will think it strange; but never upto this moment has he even alluded tothe subject, before us never, at themoment of parting with us. And yet,though he had not power to say oneword, he could play at cricket with theboys on the very last evening.

We slept at the York House in Bath.Bath is a beautiful town as a town, andthe country harmonises well with it,without being a beautiful country. Asmere country, nobody would stand still to

look at it; though as town country,many bodies would. Somersetshire ingeneral seems to be hideous, and Icould fancy from the walls whichintersect it in every direction, that theyhad been turned to stone by looking atthe Gorgonic scenery. The part ofDevonshire through which our journeylay is nothing very pretty, though it mustbe allowed to be beautiful afterSomersetshire. We arrived here almostin the dark, and were besieged by thecrowd of disinterested tradespeople,who would attend us through the townto our house, to help to unload thecarriages. This was not a particularlyagreeable reception in spite of itscordiality; and the circumstance of

there being not a human being in ourhouse, and not even a rushlightburning, did not reassure us. Peoplewere tired of expecting us every day forthree weeks. Nearly the whole way fromHoniton to this place is a descent. Poordear Bummy said she thought we weregoing into the bowels of the earth, butsuspect she thought we were goingmuch deeper. Between you and me, shedoes not seem delighted with Sidmouth;but her spirits are a great deal better,and in time she will, I dare say, be betterpleased. We like very much what wehave seen of it. The town is small andnot superfluously clean, but, of course,the respectable houses are not a part ofthe town. Ours is one which the Grand

Duchess Helena had, not at all grand,but extremely comfortable andcheerful, with a splendid sea view infront, and pleasant green, hills and treesbehind. The drawing-room's fourwindows all look to the sea, and I amnever tired of looking out of them. Iwas doing so, with a most hypocriticalbook before me, when your letterarrived, and I felt all that you said in it. Ialways thought that the sea was thesublimest object in nature. Mont BlancNiagara must be nothing to it. There,the Almighty's form glasses itself intempests and not only in tempests, butin calm in space, in eternal motion, ineternal regularity. How can we look atit, and consider our puny sorrows, and

not say, 'We are dumb because Thoudidst it' Indeed, dear Mrs. Martin, wemust feel every hour, and we shall feelevery year, that what He did is well doneand not only well, but mercifully.

Mr. and Mrs. H , with whom papa isslightly acquainted, have called upon us,and shown us many kind attentions.They are West India people, not verypolished, but certainly very good-natured. We hear that the place isextremely full and gay; but this is, ofcourse, only an on dit to us at present. Ihave been riding a donkey two or threetimes, and enjoy very much going to theedge of the sea. The air has made mesleep more soundly than I have done

for some time, and I dare say it will dome a great deal of good in every way.

You may suppose what a southernclimate this is, when I tell you thatmyrtles and verbena, three or four feethigh, and hydrangeas are in flower inthe gardens even in ours, which isabout a hundred and fifty yards fromthe sea. I have written to the end of mypaper. Give our kindest regards to Mr.Martin, and ever believe me,

Your affectionate and grateful E.B.B.

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

[Footnote 12: Her brothers Edwardand 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 wasexactly the time when, if we were wherewe have been, we should have wishedyou to walk over the hill and talk to us;and although, after all that the mostzealous friends of letter writing can sayfor it, it is not such a happy thing astalking with those you care for, yet it isthe next happiest thing. I am sure I

thought so when I read your letter ...

And now I must tell you aboutourselves. Papa and Bro and Sette havemade us so much happier by coming,and we have the comfort of seeing dearpapa in good spirits, and not onlysatisfied but pleased with this place. Itis scarcely possible, at least it seems soto me, to do otherwise than admire thebeauty of the country. It is the veryland of green lanes and pretty thatchedcottages. I don't mean the kind ofcottages which are generally thatched,with pigstyes and cabbages and dirtychildren, but thatched cottages withverandas and shrubberies, and soundsfrom the harp or piano coming through

the windows. When you stand uponany of the hills which stand roundSidmouth, the whole valley seems to bethickly wooded down to the very vergeof the sea, and these pretty villas to bespringing from the ground almost asthickly and quite as naturally as thetrees themselves. There are certainlymany more houses out of the townthan in it, and they all stand apart, yetnear, hiding in their own shrubberies,or behind the green rows of elmswhich wall in the secluded lanes oneither side. Such a number of greenlanes I never saw; some of them quiteblack with foliage, where it is twilight inthe middle of the day, and othersletting in beautiful glimpses of the

spreading heathy hills or of the sunnysea. I am sure you would like thetransition from the cliffs, from thebird's eye view to, I was going to say,the mole's eye view, but I believe molesdon't see quite clearly enough to suitmy purpose. There are a great numberof people here. Sam was at an eveningparty a week ago where there were ahundred and twenty people; but theydon't walk about the parade and showthemselves as one might expect. Weknow only the Herrings and Mrs. andthe Miss Polands and Sir John Kean.Mrs. and Miss Weekes, and Mr. andMrs. James have called upon us, but wewere out when they came. I suppose itwill be necessary to return their visits

and to know them; and when we do,you shall hear about them, and abouteverybody whom we know. I amcertainly much better in health, strongerthan I was, and less troubled with thecough. Every day I attend [word torn out]their walks on my donkey, if we do notgo in a boat, which is still pleasanter. Ibelieve Henrietta walks out about threetimes a day. She is looking particularlywell, and often talks, and I am sure stilloftener thinks, of you. You know howfond of you she is. Papa walks out withher and us; and we all, down to

Occyta, breakfast and drink teatogether. The dining takes place at fiveo'clock. To-morrow, if this lovely

weather will stand still and beaccommodating, we talk of rowing toDawlish, which is about ten miles off.We have had a few cases of cholera, atleast suspicious cases: one a fortnightbefore we arrived, and five since, in thecourse of a month. All dead exceptone. I confess a little nervousness; butit is wearing away. The disease does notseem to make any progress; and for thelast six days there have been no patientsat all.

Do let us hear very soon, my dear Mrs.Martin, how you are how your spiritsare, and whether Rome is still in yourdistance. Surely no plan could be moredelightful for you than this plan; and if

you don't stay very long away, I shall besorry to hear of your abandoning it.Do you recollect your promise ofcoming to see us We do.

You must have had quite enough nowof my 'little hand' and of my details.Do not go to Matton or to the Bartonsor to Eastnor without giving my love.How often my thoughts are at home! Icannot help calling it so still in mythoughts. I may like other places, butno other place can ever appear to me todeserve that name.

Dearest Mrs. Martin's affectionate E.B.BARRETT.

To Mrs. Martin Sidmouth: December14, 1832.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, I hope you arevery angry indeed with us for notwriting. We are as penitent as we oughtto be that is, I am, for I believe I am theidle person; yet not altogether idle, butprocrastinating and waiting for newsrather more worthy of being read inRome than any which even now I cansend you.... And now, my dear Mrs.Martin, I mean to thank you, as I oughtto have done long ago, for yourkindness in offering to procure for methe Archbishop of Dublin's[13] valuableopinion upon my 'Prometheus. I amsure that if you have not thought me

very ungrateful, you must be veryindulgent. My mind was at one time socrowded by painful thoughts, that theyshut out many others which areinteresting to me; and among otherthings, I forgot once or twice, when Ihad an opportunity, to thank you, dearMrs. Martin. I believe I should havetaken advantage of your proposal, butpapa said to me, 'If he criticises yourmanuscript in a manner which does notsatisfy you, you won't be easy withoutdefending yourself, and he might bedrawn into taking more trouble thanyou have now any idea of giving him.' Isighed a little at losing such anopportunity of gaining a greatadvantage, but there seemed to be some

reason in what papa said I havecompleted a preface and notes to mytranslation; and since doing so, a workof exactly the same character by a Mr.Medwin has been published, andcommended in Bulwer's magazine.[14]Therefore it is probable enough that mytrouble, excepting as far as my ownamusement went, has been in vain. Butpapa means to try Mr. Valpy, I believe.He left us since I began to write thisletter, with a promise of returningbefore Christmas Day. We do miss him.Mr. Boyd has made me quite angry bypublishing his translations by rotationin numbers of the 'Wesleyan Magazine,'instead of making them up into aseparate publication, as I had

persuaded him to do. There is theeffect, you see, of going, even for atime, out of my reach! The readers ofthe 'Wesleyan Magazine' are piouspeople, but not cultivated, nor, for themost part, capable of estimating eitherthe talents of Gregory or histranslator's. I have begun already toinsist upon another publication in aseparate form, and shall gain my point,I dare say. I have been reading Bulwer'snovels and Mrs. Trollope's libels, andDr. Parr's works. I am sure you are notan admirer of Mrs. Trollope's. She hasneither the delicacy nor the candourwhich constitute true nobility of mindand her extent of talent forms but ascanty veil to shadow her other defects.

Bulwer has quite delighted me. He hasall the dramatic talent which Scott has,and all the passion which Scott has not,and he appears to me to be besides a farprofounder discriminator of character.There are very fine things in his'Denounced.' We subscribe to the bestlibrary here, but the best is not a goodone. I have, however, a table-load ofmy own books, and with them I canalways be satisfied. Do you know thatMr. Curzon has left Ledbury We wereglad to receive your letter from Doveralthough it told us that you wereremoving so far from us. Do let us hearof your enjoying Italy. Is there muchEnglish society in Rome, and is it likeEnglish society here I can scarcely fancy

an invitation card, 'Mrs. Huggin-muggin at home,' carried through theVia Sacra. I am sure my 'little hand' hasdone its duty to-day. I shall leave thecorners to Henrietta. Give our kindestregards to Mr. Martin, and ever believeme, my dear Mrs. Martin,

Your affectionate E.B.B.

[Footnote 13: Archbishop Whately.]

[Footnote 14: The New MonthlyMagazine, at this time edited by Bulwer,afterwards the first Lord Lytton.]

The letter just printed contains the firstallusion in Miss Barrett's letters to any

of her own writings. The translation ofthe 'Prometheus Bound' of Aeschyluswas the first-fruits of the removal toSidmouth. It was written, as she toldHorne eleven years afterwards, 'intwelve days, and should have beenthrown into the fire afterwards the onlymeans of giving it a little warmth.'[15]Indeed, so dissatisfied did shesubsequently become with it, that shedid what she could to suppress it, andin the collected edition of 1850substituted another version, written in1845, which she hoped would securethe final oblivion of her earlier attempt.[16] The letter given above shows thatthe composition of the earlier versiontook place at the end of 1832; and in

the following year it was published byMr. Valpy, along with some shorterpoems, of which Miss Barrettsubsequently wrote that 'a few of thefugitive poems may be worth a little,perhaps; but they have not so muchgoodness as to overcome the badnessof the blasphemy of Aeschylus.' Thevolume, which was publishedanonymously, received two sentencesof contemptuous notice from the'Athenaeum,' in which the revieweradvised 'those who adventure in thehazardous lists of poetic translation totouch anyone rather than Aeschylus,and they may take warning by theauthor before us.'[17]

[Footnote 15: Letters to R.H. Home, i.162.]

[Footnote 16: It need hardly be saidthat the literary resurrectionist has beentoo much for her, and the version of1833 has recently been reprinted. Ofthis reprint the best that can be said isthat it provides an occasion for an essayby Mrs. Meynell.]

[Footnote 17: Athenaeum, June 8, 1833.]

To Mrs. Martin Sidmouth: May 27,1833.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, I am halfafraid of your being very angry indeed

with me; and perhaps it would be quiteas well to spare this sheet of paper anangry look of yours, by consigning itover to Henrietta. Yet do believe me, Ihave been anxious to write to you along time, and did not know where todirect my letter. The history of all myunkindness to you is this: I delayedanswering your kind welcome letterfrom Rome, for three weeks, becauseHenrietta was at Torquay, and I knewthat she would like to write in it, andbecause I was unreasonable enough toexpect to hear every day of her cominghome. At the end of the three weeks,and on consulting your dates and plans,I found out that you would probablyhave quitted Rome before any letter of

mine arrived there. Since then, I havebeen inquiring, and all in vain, aboutwhere I could find you out. All I couldhear was, that you were somewherebetween Italy and England; and all Icould do was, to wait patiently, andthrow myself at your feet as soon asyou came within sight and hearing. Andnow do be as generous as you can, mydear Mrs. Martin, and try to forgive onewho never could be guilty of the faultof forgetting you, notwithstandingappearances. We heard only yesterdayof your being expected at Colwall. Andalthough we cannot welcome you there,otherwise than in this way, at thedistance of 140 miles, yet we mustwelcome you in this way, and assure

both of you how glad we are that thesame island holds all of us once more.It pleased us very much to hear howyou were enjoying yourselves in Rome;and you must please us now by tellingus that you are enjoying yourselves atColwall, and that you bear the changewith English philosophy. The fishing atAbbeville was a link between the pastand the present; and would make thetransition between the eternal city andthe eternal tithes a little less striking. Mywonder is how you could havepersuaded yourselves to keep yourpromise and leave Italy as soon as youdid. Tell me how you managed it. Andtell me everything about yourselveshow you are and how you feel, and

whether you look backwards orforwards with the most pleasure, andwhether the influenza has been amongyour welcomers to England. Henriettaand Arabel and Daisy[18] wereconfined by it to their beds for severaldays and the two former are only nowrecovering their strength. Three or fourof the other boys had symptoms whichwere not strong enough to put them tobed. As for me, I have been quite wellall the spring, and almost all the winter.I don't know when I have been so longwell as I have been lately; without acough or anything else disagreeable.Indeed, if I may place the influenza ina parenthesis, we have all been perfectlywell, in spite of our fishing and boating

and getting wet three times a day. Thereis good trout-fishing at the Otter, andthe noble river Sid, which, if I liked tostand in it, might cover my ankles. Andlately, Daisy and Sette and Occyta havestudied the art of catching shrimps,and soak themselves up to their waistslike professors. My love of waterconcentrates itself in the boat; and thisI enjoy very much, when the sea is asblue and calm as the sky, which it hasoften been lately. Of society we havehad little indeed; but Henrietta hadmore than much of it at Torquayduring three months; and as for me,you know I don't want any though Iam far from meaning to speakdisrespectfully of Mr. Boyds, which has

been a pleasure and comfort to me. Hishouse is not farther than a five minutes'walk from ours; and I often make it fourin my haste to get there. Ask ElizaCliffe to lend you the May number ofthe 'Wesleyan Magazine;' and if youhave an opportunity of procuring lastDecember's number, do procure that.There are some translations in each ofthem, which I think you will like. TheDecember translation is my favourite,though I was amanuensis only in theMay one. Henrietta and Arabel have adrawing master, and are meditatingsoon beginning to sketch out of doorsthat is, if before the meditation is at anend we do not leave Sidmouth. Ourplans are quite uncertain; and papa has

not, I believe, made up his mindwhether or not to take this house onafter the beginning of next month;when our engagement with our presentlandlord closes. If we do leaveSidmouth, you know as well as I dowhere we shall go. Perhaps toBoulogne! perhaps to the Swan River.The West Indians are irreparably ruinedif the Bill passes. Papa says that in thecase of its passing, nobody in hissenses would think of even attemptingthe culture of sugar, and that they hadbetter hang weights to the sides of theisland of Jamaica and sink it at once.Don't you think certain heads might befound heavy enough for the purposeNo insinuation, I assure you, against

the Administration, in spite of thedagger in their right hands. Mr. Atwoodseems to me a demi-god of ingratitude!So much for the 'fickle reek of popularbreath' to which men have erected theirtemple of the winds who would trust afeather to it I am almost more sorry forpoor Lord Grey who is going to ruinus, than for our poor selves who aregoing to be ruined. You will hear thatmy 'Prometheus and other Poems' cameinto light a few weeks ago a fortnightago, I think. I dare say I shall wish itout of the light before I have donewith it. And I dare say Henrietta iswishing me anywhere, rather thanwhere I am. Certainly I have past allbounds. Do write soon, and tell us

everything about Mr. Martin andyourself. And ever believe me, dearestMrs. Martin,

Your affectionate E.B. BARRETT.

[Footnote 18: Alfred, the fifth brother.]

To Mrs. Martin Sidmouth: September 7,1833.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, Are you a littleangry again I do hope not. I shouldhave written long ago if it had not beenfor Henrietta; and Henrietta wouldhave written very lately if it had notbeen for me: and we must beg of youto forgive us both for the sake of each

other. Thank you for the kind letterwhich I have been so tardy in thankingyou for, but which was not, on thataccount, the less gladly received. Dobelieve how much it pleases me alwaysto see and read dear Mrs. Martin'shandwriting. But I must try to tell yousome less ancient truths. We are still inthe ruinous house. Without anypoetical fiction, the walls are too frailfor even me, who enjoy the situation ina most particularly particular manner,to have any desire to pass the winterwithin them. One wind we have hadthe privilege of hearing already; anddown came the tiles while we were atdinner, and made us all think thatdown something else was coming. We

have had one chimney pulled down toprevent it from tumbling down; andhave received especial injunctions fromthe bricklayers not to lean too muchout of the windows, for fear the wallsshould follow the destiny of thechimney. Altogether there is everyreasonable probability that the wholehouse will in the course of next winterbe as like Persepolis as anything so uglycan be! If another house which will fitus can be found in Sidmouth, I am surepapa will take it; but, as he said theother day, 'If I can't find a house, Imust go.' I hope he may find one, andas near the sea as this ruin. I haveenjoyed its moonlight and its calmnessall the summer; and am prepared to

enjoy its tempestuousness of the winterwith as true an enjoyment. What weshall do ultimately, I do not evendream; and, if I know papa, he doesnot. My visions of the future areconfined to 'what shall I write or readnext,' and 'when shall we next go out inthe boat,' and they, you know, can do noharm to anybody. Of one thing I have acomforting certainty that wherever wemay go or stay, the decree which movesor fixes us will and must be the 'wisestvirtuousest discreetest best!' ...

So, I will change the subject to myself.You told me that you were going toread my book, and I want to knowwhat you think of it. If you were given

to compliment and insincerity, I shouldbe afraid of asking you; because,among other evident reasons, I mightthen appear to be asking for your praiseinstead of your opinion. As it is I wantto know what you think of my book.Is the translation stiff If you know meat all (and I venture to hope that youdo) you will be certain that I shall likeyour honesty, and love you for beinghonest, even if you put on the veryblackest of black caps....

Of course you know that the late Billhas ruined the West Indians. That issettled. The consternation here is verygreat. Nevertheless I am glad, andalways shall be, that the negroes are

virtually free!

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

To H.S. Boyd Sidmouth: Friday [1834].

My dear Friend, I don't know how Ishall begin to persuade you not to beangry with me, but perhaps the bestplan will be to confess as many sins aswould cover this sheet of paper, andthen to go on with my merits. CertainlyI am altogether guiltless of your chargeof not noticing your book's arrivalbecause no Calvinism arrived with it. Itold you the bare truth when I told you

why I did not write immediately. Thepassage relating to Calvinism I certainlyread, and as certainly was sorry for; butas certainly as both those certainties,such reading and such regret hadnothing whatever to do with the silencewhich made you so angry with me.

The other particular thing of which Ishould have written is Mr. Parker andmy letters. I am more and, more sorrythat you should have sent them to himat all not that their loss is any loss toanybody, but that I scarcely like the ideaindeed, I don't like it at all of theirremaining, worthless as they are, at Mr.P.'s mercy. As for my writing aboutthem, I should not be able to make up

my mind to do that. You know I hadnothing to do with their being sent toMr. Parker, and was indeed in completeignorance of it. Besides, I should behalf ashamed to write to him now onany subject. A very long interregnumtook place in our correspondence,which was his own work; and when hewrote to me the summer before last, Idelayed from week to week, and thenfrom month to month, answering it.And now I feel ashamed to write at all.

Perhaps you will wonder why I am notashamed to write to you. Indeed I havemeant to do it very, very often. Don't besevere upon me. I am always afraid ofwriting to you too often, and so the

opposite fault is apt to be run into ofwriting too seldom. IF THAT is a fault.You see my scepticism is becomingfaster and faster developed.

Let me hear from you soon, if you arenot angry. I have been reading theBridgewater treatise, and am now tryingto understand Prout upon Chemistry. Ishall be worth something at last, shall Inot Who knows but what I may die aglorious death under the pons asinorumafter all Prout (if I succeed inunderstanding him) does not hold thatmatter is infinitely divisible; and so Isuppose the seeds of matter theultimate molecules are a kind of tertiumquid between matter and spirit.

Certainly I can't believe that any kindof matter, primal or ultimate, can beindivisible, which it must according tohis view.

Chalmers's treatise is, as to eloquence,surpassingly beautiful; as to matter, Icould not walk with him all the way,although I longed to do it, for hewalked on flowers, and under shade 'notree on which a fine 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 toforgive me for not writing before,because I know very well that youwould rather have not heard from meimmediately.... And so, you and Mrs.Mathew have been tearing to pieces tothe very rags all my elaborate theology!And when Mr. Young is 'strongenough,' he is to help you at your cruelwork! 'The points upon which you andI differed' are so numerous, that if Ireally am wrong upon every one ofthem, Mrs. Mathew has indeed reasonto 'punish me with hard thoughts.' Well,she can't help my feeling for her muchesteem, although I never saw her. Andif I were to see her, I would not arguewith her; I would only ask her to let me

love her. I am weary of controversy inreligion, and should be so were Istronger and more successful in it thanI am or care to be. The command is not'argue with one another,' but 'love oneanother.' It is better to love than toconvince. They who lie on the bosomof Jesus must lie there together!

Not a word about your book![19]Don't you mean to tell me anything ofit I saw a review of it rather asatisfactory one I think in an Augustnumber of the 'Athenaeum.' If you willlook into 'Fraser's Magazine' forAugust, at an article entitled 'Rogueriesof Tom Moore,' you will be amusedwith a notice of the 'Edinburgh

Review's' criticism in the text, and ofyourself in a note. We have had acrowded Bible meeting, and a ChurchMissionary and London Missionarymeeting besides; and I went lastTuesday to the Exmouth Bible meetingwith Mrs. Maling, Miss Taylor, and Mr.Hunter. We did not return until half-past one in the morning.... The Bishopof Barbadoes and the Dean ofWinchester were walking together onthe beach yesterday, making Sidmouthlook quite episcopal. You would nothave despised it half so much, had youbeen here.

Do you know any person who wouldlike to send his or her son to Sidmouth,

for the sake of the climate, and privateinstruction: and if you do, will youmention it to me I am very sorry tohear of Mrs. Boyd being so unwell.Arabel had a letter two days ago fromAnnie, and as it mentions Mrs. Boyd'shaving gone to Dover, I trust that she iswell again. Should she be returned, givemy love to her.

The black-edged paper may make youwonder at its cause. Our dear aunt Mrs.Butler died last month at Dieppe anddied in Jesus. Miss Clarke is going, if sheis 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 your plans are. I hearnothing about our leaving Sidmouth.

[Footnote 19: The Fathers not Papists,including a reprint of some translationsfrom the Greek Fathers, which Mr.Boyd had published previously.]

To Miss Commeline September 22, 1834[Sidmouth].

I am afraid that there can be no chanceof my handwriting at least beingunforgotten by you, dear MissCommeline, but in the case of yourhaving a very long memory you may

remember the name which shall bewritten at the end of this note, andwhich belongs to one who does not,nor is likely to forget you! I was much,much obliged to you for the kind fewlines you wrote to me how long ago!No, do not remember how long do notremember that for fear you should thinkme unkind, and what I am not! I haveintended again and again to answeryour note, and I am doing it at last! Areyou all quite well Mrs. Commeline andall of you Shall I ever see any of youagain Perhaps I shall not; but even if Ido not, I shall not cease to wish you tobe well and happy 'in the body or outof the body.'

We came to Sidmouth for two months,and you see we are here still; and whenwe are likely to go is as uncertain asever. I like the place, and some of itsinhabitants. I like the greenness and thetranquillity and the sea; and the solitudeof one dear seat which hangs over it,and which is too far or too lonely formany others to like besides myself. Weare living in a thatched cottage, with agreen lawn bounded by a Devonshirelane. Do you know what that is Miltondid when he wrote of 'hedgerow elmsand hillocks green.' Indeed Sidmouth isa nest among elms; and the lulling ofthe sea and the shadow of the hillsmake it a peaceful one. But there are nomajestic features in the country. It is all

green and fresh and secluded; and thegrandeur is concentrated upon theocean without deigning to haveanything to do with the earth. I oftenfind my thoughts where my footstepsonce used to be! but there is no use inspeaking of that....

Pray believe me, affectionately yours,E.B. BARRETT.

To Mrs. Martin Sidmouth: Friday,December 19, 1834 [postmark].

My dearest Mrs. Martin, ... We havelately had deep anxiety with regard toour dear papa. He left us two monthsago to do his London business: and a

few weeks since we were told by a letterfrom him that he was ill; he giving us tounderstand that his complaint was of arheumatic character. By the next coach,we were so daring (I can scarcelyunderstand how we managed it) as tosend Henry to him: thinking that itwould be better to be scolded than tosuffer him to be alone and in sufferingat a London hotel. We were notscolded: but my prayer to be permittedto follow Henry was condemned tosilence: and what was said being saidemphatically, I was obliged to submit,and to be

thankful for the unsatisfactory accountswhich for many days afterwards we

received.... I cannot help being anxiousand fearful. You know he is all left to usand that without him we should indeedbe orphans and desolate. Therefore youmay well know what feelings those arewith which we look back upon hisdanger; and forwards to any threateningof a return of it.... It may not be so. Donot, when you write, allude to myfearing about it. Our only feeling nowshould certainly be a deep feeling ofthankfulness towards that God of allconsolation Who has permitted us toknow His love in the midst of manygriefs; and Who while He has often castupon us the sorrow and the shadow,has yet enabled us to recognise it as that'shadow of the wings of the Almighty,'

wherein we may 'rejoice.' We shallprobably see our dear papa next week.At least we know that he is only waitingfor strength and that he is already ableto go out I fear, not to walk out. Herewe are all well. Belle Vue is sold, andwe shall probably have to leave it inMarch: but I do not think that we shalldo so before. Henrietta is still veryanxious to leave Sidmouth altogether;and I still feel that I shall very muchgrieve to leave it: so that it is happy forus that neither is the decider on thispoint. I have often thought that it ishappier not to do what one pleases, andperhaps you will agree with me if youdon't please at the present moment todo something very particular. And do

tell me, dear Mrs. Martin, what you arepleasing to do, and what you are doing:for it seems to me, and indeed is, a longtime since I heard of you and Mr.Martin in detail. Miss Maria Commelinesent a note to Henrietta a fortnight ago:and in it was honorable mention ofyou but I won't interfere with thesublimities of your imagination, bytelling you what it was.... I should liketo hear something of Hope End:whether there are many alterations, andwhether the new lodge, of which Iheard, is built. Even now, the thoughtstands before me sometimes like anobject in a dream that I shall see nomore those hills and trees whichseemed to me once almost like portions

of my existence. This is not meant formurmuring. I have had muchhappiness at Sidmouth, though with acharacter of its own. Henrietta andArabel and I are the only guardians justnow of the three youngest boys, theonly ones at home: and I assure you, wehave not too little to do. They are nolonger little boys. There is an anxietyamong us just now to have letters fromJamaica from my dear dear Bro but thepacket is only 'expected.' The lastaccounts were comforting ones; and Iam living on the hope of seeing himback again in the spring. Stormie andGeorgie are doing well at Glasgow. SoDr. Wardlaw says.... Henrietta'sparticular love to you; and do believe

me always,

Your affectionate E.B. BARRETT.

You have of course heard of poor Mrs.Boyd's death. Mr. Boyd and hisdaughter are both in London, andlikely, I think, to remain there.

To H.S. Boyd Sidmouth: Tuesday [spring1835].

My dear Mr. Boyd, ... Now I am goingto tell you the only good news I know,and you will be glad, I know, to be toldwhat I am going to tell you. DearGeorgie has taken his degree, and veryhonorably, at Glasgow, and is coming

to us in all the dignity of a Bachelor ofArts. He was examined in Logic, MoralPhilosophy, Greek and Latin, of coursepublicly: and we have heard from afellow student of his, that his answerswere more pertinent than those of anyother of the examined, and elicitedmuch applause. Mr. Groube is thefellow student but he has ceased to beone, having found the Glasgow studiestoo heavy for his health. Stormieshrank from the public examination, onaccount of the hesitation in his speech.He would not go up; although,according to report, as well qualified asGeorgie. Mr. Groube says that theladies of Glasgow are preparing tobreak their hearts for Georgie's

departure: and he and Stormie leaveGlasgow on May I. Now, I am sure youwill rejoice with me in the result of theexamination. Do you not, dear friend Iwas very anxious about it; and almostresigned to hear of a failure forGeorgie was in great alarm andprepared us for the very worst.Therefore the surprise and pleasurewere great.

I can't tell you of our plans; althoughthe Glasgow students come to us in aweek and this house will be too smallto receive them. We may leaveSidmouth immediately, or not at all. Ishall soon be quite qualified to write apoem on the 'Pleasures of Doubt' and a

very good subject it will be. Thepleasures of certainty are generally farless enjoyable I mean as pleasures go inthis unpleasing world. Papa is inLondon, and much better when weheard from him last and we areawaiting his decree....

And now what remains for me to tellyou I believe I have read more Hebrewthan Greek lately; yet the dear Greek isnot less dear than ever. Who readsGreek to you Who holds my officeSome one, I hope, with an articulationof more congenial slowness.

Give Annie my kind love. May Godpreserve both of you!

Believe me, your affectionate friend,E.B. BARRETT.

CHAPTER II

1835-1841

The residence of the Barretts atSidmouth had never been a very settledone never intended to be permanent,and yet never having a fixed term norany reason for a fixed term. Hence itspread itself gradually over a space ofnearly three years, before the longcontemplated move to London actually

took place. During the latter part ofthat period, however, extant letters ofMiss Barrett are almost wholly wanting,and there is little information from anyother source as to the course of her life.It was apparently in the summer of1835 that Sidmouth was finally leftbehind, Mr. Barrett having then taken ahouse at 74 Gloucester Place (nearBaker Street), which, though neverregarded as more than a temporaryresidence, continued to be the home ofhis family for the next three years.

The move to London was followed bytwo results of great importance forElizabeth Barrett. In the first place, herhealth, which had never been strong,

broke down altogether in the Londonatmosphere, and it is from some timeshortly after the arrival in GloucesterPlace that the beginning of her invalidlife must be dated. On the other hand,residence in London brought her intothe neighbourhood of new friends;and although the number of thoseadmitted to see her in her sick-roomwas always small, we yet owe to thisfact the commencement of some ofher closest friendships, notably thosewith her distant cousin, John Kenyon,and with Miss Mitford, the authoressof 'Our Village,' and of acorrespondence on a much fuller andmore elaborate scale than any of theearlier period. To this, no doubt, the

fact of her confinement to her roomcontributed not a little; for beingunable to go out and see her friends,much of her communication withthem was necessarily by letter. At thesame time her literary activity wasincreasing. She began to contributepoems to various magazines, and to bebrought thereby into connection withliterary men; and she was also employedon the longer compositions which wentto make up her next volume ofpublished verse.

All this was, however, only of gradualdevelopment; and for some time hercorrespondence is limited to Mr. Boyd,who was now living in St. John's Wood,

and Mrs. Martin. The exact date of thefirst letter is uncertain, but it seems tobelong to a time soon after the arrivalof the Barretts in town.

To H.S. Boyd [74 Gloucester Place,London: autumn 1835.]

My dear Mr. Boyd, As Georgie is goingto do what I am afraid I shall not beable to do to-day namely, to visit you hemust take with him a few lines fromPorsonia greeting, to say how glad I am tofeel myself again at only a shortdistance from you, and how stillgladder I shall be when the same roomholds both of us. Don't be angrybecause I have not visited you

immediately. You know or you willknow, if you consider I cannot openthe window and fly.

Papa and I were very much obliged toyou for the poison and are ready tosmile upon you whenever you give usthe opportunity, as graciously asSocrates did upon his executioner. Howmuch you will have to say to me aboutthe Greeks, unless you begin first toabuse me about the Romans; and if youbegin that, the peroration will be a verypathetic one, in my being turned out ofyour doors. Such is my prophecy.

Papa has been telling me of yourabusing my stanzas on Mrs. Hemans's

death. I had a presentiment that youwould: and behold, why I said nothingto you of them. Of course, I maintain,versus both you and papa, that they arevery much to be admired: as well aseverything else proceeding from orbelonging to ME. Upon whichprinciple, I hope you will admireGeorge particularly.

Believe me, dear Mr. Boyd, youraffectionate friend, E.B. BARRETT.

Arabel's and my love to Annie. Won'tshe come to see us

To Mrs. Martin 74 Gloucester Place,Portman Square, London: Jan. I, 1836.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, I am halfwilling and half unwilling to write toyou when, among such dearer interestsand deep anxieties, you may perhaps bescarcely at liberty to attend to what Iwrite. And yet I will write, if it be onlybriefly, that you may not think if youthink of us at all that we have changedour hearts with our residence so muchas to forget to sympathise with you,dear Mrs. Martin, or to neglect toapprise you ourselves of ourmovements. Indeed, a letter to youshould have been written among myfirst letters on arriving in London, onlyHenrietta (my scape-goat, you will say)said, 'I will write to Mrs. Martin.' And

then after I had waited, and determinedto write without waiting any longer, weheard of poor Mrs. Hanford's afflictionand your anxiety, and I have consideredday after day whether or not I shouldintrude upon you; until I find myselfthus!

I do hope that you have from the handof God those consolations which onlyHe in Jesus Christ can give to the soafflicted. For I know well that you areafflicted with the afflicted, and thatwith you sympathy is suffering; and thatwhile the tenderest earthly comfort isadministered by your presence andkindness to your dear friends, you willfeel bitterly for them what a little thing

earthly comfort is, when the earthlybeloved perish before them. May Hewho is the Beloved in the sight of HisFather and His Church be near to themand you, and cause you to feel as well asknow the truth, that what is suddensorrow, to our judgments, is only long-prepared mercy in His will whosenames are Wisdom and Love. Should itnot be, dear friend, that the tears of ourhuman eyes ought to serve the happyand touching purpose of reminding usof those tears of Jesus which He shedin assuming our sorrow with our fleshAnd the memory of those tearsinvolves all comfort. A recognition ofthe oneness of the human nature ofthat Divine Saviour who ever liveth,

with ours which perishes and sorrowsso; an assurance drawn from thence ofHis sympathy who sits on the throne ofGod, with us who suffer in the dust ofearth, and of all those doctrines ofredemption and sanctification andhappiness which come from Him andby Him.

Now you will forgive me for writing allthis, dearest Mrs. Martin. I like to writemy thoughts and feelings out of myown head and heart, just as theysuggest themselves, when I write toyou; and I cannot think of affliction,particularly when it comes near to mein the affliction or anxiety of dearfriends, without looking back and

remembering what voice of God usedto sound softly to me when none othercould speak comfort. You will forgiveme, and not be angry with me fortrying, or seeming to try, to be a sermonwriter.

Perhaps, dear Mrs. Martin, when youdo feel inclined and able to write, youwould write me a few lines. Remember,I do not ask for them now. No, do notthink of writing now. I shall very muchlike to hear how your dear charge iswhether there should appear anyprospect of improvement; and howpoor Mrs. Hanford bears up againstthis heavy calamity; and whether theanxiety and nursing affect your health.

But we shall try to hear this from theBiddulphs; and so do put me out ofyour head, except when its thoughtswould dwell on those on earth whosympathise with you and care for you.

You see we are in London after all, andpoor Sidmouth left afar. I am almostinclined to say 'poor us' instead of'poor Sidmouth.' But I dare say I shallsoon be able to see in my dungeon, andbegin to be amused with the spiders.Half my soul, in the meantime, seemsto have stayed behind on the seashore,which I love more than ever now that Icannot walk on it in the body. Londonis wrapped up like a mummy, in ayellow mist, so closely that I have had

scarcely a glimpse of its countenancesince we came. Well, I am trying to likeit all very much, and I dare say that intime I may change my taste and mysenses and succeed. We are in a houselarge enough to hold us, for fourmonths, at the end of which time, ifthe experiment of our being able to livein London succeed, I believe that papa'sintention is to take an unfurnishedhouse and have his furniture fromLedbury. You may wonder at me, but Iwish that were settled so, and now. I amsatisfied with London, although I cannotenjoy it. We are not likely, in the case ofleaving it, to return to Devonshire, andI should look with weary eyes toanother strangership and pilgrimage

even among green fields that know notthese fogs. Papa's object in settling hererefers to my brothers. George willprobably enter as a barrister student atthe Inner Temple on the fifth or sixthof this month, and he will have theadvantage of his home by ourremaining where we are. Anotheradvantage of London is, that we shallsee here those whom we might seenowhere else. This year, dear Mrs.Martin, may it bring with it the truepleasure of seeing you! Three havegone, and we have not seen you.... MayGod bless you and all that you care for,being with you always as the God ofconsolation and peace.

Your affectionate E.B. BARRETT.

It is from the middle of this year thatMiss Barrett's active appearance as anauthor may be dated. Hitherto herpublications had been confined to afew small anonymous volumes, printedrather to please herself and her friendsthan with any idea of appealing to awider public. She was now anxious totake this farther step, and, with thatobject, to obtain admission to some ofthe literary magazines. This wasobtained through the instrumentalityof Mr. R.H. Home, subsequently bestknown as the author of 'Orion.' Hewas at this time personally unknown toMiss Barrett, but an application

through a common friend led both tothe opening to the poetess of the pagesof the 'New Monthly Magazine,' thenedited by Bulwer, and also to thecommencement of a friendship whichhas left its mark in the two volumes ofpublished letters to Mr. Home. Thefollowing is Mr. Home's account of theopening of the acquaintance ('Letters,' i.7, 8):

'My first introduction to Miss Barrettwas by a note from Mrs. Orme,inclosing one from the young ladycontaining a short poem with themodest request to be frankly toldwhether it might be ranked as poetry ormerely verse. As there could be no

doubt in the recipient's mind on thatpoint, the poem was forwarded toColburn's "New Monthly," edited atthat time by Mr. Bulwer (afterwards thelate [first] Lord Lytton), where it dulyappeared in the current number. Thenext manuscript sent to me was "TheDead Pan," and the poetess at oncestarted on her bright and noble career.'

The poem with which Miss Barrett thusmade her bow to the world of letterswas 'The Romaunt of Margret,'[20]which appeared in the July number ofthe magazine. Mr. Home must,however, have been in error in speakingof 'The Dead Pan' as its successor,since that was not written till some

years later. More probably it was 'ThePoet's Vow,[21] which was printed inthe October number of the 'NewMonthly.'

[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 withme as you can. I have not been verywell for a day or two, and shall enjoy avisit to you on Monday so much morethan I shall be able to do to-day, that Iwill ask you to forgive my not going to

you this week, and to receive me kindlyon that day instead provided, youknow, it is not wet.

The [Greek: Achaiides] approach the[Greek: Achaioi][22] more tremblinglythan usual, with the 'New MonthlyMagazine' in their hands. Now praydon't annoy yourself by reading a singleword which you would rather not readexcept for the sake of being kind to me.And my prophecy is, that even byannoying yourself and making astrenuous effort, the whole force offriendship would not carry you downthe first page. Georgie says you want toknow the verdict of the 'Athenaeum.'That paper unfortunately has been lent

out of the house; but my memoryenables me to send you the words verycorrectly, I think. After someobservations on other periodicals, thewriter goes on to say: 'The "NewMonthly Magazine" has not one heavyarticle. It is rich in poetry, includingsome fine sonnets by the Corn LawRhymer, and a fine although toodreamy ballad, "The Poet's Vow." Weare almost tempted to pause andcriticise the work of a writer of somuch inspiration and promise as theauthor of this poem, and exhort himonce again, to greater clearness ofexpression and less quaintness in thechoice of his phraseology; but this isnot the time or place for digression.'

You see my critic has condemned mewith a very gracious countenance. Doput on yours,

And believe me, affectionately yours,E.B. BARRETT.

I forgot to say that you surprised andpleased me at the same time by yourpraise of my 'Sea-mew.'[23] Love toAnnie. We were glad to hear that shedid not continue unwell, and that you arewell again, too. I hope you have had noreturn of the rheumatic pain.

[Footnote 22: Miss Barrett's Greek ishabitually written without accents or

breathings.]

[Footnote 23: Poetical Works, ii. 278.]

To H.S. Boyd [74 Gloucester Place:]Saturday, [October 1836].

My dear Friend, I am muchdisappointed in finding myself at theend of this week without having onceseen you particularly when your twonotes are waiting all this time to beanswered. Do believe that they werenot, either of them, addressed to anungrateful person, and that the onlyreason of their being received silentlywas my hope of answering them moreagreeably to both of us by talking

instead of writing.

Yes; you have read my mystery.[24]

You paid a tithe to your human naturein reading only nine-tenths of it, and therest was a pure gift to your friendshipfor me, and is taken and will beremembered as such. But you have acruel heart for a parody, and this onetried my sensibility so much that I criedwith laughing. I confess to younotwithstanding, it was very fair, anddealt its blow with a shining pointedweapon.

But what will you say to me when Iconfess besides that, in the face of all

your kind encouragement, my Dramaof the Angels[25] has never beentouched until the last three days It wasnot out of pure idleness on my part,nor of disregard to your admonition;but when my thoughts were distractedwith other things, books just beguninclosing me all around, a whole loadof books upon my conscience, I couldnot possibly rise up to the gate ofheaven and write about my angels. Youknow one can't sometimes sit down tothe sublunary, occupation of readingGreek, unless one feels free to it. Andwriting poetry requires a double liberty,and an inclination which comes onlyof itself.

But I have begun. I tried the blankmetre once, and it would not do, and so Ihad to begin again in lyrics. Somethingabove an hundred lines is written, andnow I am in two panics, just as if onewere not enough. First, because itseems to me a very daring subject asubject almost beyond our sympathies,and therefore quite beyond the sphereof human poetry. Perhaps when all iswritten courageously, I shall have nocourage left to publish it. Secondly,because all my tendencies towardsmysticism will be called into terribleoperation by this dreaming uponangels.

Yes; you will read a mystery,

but don't make any rash resolutionsabout reading anything. As I havebegun, I certainly will go on with thewriting.

Here is a question for you:

Am I to accept your generous sacrificeof reading nine-tenths of my 'Vow,' asan atonement for your WANT OFCONFIDENCE IN ME Oh, yourconscience will understand very wellwhat I mean, without a dictionary.

Arabel and I intend to pay you a visiton Monday, and if we can, and it isconvenient to you, we are inclined to

invite ourselves to your dinner table.But this is all dependent on theweather.

Believe me, dear Mr. Boyd, youraffectionate friend, E.B. BARRETT.

[Footnote 24: An allusion to the firstline 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 busythat I have not been able until this

morning to take breath or inspiration toanswer your lyrics. You shall see mesoon, but I am sorry to say it can't beMonday or Tuesday.

I have had another note from the editorof the 'New Monthly Magazine' veryflattering, and praying for farthersupplies. The Angels were not ready,and I was obliged to send somethingelse, which I 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 Iwon't miss this post,

Yours affectionately, E.B. BARRETT.

Your lyrics found me dull as proseAmong a file of papers And analysingLondon fogs To nothing but thevapours.

They knew their part; but through thefog Their flaming lightning raising;They missed my fancy, and instead, Mycholer set a-blazing.

Quoth I, 'I need not care a pin Forcharge unjust, unsparing; Yet oh! forancient bodkin[26] keen, To punishthis Pindaring.

'Yet oh! that I, a female Jove, These fogssublime might float on, Where, eagle-

like, my dove might show A very[Greek: ugron noton].[27]

'Then lightning should for lightningflash, Vexation for vexation, Andshades of St. John's Wood should glowIn awful conflagration.'

I spoke; when lo! my birds of peace,The vengeance disallowing, Replied,'Coo, coo!' But keep in mind, That cooingis not cowing.[28]

[Footnote 26: The bodkin seems to bea favourite weapon with ancient dameswhose genius was for killing (note byE.B.B.).]

[Footnote 27: A reference to Pindar,Pyth.i. 9.]

[Footnote 28: These verses are inclosedwith the foregoing letter, as a retort toMr. Boyd's parody.]

To Mrs. Martin 74 Gloucester Place:December 7, 1836.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, Indeed I havelong felt the need of writing to you (Imean the need to myself), and althoughso many weeks and even months havepassed away in silence, they have notdone so in lack of affection andthought.

I had wished very much to have beenable to tell you in this letter where wehad taken our house, or where we weregoing to take it. We remain, however, inour usual state of conscious ignorance,although there is a good deal of talkingand walking about a house in WimpoleStreet which, between ourselves, I amnot very anxious to live in, on accountof the gloominesses of that street, andof that part of the street, whose wallslook so much like Newgate's turnedinside out. I would rather go on, in myold way, inhabiting castles in the airthan that particular house.Nevertheless, if it is decided upon, Idare say I shall contrive to be satisfiedwith it, and sleep and wake very much

as I should in any other. It will certainlybe a point gained to be settledsomewhere, and I do so long to sit inmy own armchair strange as it will lookout of my own room and to read frommy own books.... For our ownparticular parts, our healths continuegood none of us, I think, the worse forfog or wind. As to wind, we werealmost elevated into the prerogative ofpigs in the late storm. We could almostsee it, and the feeling it might have beenfatal to us. Bro and I were moralisingabout shipwrecks, in the dining-room,when down came the chimney throughthe skylight into the entrance passage.You may imagine the crashing effect ofthe bricks bounding from the staircase

downwards, breaking the stone steps inthe process, in addition to the falling inof twenty-four large panes of glass,frames and all. We were terrified out ofall propriety, and there has been adreadful calumny about Henrietta andme that we had the hall door open forthe purpose of going out into the streetwith our hair on end, if Bro had notencouraged us by shutting the door andlocking it. I confess to opening thedoor, but deny the purpose of it atleast, maintain that I only meant tokeep in reserve a way of escape, in case,as seemed probable, the whole housewas on its way to the ground. Indeed,we should think much of the mercy ofthe escape. Bro had been on the

staircase only five minutes before. Sarahthe housemaid was actually there. Shelooked up accidentally and saw thenodding chimneys, and ran down intothe drawing-room to papa, shrieking,but escaping with one graze of thehand from one brick. How did you farein the wind I never much imaginedbefore that anything so true to natureas a real live storm could make itselfheard in our streets. But it has come toosurely, and carried away with it, besidesour chimney, all that was left to us ofthe country, in the shape of theKensington Garden trees. Now dowrite to me, dearest Mrs. Martin, andsoon, and tell me all you can of yourchances and mischances, and how Mr.

Martin is getting on with the parish,and yourself with the parishioners. Butyou have more the name of living atColwall than the thing. You seem to meto lead a far more wandering life thanwe, 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 isthe wisest at least, the most congenial tothe 'uses of this world.' We give oursympathies and associations to our hillsand fields, and then the providence ofGod gives them to another, It is better,perhaps, to keep a stricter identity, bycalling only our thoughts our own.

Was there anybody in the world whoever loved London for itself Did Dr.Johnson, in his paradise of Fleet Street,love the pavement and the walls Idoubt that whether I ought to do so ornot though I don't doubt at all that onemay be contented and happy here, andlove much in the place. But the placeand the privileges of it don't mixtogether in one's love, as is done amongthe hills and by the seaside.

I or Henrietta must have told you thatone of my privileges has been to seeWordsworth twice. He was very kind tome, and let me hear his conversation. Iwent with him and Miss Mitford to

Chiswick, and thought all the way that Imust certainly be dreaming. I saw heralmost every day of her week's visit toLondon (this was all long ago, whileyou were in France); and she, whooverflows with warm affections andgenerous benevolences, showed meevery present and absent kindness,professing to love me, and asking me towrite to her. Her novel is to bepublished soon after Christmas, and Ibelieve a new tragedy is to appear aboutthe same time, 'under the protection ofMr. Forrest.' Papa has given me the firsttwo volumes of Wordsworth's newedition. The engraving in the first is hisown face. You might think me affected ifI told you all I felt in seeing the living

face. His manners are very simple, andhis conversation not at all prominent ifyou quite understand what I mean bythat. I do myself, for I saw at the sametime Landor the brilliant Landor! andfelt the difference between great geniusand eminent talent; All these visionshave passed now. I hear and seenothing, except my doves and thefireplace, and am doing little else than[words torn out] write all day long. Andthen people ask me what I mean in[words torn out]. I hope you were amongthe six who understood or halfunderstood my 'Poet's Vow' that is, ifyou read it at all. Uncle Hedley made along pause at the first part. But I havebeen reading, too, Sheridan Knowles's

play of the 'Wreckers.' It is full ofpassion and pathos, and made me sheda great many tears. How do you get onwith the reading society Do you seemuch or anything of Lady MargaretCocks, from whom I never hear now Ipromised to let her have 'Ion,' if Icould, before she left Brighton, but theperson to whom it was lent did notreturn it to me in time. Will you tell herthis, if you do see her, and give her mykind regards at the same time Dear Bellwas so sorry not to have seen you. Ifshe had, you would have thought herlooking very well, notwithstanding thethinness perhaps, in some measure, onaccount of it and in eminent spirits. Ihave not seen her in such spirits for

very, very long. And there she is, downat Torquay, with the Hedleys andButlers, making quite a colony of it,and everybody, in each several letter,grumbling in an undertone at thedullness of the place. What would Igive to see the waves once more! Butperhaps if I were there, I shouldgrumble too. It is a happiness to themto be together, and that, I am sure, theyall feel....

Believe me, dearest Mrs. Martin, youraffectionate E.B.B.

Oh that you would call me Ba![29]

[Footnote 29: Elizabeth Barrett's 'pet

name' (see her poem, Poetical Works, ii.249), given to her as a child by herbrother Edward, and used by her familyand friends, and by herself in her lettersto them, throughout her life.]

To H.S. Boyd [74 Gloucester Place:]Thursday, December 15, 1836[postmark].

My dear Mr. Boyd, ... Two morningssince, I saw in the paper, under thehead of literary news, that a change ofeditorship was taking place in the 'NewMonthly Magazine;' and that TheodoreHook was to preside in the room ofMr. Hall. I am so much too modest andtoo wise to expect the patronage of two

editors in succession, that I expect bothmy poems in a return cover, by everytwopenny post. Besides, what hasTheodore Hook to do with SeraphimSo, I shall leave that poem of mine toyour imagination; which won't be halfas troublesome to you as if I asked youto read it; begging you to be assured towrite it down in your critical rubric thatit is the very finest composition youever read, next (of course) to thebeloved 'De Virginitate' of GregoryNazianzen.[30]

Mr. Stratten has just been here. I admirehim more than I ever did, for hisadmiration of my doves. By the way, Iam sure he thought them the most

agreeable of the whole party; for hesaid, what he never did before, that hecould sit here for an hour! Our love toAnnie and forgive me for Baskettiring aletter 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 deedof Ate Which you bound me to so fast,Reading 'De Virginitate,' From the firstline to the last How I said at endingsolemn, As I turned and looked at you,That Saint Simeon on the column Hadhad 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 muchobliged to you for the two copies ofyour poem, so beautifully printed, withsuch 'majestical' types, on such'magnifical' paper, as to be almostworthy of Baskett himself. You are tooliberal in sending me more than onecopy; and pray accept in return aduplicate of gratitude.

As to my 'Seraphim,' they are not

returned to me, as in the case of theirbeing unaccepted, I expressly beggedthey might be. Had the old editor beenthe present one, my inference would ofcourse be, that their insertion was adetermined matter; but as it is, I don'tknow what to think.[31] A long list ofgreat names, belonging to intendingcontributors, appeared in the paper aday or two ago, and among them wasMiss Mitford's.

Are you wroth with me for not saying aword about going to see you Arabeland I won't affirm it mathematically butwe are, metaphysically, talking of payingour visit to you next Tuesday. Don'texpect us, nevertheless.

Yours affectionately, E.B. BARRETT.

What are my Christmas good wishes tobe That you may hold a Field in yourright hand, and a Baskerville in yourleft, before the year is out! That degreeof happiness will satisfy at least thebodily part of you.

You may wish, in return, for me, that Imay learn to write rather more legiblythan '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, 'TheSeraphim' was not printed in the NewMonthly, being probably thought toolong.]

To Mrs. Martin. [74 Gloucester Place:]January 23, 1837 [postmark].

My dearest Mrs. Martin, I am standingin Henrietta's place, she says but not, Isay, to answer your letter to heryesterday, but your letter to me, someweeks ago which I meant to answermuch more immediately if the ignisfatuus of a house (you see to what amiserable fatuity I am reduced, of

applying your pure country metaphorsto our brick pollutions) had not beengliding just before us, and I had notmuch wished to be able to tell you ofour settlement. As it is, however, I mustwrite, and shall keep a solemn silenceon the solemn subject of our shiftingplans....

No! I was not at all disappointed inWordsworth, although perhaps Ishould not have singled him from themultitude as a great man. There is areserve even in his countenance, whichdoes not lighten as Landor's does,whom I saw the same evening. His eyeshave more meekness than brilliancy;and in his slow even articulation there

is rather the solemnity and calmness oftruth itself, than the animation andenergy of those who seek for it. As tomy being quite at my ease when I spoketo him, why how could you ask such aquestion I trembled both in my souland body. But he was very kind, andsate near me and talked to me as long ashe was in the room and recited atranslation by Cary of a sonnet ofDante's and altogether, it was quite adream! Landor too Walter SavageLandor ... in whose hands the ashes ofantiquity burn again gave me twoGreek epigrams he had lately written ...and talked brilliantly and prominentlyuntil Bro (he and I went together)abused him for ambitious singularity and

affectation. But it was very interesting.And dear Miss Mitford too! and Mr.Raymond, a great Hebraist and theancient author of 'A Cure for aHeartache!' I never walked in the skiesbefore; and perhaps never shall again,when so many stars are out! I shall atleast see dear Miss Mitford, who wroteto me not long ago to say that shewould soon be in London with 'Otto,'her new tragedy, which was written atMr. Forrest's own request, he in themost flattering manner having appliedto her a stranger, as the authoress of'Rienzi,' for a dramatic work worthy ofhis acting after rejecting many playsoffered to him, and among them Mr.Knowles's.... She says that her play will

be quite opposed, in its execution, to'Ion,' as unlike it 'as a ruined castleoverhanging the Rhine, to a Greciantemple.' And I do not doubt that it willbe full of ability; although my ownopinion is that she stands higher as theauthoress of 'Our Village' than of'Rienzi,' and writes prose better thanpoetry, and transcends rather in Dutchminuteness and high finishing, than inItalian ideality and passion. I thinkbesides that Mr. Forrest's rejection ofany play of Sheridan Knowles mustrefer rather to its unfitness for thedevelopment of his own personaltalent, than to its abstract demerit,whatever Transatlantic tastes he maybring with him. The published title of

the last play is 'The Daughter,' not 'TheWreckers,' although I believe it wasacted as the last. I am very anxious toread 'Otto,' not to see it. I am not goingto see it, notwithstanding an offeredtemptation to sit in the authoress's ownbox. With regard to 'Ion,' I think it is abeautiful work, but beautiful rathermorally than intellectually. Is this rightor not Its moral tone is very noble, andsends a grand and touching harmonyinto the midst of the full discord ofthis utilitarian age. As dramatic poetry, itseems to me to want, not beauty, butpower, passion, and condensation. Thisis 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 is a mostamiable man (who else could havewritten 'Ion' ), but that he was a littleelevated by his popularity last year!...

I have read Combe's 'Phrenology,' butnot the 'Constitution of Man.' The'Phrenology' is very clever, andamusing; but I do not think it logical orsatisfactory. I forget whether 'slownessof the pulse' is mentioned in it as asymptom of the poetical aestus. I amafraid, if it be a symptom, I dare nottake my place even in the 'forlorn hopeof poets' in this age so forlorn as to itspoetry; for my pulse is in a continualflutter and my feet not half coldenough for a pedestal so I must make

my honours over to poor papastraightway. He has been shivering andshuddering through the cold weather;and partaking our influenza in thewarmer. I am very sorry that youshould have been a sufferer too. Itseems to have been a universalpestilence, even down in Devonshire,where dear Bummy and the wholecolony have had their share of 'groans.'And one of my doves shook its prettyhead and ruffled its feathers and shutits eyes, and became subject to pap andnursing and other infirmities for two orthree days, until I was in greatconsternation for the result. But it iswell again cooing as usual; and soindeed we all are. But indeed, I can't

write a sentence more without sayingsome of the evil it deserves of theutilitarianisms of this corrupt ageamong some of the chief of which aresteel pens!

I am so glad that you liked my'Romaunt,' and so resigned that you didnot understand some of my 'Poet'sVow,' and so obliged that you shouldcare to go on reading what I write. Theyvouchsafed to publish in the firstnumber of the new series of the 'NewMonthly' a little poem of mine called'The Island,'[33] but so incorrectly thatI was glad at the additional oblivion ofmy signature. If you see it, pray alter thelast senseless line of the first page into

'Leaf sounds with water, in your ear,'and put 'amreeta' instead of 'amneta' onthe second page; and strike out 'of' inthe line which names Aeschylus! Thereare other blunders, [but] these areintolerable, and cast me out of my'contentment' for some time. I havebegged for [proof] sheets in future; andas none have come for the ensuingmonth, I suppose I shall have nothingin the next number. They have a lyricaldramatic poem of mine, 'The TwoSeraphim,' which, whenever it appears,I shall like to have your opinion of. Asto the incomprehensible line in the'Poet's Vow' of which you asked me themeaning, '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 tendency of manyto become one) in all things. Do youunderstand or is the explanation to beexplained The unity of God preserves aunity in men that is, a perpetualsympathy between man and man whichsympathy we must be subject to, if notin our joys, yet in our griefs. I believethe subject itself involves the necessityof some mysticism; but I must makeno excuses. I am afraid that my verySeraphim will not be thought to standin a very clear light, even at heaven'sgate. But this is much asay aboutnothing ...

The Bishop of Exeter is staying andpreaching at Torquay. Do you not envythem all for making part of hiscongregation I am sure I do as much. Ienvy you your before-breakfast activity.I am never a complete man without mybreakfast it seems to be some integralpart of my soul. You 'read allO'Connell's speeches.' I never read anyof them unless they take me bysurprise. I keep my devotion for unpaidpatriots; but Miss Mitford is anotherdevotee of Mr. O'Connell ...

Dearest Mrs. Martin's affectionate E.B.BARRETT.

Thank you for the 'Ba' in Henrietta's

letter. If you knew how many people,whom I have known only within thisyear or two, whether I like them or not,say 'Ba, Ba,' quite naturally andpastorally, you would not come to mewith 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 longlong time since we had any intercourse;and the answer to your last pleasantletter to Henrietta must go to you from

me. We have heard of you that youdon't mean to return to England beforethe spring which news proved me aprophet, and disappointed me at thesame time, for one can't enjoy even aprophecy in this world withoutsomething vexing. Indeed, I do long tosee you again, dearest Mrs. Martin, andshould always have the same pleasurein it, and affection for you, if myfriends and acquaintances were asmuch multiplied as you wrongly supposethem to be. But the truth is that I havealmost none at all, in this place; and,except our relative Mr. Kenyon, not oneliterary in any sense. Dear Miss Mitford,one of the very kindest of humanbeings, lies buried in geraniums, thirty

miles away. I could not conceive whatHenrietta had been telling you, or whatyou meant, for a long time until weconjectured that it must have beensomething about Lady Dacre, whokindly sent me her book, and intimatedthat she would be glad to receive me ather conversations and you know mebetter than to doubt whether I wouldgo or not. There was an equalunworthiness and unwillingnesstowards the honor of it. Indeed,dearest Mrs. Martin, it is almostsurprising how we contrive to be asdull in London as in Devonshireperhaps more so, for the sight of amultitude induces a sense of seclusionwhich one has not without it; and,

besides, there were at Sidmouth manymore known faces and listened-tovoices than we see and hear in thisplace. No house yet! And you willscarcely have patience to read that papahas seen and likes another house inDevonshire Place, and that he may takeit, and we may be settled in it, before theyear closes. I myself think of the wholebusiness indifferently. My thoughtshave turned so long on the subject ofhouses, that the pivot is broken andnow they won't turn any more. All thatremains is, a sort of consciousness, thatwe should be more comfortable in ahouse with cleaner carpets, and takenfor rather longer 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 onebut that the feeling of four red Londonwalls closing around us for seven,eleven, or twenty-five years, would be aharsh and hard one, and make us crywistfully to 'get out.' I am sure you willlook up to your mountains, and downto your lakes, and enter into thisconjecture.

Talking of mountains and lakes is itselfa trying thing to us poor prisoners.Papa has talked several times of takingus into the country for two months thissummer, and we have dreamt of it ahundred times in addition; but, after all,we are not likely to go I dare say. Itwould have been very delightful and

who knows what may take place nextsummer We may not absolutely die,without seeing a tree. Henrietta has seena great many. You will have heard, Idare say, of the enjoyment she had inher week at Camden House. She seemsto have walked from seven in themorning to seven at night; and wasquite delighted with the kindnesswithin doors and the sunshine without.I assure you that, fresh as she was fromthe air and dew, she saluted us amidstthe sentiment of our sisterly meetingjust in this way it was almost her firstexclamation 'What a very disagreeablesmell there is here!' And this, althoughshe had brought geraniums enoughfrom Camden to perfume the

Haymarket!...

I am happy to announce to you that anew little dove has appeared from ashell over which nobody hadprognosticated good on August 16,1837. I and the senior doves appearequally delighted, and we all three, inthe capacity of good sitters andindefatigable pullers-about, take a gooddeal of credit upon ourselves....

Arabel has begun oil painting, andwithout a master and you can't thinkhow much effect and expression shehas given to several of her ownsketches, notwithstanding alldifficulties. Poor Henrietta is without a

piano, and is not to have one again untilwe have another house! This is somethinglike 'when Homer and Virgil areforgotten.' Speaking of Homer and Virgil,I have been writing a 'Romance of theGanges,'[34] in order to illustrate anengraving in the new annual to beedited by Miss Mitford, Finden'stableaux for 1838. It does not sound avery Homeric undertaking I confess Idon't hold any kind of annual, gild it asyou please, in too much honour andawe but from my wish to please her,and from the necessity of its beingdone in a certain time, I was 'quitefrightful,' as poor old Cooke used tosay, in order to express his ownnervousness. But she was quite pleased

she is very soon pleased and the ballad,gone the way of all writing, now-a-days, to the press. I do wish I couldsend you some kind of news thatwould interest you; but you see scarcelyany except all this selfishness is in mybeat. Dearest Bro draws and readsGerman, and I fear is dullnotwithstanding. But we are every oneof us more reconciled to London thanwe were. Well! I must not write anymore. Whenever you think of me,dearest Mrs. Martin, remember howdeeply and unchangeably I must regardyou both with my mind, my affections,and that part of either, called mygratitude. BA.

Henrietta's kindest love and thanks foryour letter. She desires me to say thatshe and Bro are going to dine with Mrs.Robert Martin to-morrow. I must tellyou that Georgie and I went to hear Dr.Chalmers preach, three Sundays ago.His sermon was on a text whoseextreme beauty would diffuse itselfinto any sermon preached upon it Godis love. His eloquence was very great,and his views noble and grasping. Iexpected much from his imagination,but not so much from his knowledge.It was truer to Scripture than I wasprepared for, although there seemed tome some want on the subject of thework of the Holy Spirit on the heart,which work we cannot dwell upon too

emphatically. 'He worketh in us to willand to do,' and yet we are apt to willand do without a transmission of thepraise to Him. May God bless you.

[Footnote 34: Poetical Works, ii. 83.]

To Miss Commeline London: August 19,1837.

My dear Miss Commeline, I could nothear of your being in affliction withoutvery frequent thoughts of you and adesire to express some of them in thisway, and although so much time haspassed I do hope that you will believein the sympathy with which I, or ratherwe, have thought 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 both for ourselvesand for each other that while there is adarkness that must come to all, there is alight which may; and may He who is thelight in the dark place be with you[now] and always, causing you to feelrather the glory that is in Him than theshadow which is in all beside that sothe sweetness of the consolation maypass the bitterness of even grief. Dogive my love to Mrs. Commeline and toyour sisters, and believe me, all of you,that the friends who have gone fromyour neighbourhood have not gonefrom my old remembrance, either ofyour kindness to them, or of their own

feelings of interest in you.

Trusting to such old remembrances, Iwill believe that you care to know whatwe are doing and how we are settlingthat word which has now been on ourlips for years, which it is marvellous tothink how it got upon human lips atall. We came from Sidmouth to tryLondon and ourselves, and see whetheror not we could live together; and aftermore than a year and a half closecontact with smoke we find no verygood excuse for not remaining in it;and papa is going on with his eternalhunt for houses the wild huntsman inthe ballad is nothing to him, all exceptthe sublimity intending very seriously

to take the first he can. He is nowabout one in particular, but I won't tellwhere it is because we have consideredso many houses in particular that ourconsiderations have come to be a jest ingeneral. I shall be heartily glad, at least Ithink so, for it is possible that the realityof being bricked up for a lease timemay not be very agreeable. I think Ishall be heartily glad when a house istaken, and we have made it look likeour own with our furniture andpictures and books. I am so anxious tosee my old books. I believe I shall beginat the beginning and read every storybook through in the joy of meeting,and shall be as sedentary as ever I wasin my own arm-chair. I remember when

I was a child spreading my vitality, notover trees and flowers (I do that still Istill believe they have a certain animalsusceptibility to pleasure and pain; 'it ismy creed,' and, being Wordsworth'sbesides, I am not ashamed of it), butover chairs and tables and books inparticular, and being used to fancy akind of love in them to suit my love tothem. And so if I were a child I shouldhave an intense pity for my poor folios,quartos, and duodecimos, to saynothing of the arm-chair, shut up allthese weeks and months in boxes,without a rational eye to look uponthem. Pray forgive me if I have writtena great deal of nonsense 'Je m'en doute.'

Henrietta has spent a fortnight atChislehurst with the Martins, and wasvery joyous there, and came back to uswith that happy triumphant air which Ialways fancy people 'just from thecountry' put on towards us haplessLondoners.

But you must not think I am adiscontented person and grumble allday long at being in London. There aremany advantages here, as I say to myselfwhenever it is particularly disagreeable;and if we can't see even a leaf or asparrow without soot on it, there arethe parrots at the Zoological Gardensand the pictures at the Royal Academy;and real live poets above all, with their

heads full of the trees and birds andsunshine of paradise. I have stood faceto face with Wordsworth and Landor;and Miss Mitford, who is in herselfwhat she is in her books, has become adear friend of mine, but a distant one.She visits London at long intervals, andlives thirty miles away....

Bro and I were studying Germantogether all last summer with Henry,before he left us to become a German,and I believe this is the last of mylanguages, for I have begun absolutelyto detest the sight of a dictionary orgrammar, which I never liked except asa means, and love poetry with anintenser love, if that be possible, than I

ever did. Not that Greek is not as dearto me as ever, but I write more than Iread, even of Greek poetry, and amresolute to work whatever little faculty Ihave, clear of imitations andconventionalisms which cloud andweaken more poetry (particularly now-a-days) than would be believed possiblewithout looking into it....

As to society in London, I assure youthat none of us have much, and that asfor me, you would wonder at seeinghow possible it is to live as secludedlyin the midst of a multitude as in thecentre of solitude. My doves are mychief acquaintances, and I am so veryintimate with them that they accept and

even demand my assistance in buildingtheir innumerable nests. Do tell me ifthere is any hope of seeing any of youin London at any time. I say 'do tell me,'for I will venture to ask you, dear MissCommeline, to write me a few lines inone of the idlest hours of one of youridlest days just to tell me a little aboutyou, and whether Mrs. Commeline istolerably well. Pray believe me under allcircumstances,

Yours sincerely and affectionately, E.B.BARRETT.

The spring of 1838 was marked by twoevents of interest to Miss Barrett andher family. In the first place, Mr.

Barrett's apparently interminable searchfor a house ended in his selection of 50Wimpole Street, which continued to behis home for the rest of his life, andwhich is, consequently, more than anyother house in London, to beassociated with his daughter's memory.The second event was the publicationof 'The Seraphim, and other Poems,'which was Miss Barrett's first seriousappearance before the public, and inher own name, as a poet. The earlyletters of this year refer to thepreparation of this volume, as well asto the authoress's health, which was atthis time in a very serious condition,owing to the breaking of a blood-vessel. Indeed, from this time until her

marriage in 1846 she held her life onthe frailest of tenures, and lived in allrespects the life of an invalid.

To H.S. Boyd Monday morning, March27, 1838 [postmark].

My dear Friend, I do hope that youmay not be very angry, but papa thinksand, indeed, I think that as I havealready had two proof sheets and forty-eight pages, and the printers have goneon to the rest of the poem, it wouldnot be very welcome to them if wewere to ask them to retrace their steps.Besides, I would rather I for myself, Ithat you had the whole poem at onceand clearly printed before you, to insure

as many chances as possible of yourliking it. I am promised to see the volumecompleted in three weeks from thistime, so that the dreadful moment ofyour reading it I mean the 'Seraphim'part of it cannot be far off, andperhaps, the season being a good dealadvanced even now, you might not, onconsideration, wish me to retard theappearance of the book, except forsome very sufficient reason. I feel verynervous about it far more than I didwhen my 'Prometheus' crept out [of]the Greek, or I myself out of the shell,in the first 'Essay on Mind.' Perhapsthis is owing to Dr. Chambers'smedicines, or perhaps to aconsciousness that my present attempt

is actually, and will be considered byothers, more a trial of strength thaneither of my preceding ones.

Thank you for the books, and especiallyfor the editio rarissima, which I should assoon have thought of your trusting tome as of your admitting me to standwith gloves on within a yard of Baxter.This extraordinary confidence shall notbe abused.

I thank you besides for your kindinquiries about my health. Dr.Chambers did not think me worseyesterday, notwithstanding the last colddays, which have occasioned someuncomfortable sensations, and he still

thinks I shall be better in the summerseason. In the meantime he has orderedme to take ice out of sympathy withnature, I suppose; and not to speak aword, out of contradiction to myparticular, human, feminine nature.

Whereupon I revenge myself, you see,by talking all this nonsense upon paper,and making you the victim.

To propitiate you, let me tell you thatyour commands have been performedto the letter, and that one Greek motto(from 'Orpheus') is given to the firstpart of 'The Seraphim,' and anotherfrom Chrysostom to the second.

Henrietta desires me to say that shemeans to go to see you very soon. Givemy very kind remembrance to MissHolmes, and believe me,

Your affectionate friend, E.B.BARRETT.

I saw Mr. Kenyon yesterday. He has abook just coming out.[35] I should likeyou to read it. If you would, you wouldthank me for saying so.

[Footnote 35: Poems, for the most partoccasional, by John Kenyon.]

To John Kenyon[36] [1838.]

Thank you, dearest Mr. Kenyon; and Ishould (and shall) thank Miss Thomsontoo for caring to spend a thought onme after all the Parisian glories andrationalities which I sympathise with bymany degrees nearer than you seem todo. We, in this England here, are justsocial barbarians, to my mind that is, weknow how to read and write and think,and even talk on occasion; but we carrythe old rings in our noses, and areproud of the flowers pricked into ourcuticles. By so much are they betterthan we on the Continent, I alwaysthink. Life has a thinner rind, and so alivelier sap. And that I can see in thebooks and the traditions, and alwaysunderstand people who like living in

France and Germany, and should like itmyself, I believe, on some accounts.

Where did you get your Bacchanaliansong Witty, certainly, but therecollection of the scores a little ghastlyfor the occasion, perhaps. You haveyourself sung into silence, too, allpossible songs of Bacchus, as the godand I know.

Here is a delightful letter from MissMartineau. I cannot be so selfish as tokeep it to myself. The sense of naturalbeauty and the good sense of theremarks on rural manners are bothexquisite of their kinds, andWordsworth is Wordsworth as she

knows him. Have I said that Friday willfind me expecting the kind visit youpromise That, at least, is what I meantto say with all these words.

Ever affectionately yours, E.B.B.

[Footnote 36: John Kenyon (1784-1856) was born in Jamaica, the son of awealthy West Indian landowner, butcame to England while quite a boy, andwas a conspicuous figure in literarysociety during the second quarter ofthe century. He published somevolumes of minor verse, but is bestknown for his friendships with manyliterary men and women, and for hisboundless generosity and kindliness to

all with whom he was brought intocontact. Crabb Robinson described himas a man 'whose life is spent in makingpeople happy.' He was a distant cousinof Miss Barrett, and a friend of RobertBrowning, who dedicated to him hisvolume of 'Dramatic Romances,'besides writing and sending to him'Andrea del Sarto' as a substitute for aprint of the painter's portrait which hehad been unable to find. The bestaccount of Kenyon is to be found inMrs. Crosse's 'John Kenyon and hisFriends' (in Red-Letter Days of My Life,vol. i.).]

To John Kenyon Wimpole Street: Sundayevening [1838 ].

My dear Mr. Kenyon, I am so sorry tohear of your going, and I not able tosay 'good-bye' to you, that I am notwriting this note on that account.

It is a begging note, and now I amwondering to myself whether you willthink me very childish or womanish, orsilly enough to be both together (Iknow your thoughts upon certainparallel subjects), if I go on to do mybegging fully. I hear that you are goingto Mr. Wordsworth's to Rydal Mountand I want you to ask for yourself, andthen to send to me in a letter by thepost, I mean, two cuttings out of thegarden of myrtle or geranium; I care

very little which, or what else. Only Isay 'myrtle' because it is less given to dieand I say two to be sure of my chancesof saving one. Will you You wouldplease me very much by doing it; andcertainly not dis please me by refusingto do it. Your broadest 'no' would notsound half so strange to me as my 'littlecrooked thing' does to you; but you seeeverybody in the world is fancifulabout something, and why not E.B.B.

Dear Mr. Kenyon, I have a book ofyours M. Rio's. If you want it beforeyou go, just write in two words, 'Sendit,' or I shall infer from your silence thatI may keep it until you come back. Nonecessity for answering this otherwise.

Is it as bad as asking for autographs, orworse At any rate, believe me in earnestthis time besides being, with every wishfor your enjoyment of mountains andlakes and 'cherry trees,'

Ever affectionately yours, E.B.B.

To H.S. Boyd [May 1838.]

My dear friend, I am rather better thanotherwise within the last few days, butfear that nothing will make meessentially so except the invisible sun. Iam, however, a little better, and God'swill is always done in mercy.

As to the poems, do forgive me, dear

Mr. Boyd; and refrain from executingyour cruel threat of suffering 'the desireof reading them to pass away.'

I have not one sheet of them; and papaand, to say the truth, I myself would sovery much prefer your reading thepreface first, that you must try toindulge us in our phantasy. The bookMr. Bentley half promises to finish theprinting of this week. At any rate it islikely to be all done in the next: andyou 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 dearfriend. I had begun to fancy thatbetween Saunders and Otley and the'Seraphim' I had fallen to the groundof your disfavour. But I do trust to beable to send you a copy before nextSunday.

I am thrown back a little just now byhaving caught a very bad cold, whichhas of course affected my cough. Theworst seems, however, to be past, andDr. Chambers told me yesterday that heexpected to see me in two days nearly as

well as before this casualty. And I havebeen, thank God, pretty well lately; andalthough when the stethoscope wasapplied three weeks ago, it did notspeak very satisfactorily of the state ofthe lungs, yet Dr. Chambers seems to behopeful still, and to talk of thewonders which the summer sunshine(when it does come) may be the meansof doing for me. And people say that Ilook rather better than worse, even now.

Did you hear of an autograph ofShakespeare's being sold lately for avery large sum (I think it was above ahundred pounds) on the credit of itsbeing the only genuine autographextant Is yours quite safe And are you

so, in your opinion of its veritableness

I have just finished a very longbarbarous ballad for Miss Mitford andthe Finden's tableaux of this year. Thetitle is 'The Romaunt of the Page,'[37]and the subject not of my ownchoosing.

I believe that you will certainly have'The Seraphim' this week. Domacadamise the frown from your browin order to receive them.

Give my love to Miss Holmes. Youraffectionate friend, E.B. BARRETT.

[Footnote 37: Poetical Works, ii. 40.]

To H.S. Boyd June 7, 1838 [postmark].

My dear Mr. Boyd, Papa is scarcelyinclined, nor am I for myself, to sendmy book or books to the East Indies.Let them alone, poor things, until theycan walk about a little! and then it willbe time enough for them to 'learn to fly.'

I am so sorry that Emily Harding sawArabel and went away without thisnote, which I have been meaning towrite to you for several days, and havebeen so absorbed and drawn away (allexcept my thoughts) by other thingsnecessary to be done, that I was forcedto defer it. My ballad,[38] containing a

ladye dressed up like a page andgalloping off to Palestine in a mannerthat would scandalise you, went to MissMitford this morning. But I augur fromits length that she will not be able toreceive it into Finden.

Arabel has told me what Miss Hardingtold her of your being in the act ofgoing through my 'Seraphim' for thesecond time. For the feeling of interestin me which brought this labour uponyou, I thank you, my dear friend. Whatyour opinion is, and will be, I amprepared to hear with a good deal ofawe. 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 ashonest 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 thecondemnation heavy upon your lips.

Affectionately yours, E.B. BARRETT.

[Footnote 38: 'The Romaunt of thePage.']

'The Seraphim, and other Poems,' aduodecimo of 360 pages, at last made

its appearance at the end of May. At thetime of its publication, English poetrywas experiencing one of its periods ofebb between two flood tides of greatachievement. Shelley, Keats, Byron,Scott, Coleridge were dead;Wordsworth had ceased to producepoetry of the first order; no freshinspiration was to be expected fromLandor, Southey, Rogers, Campbell, andsuch other writers of the Georgian eraas still were numbered with the living.On the other hand, Tennyson, thoughalready the most remarkable among theyounger poets, was still but exercisinghimself in the studies in language andmetrical music by which hisconsummate art was developed;

Browning had published only 'Pauline,''Paracelsus,' and 'Strafford;' the otherpoets who have given distinction to theVictorian age had not begun to write.And between the veterans of the onegeneration and the young recruits ofthe next there was a singular want ofwriters of distinction. There was thusevery opportunity for a new poet whenMiss Barrett entered the lists with herfirst volume of acknowledged verse.

Its reception, on the whole, does creditalike to its own merits and to the criticswho reviewed it. It does not containany of those poems which have provedthe most popular among its authoress'scomplete works, except 'Cowper's

Grave;' but 'The Seraphim' was a poemwhich deserved to attract attention, andamong the minor poems were 'ThePoet's Vow,' 'Isobel's Child,' 'TheRomaunt of Margret,' 'My Doves,' and'The Sea-mew.' The volume did notsuffice to win any wide reputation forMiss Barrett, and no second editionwas called for; on the other hand, it wasreceived with more than civility, withgenuine cordiality, by several among thereviewers, though they did not fail tonote its obvious defects. The'Athenaeum'[39] began its review withthe following declaration:

This is an extraordinary volumeespecially welcome as an evidence of

female genius and accomplishment butit is hardly less disappointing thanextraordinary. Miss Barrett's genius isof a high order; active, vigorous, andversatile, but unaccompanied bydiscriminating taste. A thousand strangeand beautiful views flit across hermind, but she cannot look on themwith steady gaze; her descriptions,therefore, are often shadowy andindistinct, and her language wanting inthe simplicity of unaffectedearnestness.

[Footnote 39: July 7, 1838.]

The 'Examiner,'[40] after quoting atlength from the preface and 'The

Seraphim,' continued:

Who will deny to the writer of suchverses as these (and they are notsparingly met with in the volume) thepossession of many of the highestqualities of the divine art We regret tohave some restriction to add to anadmission we make so gladly. MissBarrett is indeed a genuine poetess, ofno common order; yet is she in dangerof being spoiled by over-ambition; andof realising no greater or more finalreputation than a hectical one, likeCrashaw's. She has fancy, feeling,imagination, expression; but for wantof some just equipoise or other,between the material and spiritual, she

aims at flights which have done nogood to the strongest, and thereforefalls infinitely short, except in suchdetached passages as we have extractedabove, of what a proper exercise of hergenius would infallibly reach.... Veryvarious, and in the main beautiful andtrue, are the minor poems. But theentire volume deserves more thanordinary attention.

[Footnote 40: June 24, 1838.]

The 'Atlas,'[41] another paper whoseliterary judgments were highly esteemedat that date, was somewhat colder, anddwelt more on the faults of thevolume, but added nevertheless that

'there are occasional passages of greatbeauty, and full of deep poeticalfeeling. In 'The Romaunt of Margret' itdetected the influence of Tennyson asuggestion which Miss Barrettrepudiated rather warmly; and itconcluded with the declaration that theauthoress 'possesses a fine poeticaltemperament, and has given to thepublic, in this volume, a work ofconsiderable merit.'

[Footnote 41: June 23, 1838.]

Such were the principal voices amongthe critical world when Miss Barrettfirst ventured into its midst; and shemight well be satisfied with them. Two

years later, the 'Quarterly Review'[42]included her name in a review of'Modern English Poetesses,' along withCaroline Norton, 'V.,' and others whosenames are even less remembered to-day.But though the reviewer speaks of hergenius and learning in high terms ofadmiration, he cannot be said to treather sympathetically. He objects to thedogmatic positiveness of her prefaces,and protests warmly against her'reckless repetition of the name ofGod' a charge which, in anotherconnection, will be found fully andfairly met in one of her later letters. Onpoints of technique he criticises herfrequent use of the perfect participlewith accented final syllable 'kissed,'

'bowed,' and the like and her fondnessfor the adverb 'very;' both of whichmannerisms he charges to the exampleof Tennyson. He condemns the'Prometheus,' though recognising it as 'aremarkable performance for a younglady.' He criticises the subject of 'TheSeraphim,' 'from which Milton wouldhave shrunk;' but adds, 'We give MissBarrett, however, the full credit of alofty purpose, and admit, moreover,that several particular passages in herpoem are extremely fine; equallyprofound in thought and striking inexpression.' He sums up as follows:

[Footnote 42: September 1840.]

In a word, we consider Miss Barrett tobe a woman of undoubted genius andmost unusual learning; but that she hasindulged her inclination for themes ofsublime mystery, not certainly withoutdisplaying great power, yet at theexpense of that clearness, truth, andproportion, which are essential tobeauty; and has most unfortunatelyfallen into the trammels of a school ormanner of writing, which, of all thatever existed Lycophron, Lucan, andGongora not forgotten is most open tothe charge of being vitiis imitabileexemplar.

So much for the reception of 'TheSeraphim' volume by the outside world.

The letters show how it appeared to theauthoress herself.

The first of them deserves a word ofspecial notice, because it is likewise thefirst in these volumes addressed to MissMary Russell Mitford, whose nameholds a high and honourable place inthe roll of Miss Barrett's friends. Herown account of the beginning of thefriendship should be quoted in anyrecord of Mrs. Browning's life.

'My first acquaintance with ElizabethBarrett commenced about fifteen yearsago.[43] She was certainly one of themost interesting persons that I had everseen. Everybody who then saw her said

the same; so that it is not merely theimpression of my partiality or myenthusiasm. Of a slight, delicate figure,with a shower of dark curls falling oneither side of a most expressive face,large tender eyes, richly fringed by darkeyelashes, a smile like a sunbeam, andsuch a look of youthfulness that I hadsome difficulty in persuading a friend,in whose carriage we went together toChiswick, that the translatress of the"Prometheus" of Aeschylus, theauthoress of the "Essay on Mind," wasold enough to be introduced intocompany, in technical language, was'out.' Through the kindness of anotherinvaluable friend,[44] to whom I owemany obligations, but none so great as

this, I saw much of her during my stayin town. We met so constantly and sofamiliarly that, in spite of the differenceof age,[45] intimacy ripened intofriendship, and after my return into thecountry we corresponded freely andfrequently, her letters being just whatletters ought to be her own talk putupon paper.'[46]

[Footnote 43: This was written aboutthe end of 1851.]

[Footnote 44: Probably John Kenyon,whom Miss Mitford elsewhere calls 'thepleasantest man in London;' he, on hisside, said of Miss Mitford that 'she wasbetter and stronger than any of her

books.']

[Footnote 45: Nineteen years, MissMitford having been born in 1787.]

[Footnote 46: Recollections of a LiteraryLife, by Mary Russell Mitford, p. 155(1859).]

Miss Barrett's letters show how warmlyshe returned this feeling of friendship,which lasted until Miss Mitford's deathin 1855. Of the earlier letters manymust have disappeared: for it is evidentfrom Miss Mitford's just quoted words,and also from many references in herpublished correspondence, that theywere in constant communication

during these years of Miss Barrett's lifein London. After her marriage,however, the extant letters are far morefrequent, and will be found to fill aconsiderable place in the later pages ofthis work.

To Miss Mitford 50 Wimpole Street:Thursday [June 1838].

We thank you gratefully, dearest MissMitford. Papa and I and all of us thankyou for your more than kindnesses. Theextracts were both gladdening andsurprising and the one the more forbeing the other also. Oh! it was so kindof you, in the midst of your multitudeof occupations, 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, rememberthat he passed his criticism over itbefore it went to you and so if you didnot find as many obscurities as he didin it, the reason is his merit and notmine. But don't believe him no! don'tbelieve even Mr. Kenyon whenever hesays that I am perversely obscure.Unfortunately obscure, not perverselythat is quite a wrong word. And the lasttime he used it to me (and then, Iassure you, another word still worsewas with it) I begged him to confinethem for the future to his jesting

moods. Because, indeed, I am not in thevery least degree perverse in this faultof mine, which is my destiny ratherthan my choice, and comes upon me, Ithink, just where I would eschew itmost. So little has perversity to do withits occurrence, that my fear of it makesme sometimes feel quite nervous andthought-tied in composition....

I have not seen Mr. Kenyon since Iwrote last. All last week I was notpermitted to get out of bed, and washaunted with leeches and blisters. Andin the course of it, Lady Dacre was sokind as to call here, and to leave a noteinstead of the personal greeting whichI was not able to receive. The honor she

did me a year ago, in sending me herbook, encouraged me to offer her mypoems. I hesitated about doing so atfirst, lest it should appear as if myvanity were dreaming of a return; butMr. Kenyon's opinion turned thebalance. I was very sorry not to haveseen Lady Dacre and have written areply to her note expressive of thisregret. But, after all, this inaudible voice(except in its cough) could have scarcelymade her understand that I was obligedby her visit, had I been able to receiveit.

Dr. Chambers has freed me again intothe drawing-room, and I am muchbetter or he would not have done so.

There is not, however, much strengthor much health, nor any near prospectof regaining either. It is well that, inproportion to our feebleness, we mayfeel our dependence upon God.

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

Do write whenever you wish to talkand have no one to talk to nearer youthan 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 medepraved in ingratitude for not soonerthanking you for the pleasure, made somuch greater by the surprise, whichyour note of judgment gave me. Thetruth is that I have been very unwell,and delayed answering it immediatelyuntil the painful physical feeling wentaway to make room for the pleasurablemoral one and this I fancied it woulddo every hour, so that I might be ableto tell you at ease all that was in mythoughts. The fancy was a vain one.

The pain grew worse and worse, andDr. Chambers has been here for twosuccessive days shaking his head asawfully as if it bore all Jupiter'sambrosial curls; and is to be here againto-day, but with, I trust, a less gravecountenance, inasmuch as the leecheslast night did their duty, and I feelmuch better God be thanked for therelief. But I am not yet as well as beforethis attack, and am still confined to mybed and so you must rather imaginethan read what I thought and felt inreading your wonderful note. Ofcourse it pleased me very much, veryvery much and, I dare say, would havemade me vain by this time, if it had notbeen for the opportune pain and the

sight of Dr. Chambers's face.

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

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

Believe me, affectionately yours, E.B.BARRETT.

To H.S. Boyd 50 Wimpole Street: June17 [1838].

My dear Friend, I send you a number

of the 'Atlas' which you may keep. It isa favorable criticism, certainly but Iconfess this of my vanity, that it has notaltogether pleased me. You see what itis to be spoilt.

As to the 'Athenaeum,' although I amnot conscious of the quaintness andmannerism laid to my charge, and amvery sure that I have always written toonaturally (that is, too much from theimpulse of thought and feeling) tohave studied 'attitudes,' yet the critic wasquite right in stating his opinion, andso am I in being grateful to him for theliberal praise he has otherwise given me.Upon the whole, I like his review betterthan even the 'Examiner,'

notwithstanding my being perfectlysatisfied with that.

Thank you for the question about myhealth. I am very tolerably well for me:and am said to look better. At the sametime I am aware of being always on theverge of an increase of illness I mean,in a very excitable state with a pulse thatflies off at a word and is only to becaught by digitalis. But I am better forthe present while the sun shines.

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

You will smile at that, and so do I.

Arabel is walking in the ZoologicalGardens with the Cliffes but I thinkyou will see her before long.

Your affectionate friend, E.B.BARRETT.

Don't let me forget to mention theEssays[47]. You shall have yours andMiss Bordman hers and the delay hasnot arisen from either forgetfulness orindifference on my part although Inever deny that I don't like giving theEssay to anybody because I don't like it.Now that sounds just like 'a woman'sreason,' but it isn't, albeit so reasonable!

I meant to say 'because I don't like theESSAY.'

[Footnote 47: i.e. copies of the Essay onMind.]

To H.S. Boyd 50 Wimpole Street:Thursday, June 21 [1838].

My dear Friend, Notwithstanding thissilence so ungrateful in appearance, Ithank you at last, and very sincerely, foryour kind letter. It made me laugh, andamused me and gratified me besides.Certainly your 'quality of mercy is notstrained.'

My reason for not writing more

immediately is that Arabel has meant,day after day, to go to you, and has hada separate disappointment for every day.She says now, 'Indeed, I hope to see Mr.Boyd to-morrow.' But I say that I willnot keep this answer of mine to runthe risk of another day's contingencies,and that it shall go, whether she does ornot.

I am better a great deal than I was lastweek, 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 Icannot help considering myself, and inwhat, I believe, Dr. Chambers considers,a very precarious state, and my

weakness increases, of course, underthe remedies which successive attacksrender necessary. Dr. Chambersdeserves my confidence and besides theskill with which he has met thedifferent modifications of thecomplaint, I am grateful to him for afeeling and a sympathy which arecertainly rare in such of his professionas have their attention diverted, as hismust be, by an immense practice, tofifty objects in a day. But,notwithstanding all, one breath of theeast wind undoes whatever he laboursto do. It is well to look up andremember that in the eternal realitythese second causes are no causes at all.

Don't leave this note about for Arabelto see. I am anxious not to alarm her, orany one of my family: and it may pleaseGod to make me as well and strongagain as ever. And, indeed, I am twiceas well this week as I was last.

Your affectionate friend, dear Mr. Boyd,E.B. BARRETT.

I have seen an extract from a privateletter of Mr. Chorley, editor of the'Athenaeum,'[48] which speaks hugepraises of my poems. If he were to saya tithe of them in print, it would benine times above my expectation!

[Footnote 48: This is an error. Mr.

Chorley was not editor of theAthenaeum, though he was one of itsprincipal contributors.]

To H.S. Boyd [June 1838.]

My dear Friend, I begged your servantto wait how long ago I am afraid tothink but certainly I must not make thisnote very long. I did intend to write toyou to-day in any case. Since Saturday Ihave had my thanks ready at the end ofmy fingers waiting to slide along to thenib of my pen. Thank you for all yourkindness and criticism, which iskindness too thank you at last. Wouldthat I deserved the praises as well as Ido most of the findings-fault and there

is no time now to say more of them. YetI believe I have something to say, andwill find a time to say it in.

Dr. Chambers has just been here, anddoes not think me quite as well asusual. The truth is that I was ratherexcited and tired yesterday by rather toomuch talking and hearing talking, andsuffer for it to-day in my pulse. But I ambetter on the whole.

Mr. Cross,[49] 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 mybook in the hands of Mr. Bobus Smith,

the brother of Sidney Smith, and thebest judge in England,' and that it wasto be returned to her on Tuesday. If Ishould hear the 'judgment,' I will tell you,whether you care to hear it or not.There is no other review, as far as I amaware.

Give my love to Miss Bordman. Whenis she coming to see me

The thunder did not do me any harm.

Your affectionate friend, in great haste,although your servant is not likely tothink so, E.B.B.

[Footnote 49: Andrew Crosse, the

electrician, who had recently publishedhis observations of a remarkabledevelopment of insect life inconnection with certain electricalexperiments a discovery which causedmuch controversy at the time, onaccount of its supposed bearings onthe origin of life and the doctrine ofcreation.]

To H.S. Boyd [June 1838.]

My dear Friend, You must let me feel mythanks to you, even when I do not saythem. I have put up your various notestogether, and perhaps they may do meas much good hereafter, as they havealready, for the most part, given me

pleasure.

The 'burden pure have been' certainlywas a misprint, as certainly 'nor mannor nature satisfy'[50] is ungrammatical.But I am not so sure about the passagein Isobel:

I am not used to tears at nights Insteadof slumber nor to prayer.

Now I think that the passage may implya repetition of the words with which itbegins, after 'nor' thus 'nor am I used toprayer,' &c. Either you or I may be rightabout it, and either 'or' or 'nor' may begrammatical. At least, so I pray.[51]

You did not answer one question. Doyou consider that 'apolyptic' standswithout excuse [52]

I never read Greek to any person exceptyourself and Mr. MacSwiney, mybrother's tutor. To him I read longerthan a few weeks, but then it was ratherguessing and stammering and totteringthrough parts of Homer and extractsfrom Xenophon than reading. Youwould not have called it reading if youhad heard it.

I studied hard by myself afterwards,and the kindness with which afterwardsstill you assisted me, if yourselfremembers gladly I remember gratefully

and gladly.

I have just been told that your servantwas desired by you not to wait a minute.

The wind is unfavorable for the sea. Ido not think there is the leastprobability of my going before the endof next week, if then. You shall hear.

Affectionately yours, E.B. BARRETT.

I am tolerably well. I have been forcedto take digitalis again, which makes mefeel weak; but still I am better, I think.

[Footnote 50: Altered in later editionsto 'satisfies.']

[Footnote 51: In later editions 'not' isrepeated instead of 'nor,' which lookslike a compromise between her ownopinion and Mr. Boyd's.]

[Footnote 52: The poem entitled'Sounds,' in the volume of 1838,contained the line 'As erst in Patmosapolyptic John,' presumably for'apocalyptic.' This being naturally heldto be 'without excuse,' the line wasaltered in subsequent editions to 'Asthe seer-saint of Patmos, loving John.']

In the course of this year the failure inMiss Barrett's health had become sogreat that her doctor advised removal

to a warmer climate for the winter.Torquay was the place selected, andthither she went in the autumn,accompanied by her brother Edward,her favourite companion fromchildhood. Other members of thefamily, including Mr. Barrett, joinedthem from time to time. At Torquay shewas able to live, but no more, and itwas found necessary for her to stayduring the summers as well as thewinters of the next three years. Lettersfrom this period are scarce, though it isclear from Miss Mitford'scorrespondence that a continuousinterchange of letters was kept upbetween the two friends, and heracquaintanceship with Horne was now

ripening into a close literary intimacy. Astory relating to Bishop Phillpotts ofExeter, the hero of so many racyanecdotes, is contained in a letter ofMiss Barrett's which must have beenwritten about Christmas of either 1838or 1839:

'He [the bishop] was, however, atchurch on Christmas Day, and uponMr. Elliot's being mercifully inclined toomit the Athanasian Creed, promptedhim most episcopally from the pewwith a "whereas;" and further on in theCreed, when the benign readersubstituted the word condemnation forthe terrible one "Damnation!"exclaimed the bishop. The effect must

have been rather startling.'

A slight acquaintance with the wordsof the Athanasian Creed will suggestthat the story had suffered in accuracybefore it reached Miss Barrett, who, ofcourse, was unable to attend church,and whose own ignorance on thesubject may be accounted for byremembering that she had beenbrought up as a Nonconformist. With alittle correction, however, the story maybe added to the many others on recordwith respect to 'Henry of Exeter.'

The following letter is shown, by thesimilarity of its contents to the onewhich succeeds it, to belong to

November 1839, when Miss Barrettwas entering on her second winter inTorquay.

To Mrs. Martin Beacon Terrace,Torquay: November 24 [1839].

My dearest Mrs. Martin, Henrietta shallnot write to-day, whatever she may wishto do. I felt, in reading yourunreproaching letter to her, as self-reproachful as anybody could with agreat deal of innocence (in the way ofthe world) to fall back upon. I feltsorry, very sorry, not to have writtensomething to you something sooner,which was a possible thing although,since the day of my receiving your

welcome letter, I have written scarcely atall, nor that little without muchexertion. Had it been with me as usual,be sure that you should not have hadany silence to complain of. Henriettaknew I wished to write, and felt, Isuppose, unwilling to take my placewhen my filling it myself before longappeared possible. A long story and notas entertaining as Mother Hubbard. ButI would rather tire you than leave youunder any wrong impression, where myregard and thankfulness to you, dearestMrs. Martin, are concerned.

To reply to your kind anxiety about me,I may call myself decidedly better thanI have been. Since October I I have not

been out of bed except just for an houra day, when I am lifted to the sofa withthe bare permission of my physicianwho tells me that it is so much easier tomake me worse than better, that hedares not permit anything like exposureor further exertion. I like him (Dr.Scully) very much, and although heevidently thinks my case in the highestdegree precarious, yet knowing howmuch I bore last winter andunderstanding from him that the worsttubercular symptoms have not actuallyappeared, I am willing to think it maybe God's will to keep me here stilllonger. I would willingly stay, if it wereonly for the sake of that tenderaffection of my beloved family which it

so deeply affects me to consider.Dearest papa is with us now to mygreat comfort and joy: and looking verywell! and astonishing everybody withhis eternal youthfulness! Bro andHenrietta and Arabel besides, I cancount as companions and then there isdear Bummy! We are fixed at Torquayfor the winter that is, until the end ofMay: and after that, if I have any will orpower and am alive to exercise either, Ido trust and hope to go away. Thedeath of my kind friend Dr. Bury was,as you suppose, a great grief and shockto me. How could it be otherwise, afterhis daily kindness to me for a year Andthen his young wife and child and therapidity (a three weeks' illness) with

which he was hurried away from theenergies and toils and honors ofprofessional life to the stillness of thatdeath!

'God's Will' is the only answer to themystery of the world's afflictions....

Don't fancy me worse than I am or thatthis bed-keeping is the result of agradual sinking. It is not so. A feverishattack prostrated me on October 2 andsuch will leave their effects and Dr.Scully is so afraid of leading me intodanger by saying, 'You may get up anddress as usual' that you should not besurprised if (in virtue of being thesenior Torquay physician and

correspondingly prudent) he left me inthis durance vile for a great part of thewinter. I am decidedly better than I wasa month ago, really and truly.

May God bless you, dearest Mrs.Martin! My best and kindest regards toMr. Martin. Henrietta desires me topromise for her a letter to Colwallsoon; but I think that one from Colwallshould come first. May God bless you!Bro's fancy just now is painting inwater colours and he performs manysketches. Do you ever in your dreamsof universal benevolence dream oftravelling 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 dearfriend, for a silence which has not beenintended, there will be another reasonfor being thankful to you, in additionto the many. To do myself justice, oneof my earliest impulses on seeing mybeloved Arabel, and recurring to thekindness with which you desired thathappiness for me long before Ipossessed it, was to write and tell you

how happy I felt. But she hadpromised, she said, to write herself, andmoreover she and only she was to sendyou the ballad in expectation of yourdread judgment upon which I delayedmy own writing. It came in the firstletter we received in our new house, onthe first of last October. An hour afterreading it, I was upon my bed; wasattacked by fever in the night, and fromthat bed have never even been liftedsince to these last days of Novemberexcept for one hour a day to the sofa attwo yards' distance. I am very muchbetter now, and have been so for sometime; but my physician is so persuaded,he says, that it is easier to do me harmthan good, that he will neither permit

any present attempt at further exertion,nor hint at the time when it may beadvisable for him to permit it. Underthe circumstances it has of course beenmore difficult than usual for me towrite. Pray believe, my dear and kindfriend, in the face of all circumstancesand appearances, that I never forgetyou, nor am reluctant (oh, how couldthat be ) to write to you; and that youshall often have to pay 'a penny for mythoughts' under the new Postage Act ifit be in God's wisdom and mercy tospare me through the winter. Under thenew act I shall not mind writing tenwords and then stopping. As it is, theywould scarcely be worth eleven pennies.

Thank you again and again for yourpraise of the ballad, which bothdelighted and surprised me ... as I hadscarcely hoped that you might like it atall. Think of Mr. Tilt's never sendingme a proof sheet. The consequencesare rather deplorable, and, if they hadoccurred to you, might have suggesteda deep melancholy for life. In my case,I, who am, you know, hardened to sinsof carelessness, simply look aghast at themisprints and mispunctuations comingin as a flood, and sweeping awaymeanings and melodies together. Theannual itself is more splendid thanusual, and its vignettes have illustratedmy story angels, devils and all mostbeautifully. Miss Mitford's tales (in

prose) have suffered besides by reasonof Mr. Tilt but are attractive andgraphic notwithstanding and Mr.Horne has supplied a dramatic poemof great power and beauty.

How I rejoice with you in the gloriousrevelation (about to be) of Gregory'ssecond volume! The 'De Virginitate'poem will, in its new purple and finelinen, be more dazzling than ever.

Do you know that George is barrister-at-law of the Inner Temple is I haveseen him gazetted.

My dearest papa is with me now,making me very happy of course. I

have much reason to be happy more tobe grateful yet am more obedient to theformer than to the latter impulse. Maythe Giver of good give gratitude withas full a hand! May He bless you andbring us together again, if no more inthe flesh, yet in the spirit!

Your ever affectionate friend, E.B.BARRETT.

Do write when you are able and leastdisinclined. Do you approve of PrinceAlbert or not [53]

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

To H.S. Boyd Torquay: May 29, 1840.

My ever dear Friend, It was verypleasant to me to see your seal upon aletter once more; and although theletter itself left me with a mournfulimpression of your having passedsome time so much less happily than Iwould wish and pray for you, yet thereremains the pleasant thought to me stillthat you have not altogether forgottenme. Do receive the expression of mymost affectionate sympathy under thisand every circumstance and I fear thatthe shock to your nerves and spiritscould not be a light one, howeverimpressed you might be and must be

with the surety and verity of God's loveworking in all His will. Poor poorPatience! Coming to be so happy withyou, with that joyous smile I thought sopretty! Do you not remember my tellingyou so Well it is well and better for her;happier for her, if God in Christ Jesushave received her, than her hopes wereof the holiday time with you. Theholiday is for ever now....

I heard from Nelly Bordman only a fewdays before receiving your letter, and sofar from preparing me for all thissadness and gloom, she pleased mewith her account of you whom she hadlately seen dwelling upon yourretrograde passage into youth, and the

delight you were taking in the presenceand society of some still moreyouthful, fair, and gay monstrumamandum, some prodigy of intellectualaccomplishment, some little Circe whonever turned anybodies into pigs. Ilearnt too from her for the first timethat you were settled at Hampstead!Whereabout at Hampstead, and forhow long She didn't tell me that,thinking of course that I knewsomething more about you than I do.Yes indeed; you do treat me veryshabbily. I agree with you in thinkingso. To think that so many hills andwoods should interpose between usthat I should be lying here, fast boundby a spell, a sleeping beauty in a forest,

and that you, who used to be such adoughty knight, should not take thetrouble of cutting through even a hazeltree with your good sword, to find outwhat had become of me. Now do tellme, the hazel tree being down at last,whether you mean to live atHampstead, whether you have taken ahouse there and have carried yourbooks there, and wear Hampsteadgrasshoppers in your bonnet (as theydid at Athens) to prove yourself of thesoil.

All this nonsense will make you think Iam better, and indeed I am pretty welljust now quite, however, confined tothe bed except when lifted from it to

the sofa baby-wise while they make it;even then apt to faint. Bad symptomstoo do not leave me; and I am obligedto be blistered every few days but I amfree from any attack just now, and am agood deal less feverish than I amoccasionally. There has been aconsultation between an Exeterphysician and my own, and they agreeexactly, both hoping that with care Ishall pass the winter, and rally in thespring, both hoping that I may be ableto go about again with some comfortand independence, although I nevercan be fit again for anything likeexertion....

Do you know, did you ever hear

anything of Mr. Horne who wrote'Cosmo de Medici,' and the 'Death ofMarlowe,' and is now desecrating hispowers (I beg your pardon) by writingthe life of Napoleon By the way, he isthe author of a dramatic sketch in thelast Finden.

He is in my mind one of the very firstpoets of the day, and has written to meso kindly (offering, although I neversaw him in my life, to cater for me inliterature, and send me down anythinglikely to interest me in the periodicals),that I cannot but think his amiabilityand genius do honor to one another.

Do you remember Mr. Caldicott who

used to preach in the infantschoolroom at Sidmouth He died herethe death of a saint, as he had lived asaintly life, about three weeks ago. Itaffected me a good deal. But he wasalways so associated in my thoughtsmore with heaven than earth, thatscarcely a transition seems to havepassed upon his locality. 'Present withthe Lord' is true of him now; even as'having his conversation in heaven' wasformerly. There is little difference.

May it be so with us all, with you andwith me, my ever and very dear friend!In the meantime do not forget me. Inever can forget you.

Your affectionate and gratefulELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

Arabel desires her love to be offered toyou.

To H.S. Boyd 1 Beacon Terrace,Torquay: July 8, 1840.

My ever dear Friend, I must write toyou, although it is so very long, or atleast seems so, since you wrote to me.But you say to Arabel in speaking ofme that I 'used to care for what ispoetical;' therefore, perhaps you say toyourself sometimes that I used to carefor you! I am anxious to vindicate myidentity to you, in that respect above all.

It is a long, dreary time since I wrote toyou. I admit the pause on my own part,while I charge you with another. Butyour silence has embraced morepleasantness and less suffering to youthan mine has to me, and I thank Godfor a prosperity in which myunchangeable regard for you causes meto share directly....

I have not rallied this summer as soonand well as I did last. I was very ill earlyin April at the time of our becomingconscious to our great affliction so illas to believe it utterly improbable,speaking humanly, that I ever should beany better. I am, however, a very great

deal better, and gain strength bysensible degrees, however slowly, anddo hope for the best 'the best' meaningone sight more of London. In themeantime I have not yet been able toleave my bed.

To prove to you that I who 'used tocare' for poetry do so still, and that Ihave not been absolutely idle lately, an'Athenaeum' shall be sent to youcontaining a poem on the subject ofthe removal of Napoleon's ashes.[54] Itis a fitter subject for you than for me.Napoleon is no idol of mine. I nevermade a 'setting sun' of him. But myphysician suggested the subject as anoble one and then there was

something suggestive in theconsideration that the 'Bellerophon' layon those very bay-waters opposite tomy bed.

Another poem (which you won't like, Idare say) is called 'The Lay of theRose,'[55] and appeared lately in amagazine. Arabel is going to write itout for you, she desires me to tell youwith her best love. Indeed, I havewritten lately (as far as manuscript goes)a good deal, only on all sorts ofsubjects and in as many shapes.

Lazarus would make a fine poem,wouldn't he I lie here, weaving a greatmany schemes. I am seldom at a loss

for thread.

Do write sometimes to me, and tell meif you do anything besides hearing theclocks strike and bells ring. My belovedpapa is with me still. There are so manymercies close around me (and hispresence is far from the least), thatGod's Being seems proved to me,demonstrated to me, by His manifestedlove. May His blessing in the fulllovingness rest upon you always! Neverfancy I can forget or think of youcoldly.

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 threedays before the tragedy which utterlywrecked Elizabeth Barrett's life for atime, and cast a deep shadow over itwhich never wholly passed away thedeath of her brother Edward throughdrowning. On July 11, he and twofriends had gone for a sail in a smallboat. They did not return when theywere expected, and presently a rumourcame that a boat, answering inappearance to theirs, had been seen tofounder in Babbicombe Bay; but it was

not until three days later that finalconfirmation of the disaster wasobtained by the discovery of thebodies. What this blow meant to thebereaved sister cannot be told: thehorror with which she refers to it, evenat a distance of many years, shows howdeeply it struck. It was the loss of thebrother whom she loved best of all;and she had the misery of thinking thatit was to attend on her that he hadcome to the place where he met hisdeath. Little wonder if Torquay wasthenceforward a memory from whichshe shrank, and if even the sound ofthe sea became a horror to her.

One natural consequence of this

terrible sorrow is a long break in hercorrespondence. It is not until thebeginning of 1841 that she seems tohave resumed the thread of her life andto have returned to her literaryoccupations. Her health had inevitablysuffered under the shock, and in theautumn of 1840 Miss Mitford speaksof not daring to expect more than afew months of lingering life. But whenthings were at the worst, she beganunexpectedly to take a turn for thebetter. Through the winter she slowlygathered strength, and with strength thedesire to escape from Torquay, with itsdreadful associations, and to return toLondon. Meanwhile hercorrespondence with her friends

revived, and with Horne in particularshe was engaged during 1841 in anactive interchange of views with regardto two literary projects. Indeed, it wasonly the return to work that enabledher to struggle against the numbingeffect of the calamity which hadoverwhelmed her. Some timeafterwards (in October 1843) she wroteto Mrs. Martin: 'For my own part andexperience I do not say it as a phrase orin exaggeration, but from very clear andpositive conviction I do believe that Ishould be mad at this moment, if I hadnot forced back dammed out thecurrent of rushing recollections bywork, work, work.' One of the projectsin which she was concerned was

'Chaucer Modernised,' a scheme forreviving interest in the father ofEnglish poetry, suggested in the firstinstance by Wordsworth, butcommitted to the care of Horne, aseditor, for execution. According to thescheme as originally planned, all theprincipal poets of the day were to beinvited to share the task of transmutingChaucer into modern language.Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, Horne, andothers actually executed some portionsof the work; Tennyson and Browning,it was hoped, would lend a hand withsome of the later parts. Horne invitedMiss Barrett to contribute, and, besidesexecuting modernisations of 'QueenAnnelida and False Arcite' and 'The

Complaint of Annelida,'[56] she alsoadvised generally on the work of theother writers during its progressthrough the press. The other literaryproject was for a lyrical drama, to bewritten in collaboration with Horne. Itwas to be called 'Psyche Apocalypte,'and was to be a drama on the Greekmodel, treating of the birth and self-realisation of the soul of man.

[Footnote 56: These versions are notreprinted in her collected Poetical Works,but are to be found in 'Poems ofGeoffrey Chaucer modernised,' (1841).]

The sketch of its contents, given in thecorrespondence with Horne, will make

the modern reader accept withequanimity the fact that it neverprogressed beyond the initial stage ofdrafting the plot. It is allegorical,philosophical, fantastic, unrealeverything which was calculated tobring out the worst characteristics ofMiss Barrett's style and to intensify herfaults. Fortunately her removal fromTorquay to London interrupted theexecution of the scheme. It was neverseriously taken up again, and, thoughnever explicitly abandoned, died anatural death from inanition, somewhatto the relief of Miss Barrett, who hadcome to recognise its impracticability.

Apart from the correspondence with

Horne, which has been publishedelsewhere, very few letters are left fromthis period; but those which herefollow serve to bridge over the intervaluntil the departure from Torquay,which closes one well-marked period inthe life of the poetess.

To Mrs. Martin December 11, 1840.

My ever dearest Mrs. Martin, I shouldhave written to you without this lastproof of your remembrance this cape,which, warm and pretty as it is, I valueso much more as the work of yourhands and gift of your affectiontowards me. Thank you, dearest Mrs.Martin, and thank you too for all the rest

for all your sympathy and love. And dobelieve that although grief had sochanged me from myself and warpedme from my old instincts, as to preventmy looking forwards with pleasure toseeing you again, yet that full amendsare made in the looking back with apleasure more true because more tenderthan any old retrospections. Do give mylove to dear Mr. Martin, and say what Icould not have said even if I had seenhim.

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

A note from papa has brought thecomforting news that my dear, dearStormie is in England again, inLondon, and looking perfectly well. Itis a mercy which makes me verythankful, and would make me joyful ifanything could. But the meanings ofsome words change as we live on.Papa's note is hurried. It was a sixty-daypassage, and that is all he tells me. Yesthere is something besides about Setteand Occy being either unknown ormisknown, through the fault of theirgrowing. Papa is not near returning, Ithink. He has so much to do and see,and so much cause to be enlivened andrenewed as to spirits, that I begged himnot to think about me and stay away as

long as he pleased. And the accountsof him and of all at home aresatisfying, I thank God....

There is an east wind just now, which Ifeel. Nevertheless, Dr. Scully has said, afew minutes since, that I am as well ashe could hope, considering the season.

May God bless you ever! Yourgratefully attached BA.

To Mrs. Martin March 29, 1841.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, Have youthought 'The dream has come true' Imean the dream of the flowers whichyou pulled for me and I wouldn't look

at, even I fear you must have thoughtthat the dream about my ingratitudehas come true.

And yet it has not. Dearest Mrs. Martin,it has not. I have not forgotten you orremembered you less affectionatelythrough all the silence, or longed lessfor the letters I did not ask for. But thetruth is, my faculties seem to hangheavily now, like flappers when thespring is broken. My spring is broken,and a separate exertion is necessary forthe lifting up of each and then it fallsdown again. I never felt so before: thereis no wonder that I should feel so now.Nevertheless, I don't give up much tothe pernicious languor the tendency to

lie down to sleep among the snows ofa weary journey I don't give up muchto it. Only I find it sometimes at theroot of certain negligences for instance,of this toward you.

Dearest Mrs. Martin, receive mysympathy, our sympathy, in the anxietyyou have lately felt so painfully, and inthe rejoicing for its happy issue. Do saywhen you write (I take for granted, yousee, that you will write) how Mrs. B isnow besides the intelligence morenearly touching me, of your own andMr. Martin's health and spirits. MayGod bless you both!

Ah! but you did not come: I was

disappointed!

And Mrs. Hanford! Do you know, Itremble in my reveries sometimes, lestyou should think it, guess it to be halfunkind in me not to have made anexertion to see Mrs. Hanford. It wasnot from want of interest in her leastof all from want of love to you. But Ihave not stirred from my bed yet. But,to be honest, that was not the reason Idid not feel as if I could, without apainful effort, which, on the otherhand, could not, I was conscious, resultin the slightest shade of satisfaction toher, receive and talk to her. Perhaps it ishard for you to fancy even how I shrinkaway from the very thought of seeing a

human face except those immediatelybelonging to me in love or relationship(yours does, you know) and a stranger'smight be easier to look at than one longknown....

For my own part, my dearest Mrs.Martin, my heart has been lightenedlately by kind, honest Dr. Scully (whowould never give an opinion just toplease me), saying that I am 'quite right'to mean to go to London, and shallprobably be fit for the journey early inJune. He says that I may pass the winterthere moreover, and with impunity thatwherever I am it will probably benecessary for me to remain shut upduring the cold weather, and that under

such circumstances it is quite possibleto warm a London room to as safe acondition as a room here. So my heart islightened of the fear of opposition:and the only means of regainingwhatever portion of earthly happinessis not irremediably lost to me by theDivine decree, I am free to use. In themeantime, it really does seem to me thatI make some progress in health if theword in my lips be not a mockery. Oh, Ifancy I shall be strengthened to gethome!

Your remarks on Chaucer pleased mevery much. I am glad you liked what Idid or tried to do and as to thecriticisms, you were right and they

sha'n't be unattended to if theopportunity of correction be given tome.

Ever your affectionate BA.

To H.S. Boyd August 28, 1841.

My very dear Friend, I have fluctuatedfrom one shadow of uncertainty andanxiety to another, all the summer, onthe subject to which my last earthlywishes cling, and I delayed writing toyou to be able to say I am going toLondon. I may say so now as far as thehuman may say 'yes' or 'no' of theirfuturity. The carriage, a patent carriagewith a bed in it, and set upon some

hundreds of springs, is, I believe, on itsroad down to me, and immediatelyupon its arrival we begin our journey.Whether we shall ever complete itremains uncertain more so than otheruncertainties. My physician appears agood deal alarmed, calls it anundertaking full of hazard, and myselfthe 'Empress Catherine' for insistingupon attempting it. But I must. I go, as'the doves to their windows,' to the onlyearthly daylight I see here. I go torescue myself from the associations ofthis dreadful place. I go to restore tomy poor papa the companionshipsfamily. Enough has been done andsuffered for me. I thank God I amgoing home at last.

How kind it was in you, my very kindand ever very dear friend, to ask me tovisit you at Hampstead! I felt myselfsmiling while I read that part of yourletter, and laid it down and suffered thevision to arise of your little room andyour great Gregory and your dear selfscolding me softly as in the happyolden times for not reading slowenough. Well we do not know what mayhappen! I may (even that is probable)read to you again. But now ah, my dearfriend if you could imagine me such asI am! you would not think I could visityou! Yet I am wonderfully better thissummer; and if I can but reach homeand bear the first painful excitement, it

will do me more good than anything Iknow it will! And if it does not, it willbe well even so.

I shall tell them to send you the'Athenaeum' of last week, where I havea 'House of Clouds,'[57] which papalikes so much that he would wish tolive in it if it were not for the damp.There is not a clock in one room that'sanother objection. How are your clocksDo they go and do you like their voicesas well as you used to do

I think Annie is not with you; but incase of her still being so, do give her(and yourself too) Arabel's love andmine. I wish I heard of you oftener. Is

there nobody to write May God blessyou!

Your ever affectionate friend, E.B.B.

To H.S. Boyd August 31, 1831 [sic].

Thank you, my ever dear friend, withalmost my last breath at Torquay, foryour kindness about the Gregory,besides the kind note itself. It is,however, too late. We go, or mean atpresent to go, to-morrow; and thecarriage which is to waft us through theair upon a thousand springs hasactually arrived. You are not to thinkseverely upon Dr. Scully's candour withme as to the danger of the journey. He

does think it 'likely to do me harm;'therefore, you know, he was justified byhis medical responsibility in layingbefore me all possible consequences. Ihave considered them all, and darethem gladly and gratefully. Papa'sdomestic comfort is broken up by theseparation in his family, and theassociations of this place lie upon me,struggle as I may, like the oppressionof a perpetual night-mare. It is aninstinct of self-preservation whichimpels me to escape or to try to escape.And In God's mercy though Godforbid that I should deny either Hismercy or His justice, if He should denyme we may be together in WimpoleStreet in a few days. Nelly Bordman has

kindly written to me Mr. Jago'sfavourable opinion of the patentcarriages, and his conviction of myaccomplishing the journey withoutinconvenience.

May God bless you, my dear dearfriend! Give my love to dearest Annie!Perhaps, if I am ever really in WimpoleStreet, safe enough for Greek, you will trustthe poems to me which you mention. Icare as much for poetry as ever, andcould not more.

Your affectionate and gratefulELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

[Footnote 57: Poetical Works, iii. 186.]

CHAPTER III

1841-1843

In September 1841 the journey fromTorquay was actually achieved, andMiss Barrett returned to her father'shouse in London, from which she wasnever to be absent for more than a fewhours at a time until the day, five yearslater, when she finally left it to join herhusband, Robert Browning. Her lifewas that of an invalid, confined to herroom for the greater part of each year,and unable to see any but a few

intimate friends. Still, she regainedsome sort of strength, especially duringthe warmth of the summer months,and was able to throw herself with realinterest into literary work. In a life suchas this there are few outward events torecord, and its story is best told in MissBarrett's own letters, which, for themost part, need little comment. Theletters of the end of 1841 andbeginning of 1842 are almost entirelywritten to Mr. Boyd, and the mainsubject of them is the series of paperson the Greek Christian poets and theEnglish poets which, at the suggestionof Mr. Dilke, then editor of the'Athenaeum,' she contributed to thatperiodical. Of the composition of

original poetry we hear less at this time.

To H.S. Boyd 50 Wimpole Street:October 2, 1841.

My very dear Friend, I thank you forthe letter and books which crossed thethreshold of this house before me, andlooked like your welcome to me home.I have read the passages you wished meto read I have read them again: for Iremember reading them under your star(or the greater part of them) a longwhile ago. You, on the other hand, mayremember of me, that I never couldconcede to you much admiration foryour Gregory as a poet not even to hisgrand work 'De Virginitate.' He is one

of those writers, of whom there areinstances in our own times, who areonly poetical in prose.

The passage imitative of Chryses Icannot think much of. Try to beforgiving. It is toasted dry between thetwo fires of the Scriptures and Homer,and is as stiff as any dry toast out ofthe simile. To be sincere, I like dry toastbetter.

The Hymns and Prayers I very muchprefer; and although I remembered agood deal about them, it has given me apleasure you will approve of to gothrough them in this edition. The onewhich I like best, which I like far best,

which I think worth all the rest ('DeVirginitate' and all put together), is thesecond upon page 292, beginning 'Soicharis.' It is very fine, I think, writtenout of the heart and for the heart,warm with a natural heat, and nottoasted dry and brown and stiff at afire by any means.

Dear Mr. Boyd, I coveted Arabel's walkto you the other day. I shall often covetmy neighbour's walks, I believe,although (and may God be praised forit!) I am more happy that is, nearing tothe feeling of happiness now than amonth since I could believe possible toa heart so bruised and crushed as minehas [been] be at home is a blessing and

a relief beyond what these words cansay.

But, dear Mr. Boyd, you said somethingin a note to Arabel some little time ago,which I will ask of your kindness toavoid saying again. I have been throughthe whole summer very much better;and even if it were not so I shoulddread being annoyed by more medicalspeculations. Pray do not suggest any. Iam not in a state to admit ofexperiments, and my case is a very clearand simple one. I have not one symptomlike those of my old illness; and aftermore than fifteen years' absolutesuspension of them, their recurrence isscarcely probable. My case is very clear:

not tubercular consumption, not whatis called a 'decline,' but an affection ofthe lungs which leans towards it. Youknow a blood-vessel broke three yearsago, and I never quite got over it. Mr.Jago, not having seen me, could scarcelybe justified in a conjecture of the sort,when the opinions of four ablephysicians, two of them particularlyexperienced in diseases of the chest,and the other two the most eminent ofthe faculty in the east and west ofEngland, were decided and contrary,while coincident with each other.Besides, you see, I am becoming betterand I could not desire more than that.Dear Mr. Boyd, do not write a wordabout it any more, either to me or

others. I am sure you would notwillingly disturb me. Nelly Bordman isgood and dear, but I can't let herprescribe for me anything except herown affection.

I hope Arabel expressed for me mythankful sense of Mrs. Smith's kindintention. But, indeed, although Iwould see you, dear Mr. Boyd, gladly, oran angel or a fairy or any very particularfriend, I am not fit either in body orspirit for general society. I can't seepeople, and if I could it would be verybad for me. Is Mrs. Smith writing Areyou writing Part of me is worn out; butthe poetical part that is, the love ofpoetry is growing in me as freshly and

strongly as if it were watered every day.Did anybody ever love it and stop inthe middle I wonder if anybody everdid ... Believe me youraffectionateE.B.B.

To H.S. Boyd 50 Wimpole Street:December 29, 1841.

My dear Friend, I should not have beenhalf as idle about transcribing thesetranslations[58] if I had fancied youcould care so much to have them asArabel tells me you do. They arerecommended to your mercy, O GreekDaniel! The last sounds in my ears mostlike English poetry; but I assure you Itook the least pains with it. The second

is obscure as its original, if it do not (asit does not) equal it otherwise. The firstis yet more unequal to the Greek. Ipraised that Greek poem above all ofGregory's, for the reason that it hasunity and completeness, for which, to speakgenerally, you may search the streets andsquares and alleys of Nazianzum invain. Tell me what you think of mypart.

Ever affectionately yours,ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

Have you a Plotinus, and would youtrust him to me in that case Oh no, youdo not tempt me with your musicalclocks. My time goes to the best music

when I read or write; and whatevermoney I can spend upon my ownpleasures flows away in books.

[Footnote 58: Translations of threepoems of Gregory Nazianzen, printedin the Athenaeum of January 8, 1842.]

To Mr. Westwood[59] 50 Wimpole Street:January 2, 1842.

Miss Barrett, inferring Mr. Westwoodfrom the handwriting, begs hisacceptance of the unworthy littlebook[60] he does her the honour ofdesiring to see.

It is more unworthy than he could have

expected when he expressed that desire,having been written in very early youth,when the mind was scarcely free in anymeasure from trammels and Popes, and,what is worse, when flippancy oflanguage was too apt to accompanyimmaturity of opinion. Themiscellaneous verses are, still more thanthe chief poem, 'childish things' in astrict literal sense, and the wholevolume is of little interest even to itswriter except for personal reasonsexcept for the traces of dear affections,since rudely wounded, and of that loveof poetry which began with her soonerthan so soon, and must last as long aslife does, without being subject to thechanges of life. Little more, therefore,

can remain for such a volume than tobe humble and shrink from circulation.Yet Mr. Westwood's kind words win itto his hands. Will he receive at the samemoment the expression of touched andgratified feelings with which MissBarrett read what he wrote on thesubject of her later volumes, still veryimperfect, although more mature andtrue to the truth within Indeed she isthankful for what he said so kindly inhis note to her.

[Footnote 59: Mr. Thomas Westwoodwas the author of a volume of 'Poems,'published in 1840, 'Beads from aRosary' (1843), 'The Burden of the Bell'(1850), and other volumes of verse.

Several of his compositions wereappearing occasionally in the Athenaeumat the time when this correspondencewith 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 yourbidding and sent the translations to the'Athenaeum,' attaching to them aninfamous prefatory note which says allsorts of harm of Gregory's poetry. Youwill be very angry with it and me.

And you may be angry for another

reason that in the midst of my truethankfulness for the emendations yousent me, I ventured to reject one or twoof them. You are right, probably, and Iwrong; but still, I thought withinmyself with a womanly obstinacy notaltogether peculiar to me, 'If he and Iwere to talk together about them, hewould kindly give up the point to meso that, now we cannot talk together, Imight as well take it.' Well, you will seewhat I have done. Try not to be angrywith me. You shall have the'Athenaeum' as soon as possible.

My dear Mr. Boyd, you know how Idisbelieved the probability of thesepapers being accepted. You will

comprehend my surprise on receivinglast night a very courteous: note fromthe editor, which I would send to youif it were legible to anybody exceptpeople used to learn reading from thepyramids. He wishes me to contributeto the 'Athenaeum' some prose papersin the form of reviews 'the reviewbeing a mere form, and the book amere text.' He is not very clear but Ifancy that a few translations of excerpta,with a prose analysis and synthesis ofthe original author's genius, might suithis purpose. Now suppose I took upsome of the early Christian Greekpoets, and wrote a few continuouspapers so [61] Give me your advice, mydear friend! I think of Synesius, for

one. Suppose you send me a list of thenames which occur to you! Will youadvise me Will you write directly Willyou make allowance for my teazing youWill you lend me your little Synesius,and Clarke's book I mean the onecommenced by Dr. Clarke andcontinued 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 and advicealtogether. I had just (when your note

arrived) finished two hymns ofSynesius, one being the seventh and theother the ninth. Oh! I do rememberthat you performed upon the latter, andmy modesty should have certainly bidme 'avaunt' from it. Nevertheless, it isso fine, so prominent in the first classof Synesius's beauties, that I tookcourage and dismissed my scruples, andhave produced a version which I havenot compared to yours at all hitherto,but which probably is much rougherand rather closer, winning in faith whatit loses in elegance. 'Elegance' isn't aword 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, closes withthe idea about 'Christian Greek poets'(only begging me to keep away fromtheology), and suggesting a subsequentreviewal of English poetical literature,from Chaucer down to our times.[62]Well, but the Greek poets. With all yourkindness, I have scarcely sufficientmaterials for a full and minute surveyof them. I have won a sight of the'Poetae Christiani,' but the price isruinous fourteen guineas, and then thework consists almost entirely of Latinpoets, deducting Gregory and Nonnus,and John Damascenus, and a centofrom Homer by somebody or other.Turning the leaves rapidly, I do not see

much else; and you know I may get aseparate copy of John Dam., and haveaccess to the rest. Try to turn in yourhead what I should do. Greg. Nyssendid not write poems, did he Have I achance of seeing your copy of Mr.Clarke's book It would be useful in thematters of chronology.

I humbly beg your pardon, andGregory's, for the insolence of my note.It was as brief as it could be, and didnot admit of any extended referenceand admiration to his qualities as anorator. But whoever read it to youshould have explained that when Iwrote 'He was an orator,' the wordorator was marked emphatically, so as to

appear printed in capital letters ofemphasis. Do not say 'you chose,' 'youchose.' I didn't and don't choose to beobstinate, indeed; but I can't see thesense of that 'heavenly soul.'

Ever your grateful and affectionateE.B.B.

I shall have room for praising Gregoryin these papers.

[Footnote 61: The series of papers onthe Greek Christian Poets appeared inthe Athenaeum for February and March1842; they are reprinted in the PoeticalWorks, v. 109-200.]

[Footnote 62: This scheme took shapein the series of papers on the EnglishPoets which appeared in the Athenaeumin the course of June and 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 for goodtemper, that among the Gregorys andSynesiuses I have forgotten everythingabout you. No; indeed it has not beenso. I have never stopped being grateful toyou for your kind notes, and the twolast pieces of Gregory, although I didnot say an overt 'Thank you;' but I havebeen very very busy besides, and thus I

answered to myself for your being kindenough to pardon a silence which wascompelled rather than voluntary.

Do you ever observe that as vexationsdon't come alone, occupations don't,and that, if you happen to be engagedupon one particular thing, it is thesignal for your being waylaid bybundles of letters desiring immediateanswers, and proof sheets ormanuscript works whose writersrequest your opinion while their'printer waits' The old saints are notresponsible for all the filling up of mytime. I have been busy upon busy.

The first part of my story about the

Greek poets went to the 'Athenaeum'some days ago, but, although graciouslyreceived by the editor, it won't appearthis week, or I should have had a proofsheet (which was promised to me)before now. I must contrive to includeall I have to say on the subject in threeparts. They will admit, they tell me, afourth if I please, but evidently theywould prefer as much brevity as I couldvouchsafe. Only two poets are in thefirst notice, and twenty remain andneither of the two is Gregory.

Will you let me see that volume ofGregory which contains the 'ChristusPatiens' Send it by any boy on theheath, and I will remunerate him for

the walk and the burden, and thankyou besides. Oh, don't be afraid! I amnot going to charge it upon Gregory,but on the younger Apollinaris, whoseclaim is stronger, and I rather wish torefresh my recollection of the heightand breadth of that tragicmisdemeanour.

It is quite true that I never havesuffered much pain, and equally so thatI continue most decidedly better,notwithstanding the winter. I feel, too Ido hope not ungratefully the blessinggranted to me in the possibility ofliterary occupation, which is at onceoccupation and distraction. Carlyle (notthe infidel, but the philosopher) calls

literature a 'fireproof pleasure.' Howtruly! How deeply I have felt that truth!

May God bless you, dear Mr. Boyd. Idon't despair of looking in your faceone 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 receivethe assurance that whether I leave outthe right word or put in the wrong one,you never can be other to me than just

that while I live, and why not after Ihave ceased to live And now what haveI done in the meantime, to be called'Miss Barrett' 'I pause for a reply.'

Of course it gives me very greatpleasure to hear you speak so kindly ofmy first paper. Some bona avis as goodas a nightingale must have shaken itswings over me as I began it; and if itwill but sit on the same spray while I goon towards the end, I shall rejoiceexactly four-fold. The third paper wentto Mr. Dilke to-day, and I was sofidgety about getting it away (and itseemed to cling to my writing case withboth its hands), that I would not doany writing, even as little as this note,

until it was quite gone out of sight.You know it is possible that he, theeditor, may not please to have the fourthpaper; but even in that case, it is betterfor the 'Remarks' to remain fragmentary,than be compressed till they are as dryas a hortus siccus of poets.

Certainly you do and must praise mynumber one too much. Number one(that's myself) thinks so. I do really; andthe supererogatory virtue of kindnessmay be acknowledged out of the paleof the Romish Church.

In regard to Gregory and Synesius, youwill see presently that I have notwronged them altogether.

As you have ordered the 'Athenaeums,'I will not send one to-morrow so as torepeat my ill fortune of being too late.But tell me if you would like to haveany from me, and how many.

It was very kind in you to patFlush's[63] head in defiance of dangerand from pure regard for me. I kissedhis head where you had patted it; whichassociation of approximations Iconsider as an imitation of shakinghands with you and as the next bestthing to it. You understand don't youthat Flush is my constant companion,my friend, my amusement, lying withhis head on one page of my folios

while I read the other. (Not your folios Irespect your books, be sure.) Oh, I daresay, if the truth were known, Flushunderstands Greek excellently well.

I hope you are right in thinking that weshall meet again. Once I wished not tolive, but the faculty of life seems tohave sprung up in me again, fromunder 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 praise is sungin her poem, 'To Flush, my Dog'(Poetical Works, iii. 19), and in many ofthe following letters. He accompaniedhis mistress to Italy, lived to a good oldage, and now lies buried in the vaultsof Casa Guidi.]

To H.S. Boyd Saturday night, March 5,1842.

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

Could you really imagine that I have

not looked into the Greek tragediansfor years, with my true love for Greekpoetry That is asking a question, youwill say, and not answering it. Well,then, I answer by a 'Yes' the one youput to me. I had two volumes ofEuripides with me in Devonshire, andhave read him as well as Aeschylus andSophocles that is from them both beforeand since I went there. You know Ihave gone through every line of thethree tragedians long ago, in the way ofregular, consecutive reading.

You know also that I had at differenttimes read different dialogues of Plato;but when three years ago, and a fewmonths previous to my leaving home, I

became possessed of a completeedition of his works, edited by Bekker,why then I began with the first volumeand went through the whole of hiswritings, both those I knew and those Idid not know, one after another: andhave at this time read, not only all thatis properly attributed to Plato, but eventhose dialogues and epistles which passfalsely under his name everythingexcept two books I think, or three, ofthe treatise 'De Legibus,' which I shallfinish in a week or two, as soon as I cantake 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 knowuntil to-day whether the paper wouldappear on Saturday or not; but as Ihave now received the proof sheets,there can be no doubt of it. I havebeen and am hurried and huntedalmost into a corner through thepressing for the fourth paper, and thedifficulty about books. You will forgivea very short note to night.

I have read of Aristotle only hisPoetics, his Ethics, and his work upon

Rhetoric, but I mean to take himregularly into both hands when I finishPlato's last page. Aristophanes I tookwith me into Devonshire; and after all,I do not know much more of him thanthree or four of his plays may stand for.Next week, my very dear friend, I shallbe at your commands, and sit in spiritat your footstool, to hear and answeranything you may care to ask me butoh! what have I done that you shouldtalk to me about 'venturing,' or 'liberty,'or anything of that kind

From your affectionate and gratefulcatechumen, E.B.B.

To H.S. Boyd. March 29, 1842.

My very dear Friend, I received yourlong letter and receive your short one,and thank you for the pleasure of both.Of course I am very very glad of yourapproval in the matter of the papers,and your kindness could not havewished to give me more satisfactionthan it gave actually. Mr. Kenyon tellsme that Mr. Burgess[64] has beenreading and commending the papers,and has brought me from him a newlydiscovered scene of the 'Bacchae' ofEuripides, edited by Mr. Burgesshimself for the 'Gentlemen's Magazine,'and of which he considers that the'Planctus Mariae,' at least the passage Iextracted from it, is an imitation.

Should you care to see it Say 'Yes,' and Iwill send it to you.

Do you think it was wrong to makeeternity feminine I knew that the Greekword was not feminine; but imaginedthat the English personification shouldbe so. Am I wrong in this Will youconsider the subject again

Ah, yes! That was a mistake of mineabout putting Constantine forConstantius. I wrote from memory, andthe memory betrayed me. But saynothing about it. Nobody will find itout. I send you Silentiarius and somepoems of Pisida in the same volume.Even if you had not asked for them, I

should have asked you to look at somepassages which are fine in both. Itappears to me that Silentiarius writesdifficult Greek, overlaying hisdescription with a multitude ofarchitectural and other far fetchedwords! Pisida is hard, too, occasionally,from other causes, particularly in the'Hexaemeron,' which is not in the bookI send you but in another very giganticone (as tall as the Irish giants), whichyou may see if you please. I will send acoach and six with it if you please.

John Mauropus, of the Three Towns, Iowe the knowledge of to you. You lentme the book with his poems, you know.He is a great favorite of mine in all

ways. I very much admire his poetry.

Believe me, ever your affectionate andgrateful

ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

Pray tell me what you think. I am sorryto observe that the book I send you ismarked very irregularly; that is, markedin some places, unmarked in others, justas I happened to be near or far frommy pencil and inkstand. Otherwise Ishould have liked to comparejudgments with you.

Keep the book as long as you please; itis my own.

[Footnote 64: George Burges, theclassical scholar. He had in 1832contributed to the Gentleman's Magazine(under a pseudonym) some linespurporting to be a newly discoveredportion of the Bacchae, but reallycomposed by himself on the basis of aparallel passage in the Christus Patiens. Itis apparently to these lines that MissBarrett alludes, though the 'discovery'was then nearly ten years old.]

To H.S. Boyd 50 Wimpole Street: April2, 1842.

My very dear Friend, ... As to your kinddesire to hear whatever in the way of

favorable remark I have gatheredtogether for fruit of my papers, I puton a veil and tell you that Mr. Kenyonthought it well done, although 'labourthrown away, from the unpopularity ofthe subject;' that Miss Mitford was verymuch pleased, with thewarmheartedness common to her; thatMrs. Jamieson [sic] read them 'with greatpleasure' unconsciously of the author;and that Mr. Home the poet and Mr.Browning the poet were not behind inapprobation. Mr. Browning is said tobe learned in Greek, especially in thedramatists; and of Mr. Home I shouldsuspect something similar. MissMitford and Mrs. Jamieson, althoughvery gifted and highly cultivated

women, are not Grecians, and thereforejudge the papers simply as Englishcompositions.

The single unfavorable opinion is Mr.Hunter's, who thinks that the criticismsare not given with either sufficientseriousness or diffidence, and that thereis a painful sense of effort through thewhole. Many more persons may say sowhose voices I do not hear. I am gladthat yours, my dear indulgent friend, isnot one of them.

Believe me, your ever affectionate

ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

To H.S. Boyd May 17, 1842.

My very dear Friend, Have you thoughtall unkindness out of my silence Yetthe inference is not a true one, howeverit may look in logic.

You do not like Silentiarius very much(that is my inference), since you havekept him so short a time. And I quiteagree with you that he is not a poet ofthe same interest as GregoryNazianzen, however he may appear tome of more lofty cadence in hisversification. My own impression is thatJohn of Euchaita is worth two of eachof them as a poet. His poems strike meas standing in the very first class of the

productions of the Christian centuries.Synesius and John of Euchaita! I shallalways think of those two together notby their similarity, but their dignity.

I return you the books you lent mewith true thanks, and also those whichMrs. Smith, I believe, left in your handsfor me. I thank you for them, and youmust be good enough to thank her.They were of use, although of a rathersublime indifference for poetsgenerally....

I shall send you soon the series of theGreek papers you asked for, and alsoperhaps the first paper of a Survey ofthe English Poets, under the pretence

of a review of 'The Book of the Poets,'a bookseller's selection published lately.I begin from Langland, of PiersPlowman and the Malvern Hills. Thefirst paper went to the editor last week,and I have heard nothing as to whetherit will appear on Saturday or not, andperhaps if it does you won't care tohave it sent to you. Tell me if you do ordon't. I have suffered unpleasantly inthe heart lately from this tyrannousdynasty of east winds, but have beenwell otherwise, and am better, in that.Flushie means to bark the next time hesees you in revenge for what you say ofhim.

Good bye, dear Mr. Boyd; think of me

as

Your ever affectionate E.B.B.

To H.S. Boyd June 3, 1842.

My very dear Friend, I disobeyed you innot simply letting you know of thepublication of my 'English Poets,'because I did not know myself whenthe publication was to take place, and Ihope you will forgive the innocentcrime and accept the first number goingto you with this note. I warn you thatthere will be two numbers more at least.Therefore do not prepare yourself forperhaps the impossible magnanimity ofreading them through.

And now I am fit for rivalship withyour clocks, papa having given me anAeolian harp for the purpose. Do youknow the music of an Aeolian harp,and that nothing below the sphericalharmonies is so sweet and soft andmournfully wild The amusing part of itis (after the poetical) that Flushie isjealous and thinks it is alive, and takes itas very hard that I should say 'beautiful'to anything except his ears!

Arabel talks of going to see you; but ifyou are sensible to this intense andmost overcoming heat, you will pardonher staying away for the present.

We have heard to-day that Annieproposes to publish her Miscellany bysubscription; and although I know it tobe the only way, compatible withpublication at all, to avoid a pecuniaryloss, yet the custom is so entirelyabandoned except in the case ofpersons of a lower condition of lifethan your daughter, that I am sorry tothink of the observations it may excite.The whole scheme has appeared to mefrom the beginning most foolish, and ifyou knew what I know of the state andfortune of our ephemeral literature,you would use what influence you havewith her to induce her to condemn her'contributions' to the adorning of aprivate annual rather than the purpose

in unhappy question. I wish I dared toappeal through my true love for her toher own good sense once more.

My very dear friend's affectionate andgrateful E.B.B.

If you do read any of the papers, let meknow, I beseech you, your full and freeopinion of them.

To H.S. Boyd June 22, 1842.

My very dear Friend, I thank yougratefully for your two notes, with theirunited kindness and candour the latterstill rarer than the former, if less 'sweetupon the tongue.' Sir William

Alexander's tragedy (that is the rightname, I think, Sir William Alexander,Earl of Stirling) you will not findmentioned among my dramatic notices,because I was much pressed for room,and had to treat the whole subject asbriefly as possible, striking off, like theRoman, only the heads of the flowers,and I did not, besides, receive yourinjunction until my third paper on thedramatists was finished and in thepress. When you read it you will findsome notice of that tragedy byMarlowe, the first knowledge of whichI owe to you, my dear Mr. Boyd, as howmuch besides And then comes thefourth paper, and I tremble toanticipate the possible nay, the very

probable scolding I may have from you,upon my various heresies as to Drydenand Pope and Queen Anne'sversificators. In the meantime you havebreathing time, for Mr. Dilke, althoughvery gracious and courteous to myoffence of extending the two papers heasked for into four,[65] yet could find noroom in the 'Athenaeum' last week forme, and only hopes for it this week. Andafter this week comes the BritishAssociation business, which always fillsevery column for a month, so that afurther delay is possible enough. 'It willincrease,' says Mr. Dilke, 'the zest of thereader,' whereas I say (at least think) thatit will help him quite to forget me. Iexplain all this lest you should blame

me for neglect to yourself in notsending the papers. I am so pleased thatyou like at least the second article. Thatis encouragement to me.

Flushie did not seem to think the harpalive when it was taken out of thewindow and laid close to him. Heexamined it particularly, and is aphilosophical dog. But I am sure that atfirst and while it was playing hethought so.

In the same way he can't bear me tolook into a glass, because he thinksthere is a little brown dog inside everylooking glass, and he is jealous of itsbeing so close to me. He used to

tremble and bark at it, but now he issilently jealous, and contents himselfwith squeezing close, close to me andkissing me expressively.

My very dear friend's ever gratefullyaffectionate E.B.B.

[Footnote 65: Ultimately five.]

To John Kenyon 50 Wimpole Street:Sunday night [September 1842].

My dear Mr. Kenyon, Having missedmy pleasure to-day by a coincidenceworse for me than for you, I must, tiredas I am to-night, tell you ready for to-morrow's return of the books what I

have waited three whole days hoping totell you by word of mouth. But mind,before I begin, I don't do so out ofdespair ever to see you again, because Itrust steadfastly to your kindness tocome again when you are not 'languid'and I am alone as usual; only that I darenot keep back from you any longer thefollowing message of Miss Mitford.She says: 'Won't he take us in his way toTorquay or from Torquay Beg him todo so and of all love, to tell us when.'Afterwards, again: 'I think my father isbetter. Tell Mr. Kenyon what I say, andstand my friend with him and beg himto come.'

Which I do in the most effectual way in

her own words.

She is much pleased by means of yourintroduction. 'Tell dear Mr. Kenyonhow very very much I like Mrs. Leslie.She seems all that is good and kind,and to add great intelligence andagreeableness to these prime qualities.'

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

O Mr. Kenyon! what have you doneYou will know the interpretation of thereproach, your conscience holding thekey of the cypher.

In the meantime I ought to be thankingyou for your great kindness about thisdivine Tennyson.[66] Beautiful!beautiful! After all, it is a noble thing tobe a poet. But notwithstanding thepoetry of the novelties and you willobserve that his two preceding volumes(only one of which I had seen before,having inquired for the other vainly) areincluded in these two nothing appearsto me quite equal to 'Oenone,' andperhaps a few besides of my ancientfavorites. That is not said indisparagement of the last, but inadmiration of the first. There is, in fact,more thought more bare brave workingof the intellect in the latter poems, evenif we miss something of the high

ideality, and the music that goes with it,of the older ones. Only I am alwaysinclined to believe that philosophicthinking, like music, is involved,however occultly, in high ideality of anykind.

You have not a key to the cypher ofthis at least, and I am so tired that oneword seems tumbling over another allthe way.

Ever affectionately yours,ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

You will let me keep your beautifulballad and the gods[67] a little longer.

[Footnote 66: This refers to the recentpublication of Tennyson's Poems, in twovolumes, the first containing a re-issueof poems previously published, whilethe second was wholly new, andincluded such poems as the 'Morted'Arthur,' 'Ulysses,' and 'Locksley Hall.']

[Footnote 67: No doubt Mr. Kenyon'stranslation of Schiller's 'Gods ofGreece,' which was the occasion ofMiss Barrett's poem 'The Dead Pan.']

To H.S. Boyd September 14, 1842.

My very dear Friend, I have made youwait a long time for the 'NorthAmerican Review,' because when your

request came it was no longer withinmy reach, and because since then I havenot been so well as usual from a sweepof the wing of the prevailing epidemic.Now, however, I am better than I waseven before the attack, only wishingthat it were possible to hook-and-eyeon another summer to the hem of thegarment of this last sunny one. At theend of such a double summer, tomeasure things humanly, I might beable to go to see you at Hampstead.Nevertheless, winters and adversities aremore fit for us than a constant sun.

I suppose, dear Mr. Boyd, you wantonly to have this review read to you,and not written. Because it isn't out of

laziness that I send the book to you;and Arabel would copy whatever youplease willingly, provided you wished it.Keep the book as long as you please. Ihave put a paper mark and a pencilmark at the page and paragraph where Iam taken up. It seems to me that thecondemnation of 'The Seraphim' is nottoo hard. The poem wants unity.

As to your 'words of fire' aboutWordsworth, if I had but a cataract atcommand I would try to quench them.His powers should not be judged of bymy extracts or by anybody's extractsfrom his last-published volume.[68] Doyou remember his grand ode uponChildhood worth, to my apprehension,

just twenty of Dryden's 'St. Cecilia'sDay' his sonnet upon WestminsterBridge, his lyric on a lark, in which thelark's music swells and exults, and themany noble and glorious passages ofhis 'Excursion' You must not indeedblame me for estimating Wordsworth athis height, and on the other side I readilyconfess to you that he is occasionally,and not unfrequently, heavy and dull,and that Coleridge had an intensergenius. Tell me if you know anythingof Tennyson. He has just publishedtwo volumes of poetry, one of which isa republication, but both full ofinspiration.

Ever my very dear friend's affectionate

and grateful E.B.B.

[Footnote 68: Poems, chiefly of early andlate years, including The Borderers, a Tragedy(1842).]

To Mrs. Martin 50 Wimpole Street:October 22, 1842.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, Waiting firstfor you to write to me, and then waitingthat I might write to you cheerfully, hasended by making so long a silence thatI am almost ashamed to break it. Andperhaps, even if I were not ashamed,you would be angry perhaps you areangry, and don't much care nowwhether or not you ever hear from me

again. Still I must write, and I mustmoreover ask you to write to me again;and I must in particular assure you thatI have continued to love you sincerely,notwithstanding all the silence whichmight seem to say the contrary. What Ishould like best just now is to have aletter speaking comfortable details ofyour being comparatively well again; yetI hope on without it that you really areso much better as to be next to quitewell. It was with great concern that Iheard of the indisposition which hungabout you, dearest Mrs. Martin, so longI who had congratulated myself when Isaw you last on the promise of goodhealth in your countenance. May Godbless you, and keep you better! And

may you take care of yourself, andremember how many love you in theworld, from dear Mr. Martin down toE.B.B.

Well, now I must look around me andconsider what there is to tell you. But Ihave been uneasy in various ways,sometimes by reason and sometimes byfantasy; and even now, although mydear old friend Dr. Scully is somethingbetter, he lies, I fear, in a very precariousstate, while dearest Miss Mitford'sletters from the deathbed of her fathermake my heart ache as surely almost asthe post comes. There is nothing morevarious in character, nothing whichdistinguishes one human being from

another more strikingly, than theexpression of feeling, the manner inwhich it influences the outward man.If I were in her circumstances, I shouldsit paralysed it would be impossible tome to write or to cry. And she, wholoves and feels with the intensity of anature warm in everything, seems toturn to sympathy by the very instinct ofgrief, and sits at the deathbed of herlast relative, writing there, in letter afterletter, every symptom, physical or moraleven to the very words of the raving ofa delirium, and those, heart-breakingwords! I could not write such letters;but I know she feels as deeply as anymourner in the world can. And all thisreminds me of what you once asked

me about the inscriptions in LordBrougham's villa at Nice. There areprobably as many different dialects forthe heart as for the tongue, are therenot ...

And now you will kindly like to have aword said about myself, and it need notbe otherwise than a word to give yourkindness pleasure. The long splendidsummer, exhausting as the heat was tome sometimes, did me essential good,and left me walking about the roomand equal to going downstairs (which Iachieved four or five times), and evento going out in the chair, withoutsuffering afterwards. And, best of all,the spitting of blood (I must tell you),

which more or less kept by mecontinually, stopped quite some six weeksago, and I have thus more reasonablehopes of being really and essentiallybetter than I could have with such asymptom loitering behind accidentalimprovements. Weak enough, and witha sort of pulse which is not excellent, Icertainly remain; but still, if I escapeany decided attack this winter and I amin garrison now there are expectationsof further good for next summer, and Imay recover some moderate degree ofhealth and strength again, and be ableto do good instead of receiving it only.

I write under the eyes of Wordsworth.Not Wordsworth's living eyes, although

the actual living poet had the infinitekindness to ask Mr. Kenyon twice lastsummer when he was in London, if hemight not come to see me. Mr. Kenyonsaid 'No' I couldn't have said 'No' toWordsworth, though I had never goneto sleep again afterwards. But thisWordsworth who looks on me now isWordsworth in a picture. Mr. Haydonthe artist, with the utmost kindness, hassent me the portrait he was painting ofthe great poet an unfinished portraitand I am to keep it until he wants tofinish it. Such a head! such majesty! andthe poet stands musing upon Helvellyn!And all that poet, Helvellyn, and all isin my room![69]

Give my kind love to Mr. Martin ourkind love, indeed, to both of you andbelieve me, my dearest Mrs. Martin,

Your ever affectionate BA.

Is there any hope for us of you beforethe winter ends Do consider.

To H.S. Boyd Monday, October 31,1842.

My very dear Friend, I have put offfrom day to day sending you thesevolumes, and in the meantime I have hada letter from the great poet! Did Arabel tellyou that my sonnet on the picture wassent to Mr. Haydon, and that Mr.

Haydon sent it to Mr. Wordsworth Theresult was that Mr. Wordsworth wroteto me. King John's barons were neverbetter pleased with their Charta than Iam with this letter.[70]

But I won't tell you any more about ituntil you have read the poems which Isend you. Read first, to put you intogood humour, the sonnet written onWestminster Bridge, vol. iii. page 78.Then take from the sixth volume, page152, the passage beginning 'Within thesoul' down to page 153 at 'despair,' andagain at page 155 beginning with

I have seen A curious child, &c.

down to page 157 to the end of theparagraph. If you admit these passagesto be fine poetry, I wish much that youwould justify me further by reading,out of the second volume, the twopoems called 'Laodamia' and 'TinternAbbey' at page 172 and page 161. I willnot ask you to read any more; but Idare say you will rush on of your ownaccount, in which case there is a fineode upon the 'Power of Sound' in thesame volume. Wordsworth is aphilosophical and Christian poet, withdepths in his soul to which poor Byroncould never reach. Do be candid. Nay, Ineed not say so, because you always are,as I am,

Your ever affectionate ELIZABETH B.BARRETT.

[Footnote 69: It was this picture thatcalled forth the sonnet, 'On a Portraitof Wordsworth by B.R. Haydon'(Poetical Works, iii. 62), alluded to in thenext letter.]

[Footnote 70: The following is theletter from Wordsworth which gavesuch pleasure to Miss Barrett, andwhich she treasured among her papersfor the rest of her life. Two slips of thepen have been corrected betweenbrackets.

'Rydal Mount: Oct. 26, '42.

'Dear Miss Barrett, Through ourcommon friend Mr. Haydon I havereceived a sonnet which his portrait ofme suggested. I should have thankedyou sooner for that effusion of afeeling towards myself, with which I ammuch gratified, but I have been absentfrom home and much occupied.

'The conception of your sonnet is infull accordance with the painter'sintended work, and the expressionvigorous; yet the word "ebb," though Ido not myself object to it, nor wish tohave it altered, will I fear prove obscureto nine readers out of ten.

"A vision free And noble, Haydon,hath thine art released."

Owing to the want of inflections inour language the construction here isobscure. Would it not be a little [better]thus I was going to write a smallchange in the order of the words, but Ifind it would not remove the objection.The verse, as I take it, would besomewhat clearer thus, if you wouldtolerate the redundant syllable:

"By a vision free And noble, Haydon, isthine art released."

I had the gratification of receiving, agood while ago, two copies of a

volume of your writing, which I haveread with much pleasure, and beg thatthe thanks which I charged a friend tooffer may be repeated [to] you.

'It grieved me much to hear from Mr.Kenyon that your health is so muchderanged. But for that cause I shouldhave presumed to call upon you when Iwas in London last spring.

'With every good wish, I remain, dearMiss Barrett, your much obliged

'WM. WORDSWORTH.'

[Postmark: Ambleside, Oct. 28, 1842.]

It may be added that although MissBarrett altered the passage criticised bythe great poet, she did not accept hisamendment. It now runs

'A noble vision free Our Haydon'shand has flung out from the mist.

To H.S. Boyd December 4, 1842.

My very dear Friend, You will think mein a discontented state of mind when Iknit my brows like a 'sleeve of care'over your kind praises. But the truth is,I won't be praised for being liberal inCalvinism and love of Byron. I liberal

in commending Byron! Take out myheart and try it! look at it and compareit with yours; and answer and tell me ifI do not love and admire Byron morewarmly than you yourself do. I suspectit indeed. Why, I am always reproachedfor my love to Byron. Why, people sayto me, 'You, who overpraise Byron!'Why, when I was a little girl (and,whatever you may think, my tendency isnot to cast off my old loves!) I used tothink seriously of dressing up like aboy and running away to be LordByron's page. And I to be praised nowfor 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 callmyself a Calvinist. I hang suspendedbetween the two doctrines, and hide myeyes in God's love from the sightswhich other people say they see. Ibelieve simply that the saved are savedby grace, and that they shall hereafterknow it fully; and that the lost are lostby their choice and free will bychoosing to sin and die; and I believeabsolutely that the deepest damned ofall the lost will not dare to whisper tothe nearest devil that reproach ofMartha: 'If the Lord had been near me,I had not died.' But of the means ofthe working of God's grace, and of thetime of the formation of the Divinecounsels, I know nothing, guess

nothing, and struggle to guess nothing;and my persuasion is that when peopletalk of what was ordained or approvedby God before the foundations of theworld, their tendency is almost alwaystowards a confusion of His eternalnature with the human conditions ofours; and to an oblivion of the fact thatwith Him there can be no after norbefore.

At any rate, I do not find it good formyself to examine any more thebrickbats of controversy there is morethan enough to think of in truthsclearly revealed; more than enough forthe exercise of the intellect andaffections and adorations. I would

rather not suffer myself to bedisturbed, and perhaps irritated, whereit is not likely that I should ever beinformed. And although you tell methat your system of investigation isdifferent from some others, answer mewith your accustomed candour, andadmit, my very dear friend, that thisargument does not depend upon theconstruction of a Greek sentence orthe meaning of a Greek word. Let acertain word[71] be 'fore-know' or'publicly favor,' room for a stormycontroversy yet remains. I went throughthe Romans with you partially, andwholly by myself, by your desire, and inreference to the controversy, long ago;and I could not then, and cannot now,

enter into that view of Taylor andAdam Clarke, and yourself I believe, asto the Jews and Gentiles. Neither could Iconceive that a particular part of theepistle represents an actual dialoguebetween a Jew and Gentile, since theform of question and answer appearsto me there simply rhetorical. TheApostle Paul was learned in rhetoric;and I think he described so, by arhetorical and vivacious form, thatstruggle between the flesh and thespirit common to all Christians; thespirit being triumphant through God inChrist Jesus. These are my impressions.Yours are different. And since weshould not probably persuade eachother, and since we are both of us fond

of and earnest in what we fancy to bethe truth, why should we cast away thethousand sympathies we rejoice in,religious and otherwise, for the sake ofa fruitless contention 'What!' you wouldsay (by the time we had quarrelled halfan hour), 'can't you talk without beingexcited ' Half an hour afterwards: 'Praydo lower your voice it goes through myhead!' In another ten minutes: 'I couldscarcely have believed you to be soobstinate.' In another: 'Your prejudicesare insurmountable, and your reasonmost womanly you are degenerated tothe last degree.' In another why, then youwould turn me and Flush out of theroom and so finish the controversyvictoriously.

Was I wrong too, dearest Mr. Boyd, insending the poems to the 'Athenaeum'Well, I meant to be right. I fancied thatyou would rather they were sent; and asyour name was not attached, there couldbe no harm in leaving them to theeditor's disposal. They are not inserted,as I anticipated. The religious characterwas a sufficient objection theircharacter of prayer. Mr. Dilke beggedme once, while I was writing for him,to write the name of God and JesusChrist as little as I could, because thosenames did not accord with the secularcharacter of the journal!

Ever your affectionate and grateful

ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

Tell me how you like the sonnet; butyou won't (I prophesy) like it. Keep the'Athenaeum.'

[Footnote 71: The Greek [Greek:progignoskein], used in Romans viii.29.]

To H.S. Boyd December 24, 1842.

My very dear Friend, I am afraid thatyou will infer from my silence that youhave affronted me into ill temper byyour parody upon my sonnet. Yet 'lucusa non lucendo' were a truer derivation.I laughed and thanked you over the

parody, and put off writing to you untilI had the headache, which forced me toput it off again....

May God bless you, my dear Mr. Boyd.Mr. Savage Landor once said thatanybody who could write a parodydeserved to be shot; but as he haswritten one himself since saying so, hehas probably changed his mind. Arabelsends 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 utterance of thename. What! Ossian superior as a poetto Homer! Mr. Boyd saying so! Mr.Boyd treading down the neck ofAeschylus while he praises Ossian! Thefact appears to me that anomalousthing among believers a miracle withoutan occasion.

I confess I never, never should haveguessed the name; not though I hadguessed to Doomsday. In the first placeI do not believe in Ossian, and havingpartially examined the testimony (for Idon't pretend to any exact learningabout it) I consider him as the poeticallay figure upon which Mr. Macphersondared to cast his personality. There is a

sort of phraseology, nay, an identity ofoccasional phrases, from the antiquebut that these so-called Ossianic poemswere ever discovered and translated asthey stand in their present form, Ibelieve in no wise. As Dr. Johnsonwrote to Macpherson, so I would say,'Mr. Macpherson, I thought you animpostor, and think so still.'

It is many years ago since I looked atOssian, and I never did much delight inhim, as that fact proves. Since yourletter came I have taken him up again,and have just finished 'Carthon.' Thereare beautiful passages in it, the mostbeautiful beginning, I think, 'Desolateis the dwelling of Moina,' and the next

place being filled by that address to thesun you magnify so with praise. But thecharm of these things is the only charmof all the poems. There is a sound ofwild vague music in a monotonenothing is articulate, nothing individual,nothing various. Take away a fewpoetical phrases from these poems, andthey are colourless and bare. Comparethem with the old burning ballads, witha wild heart beating in each. How coldthey grow in the comparison! Comparethem with Homer's grand breathingpersonalities, with Aeschylus's nay, but Icannot bear upon my lips or finger thecharge of the blasphemy of suchcomparing, even for religion's sake....

I had another letter from America a fewdays since, from an American poet ofBoston who is establishing a magazine,and asked for contributions from mypen. The Americans are as good-natured to me as if they took me forthe high Radical I am, you know.

You won't be angry with me for myobliquity (as you will consider it) aboutOssian. You know I always talksincerely to you, and you have notmade me afraid of telling you the truththat is, my truth, the truth of my beliefand 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 distinctionyou suggest between Ossian andHomer. I fashion it in this way: Homersometimes nods, but Ossian makes hisreaders nod.

Ever your affectionate ELIZABETH B.BARRETT.

Did I tell you that I had been readingthrough a manuscript translation of the'Gorgias' of Plato, by Mr. Hyman ofOxford, who is a stepson of Mr.Haydon's the artist It is an excellenttranslation with learned notes, but it isnot elegant. He means to try the public

upon it, but, as I have intimated to him,the Christians of the present day arenot civilised enough for Plato.

Arabel's love.

To H.S. Boyd [About the end of January1843.]

My very dear Friend, The image youparticularly admire in Ossian, I admirewith you, although I am not sure that Ihave not seen it or its like somewherein a classical poet, Greek or Latin.Perhaps Lord Byron remembered itwhen in the 'Siege of Corinth' he saidof his Francesca's uplifted arm, 'Youmight have seen the moon shine

through.' It reminds me also thatMaclise the artist, a man of poeticalimagination, gives such a transparencyto the ghost of Banquo in his pictureof Macbeth's banquet, that we candiscern through it the lights of thefestival. That is good poetry for apainter, is it not

I send you the magazines which I havejust received from America, and whichcontain, one of them, 'The Cry of theHuman,' and the other, four of mysonnets. My correspondent tells me thatthe 'Cry' is considered there one of themost successful of my poems, but youprobably will not think so. Tell meexactly what you do think. At page 343

of 'Graham's Magazine,' Editor's Table,is a review of me, which, howeverextravagant in its appreciation, will giveyour kindness pleasure. I confess to agood deal of pleasure myself fromthese American courtesies, expressednot merely in the magazines, but in thenewspapers; a heap of which has beensent to me by my correspondent the'New York Tribune,' 'The Union,' 'TheUnion Flag,' &c. all scattered over withextracts from my books and benignantwords about their writer. Among theextracts is the whole of the review ofWordsworth from the London'Athenaeum,' an unconsciouscompliment, as they do not guess at theauthorship, and one which you won't

thank them for. Keep the magazines, asI have duplicates.

Dearest Mr. Boyd, since you admit thatI am not prejudiced about Ossian, Itake courage to tell you what I amthinking of.

I am thinking (this is said in a whisper,and in confidence of two kinds), I amthinking that you don't admire him quite asmuch as you did three weeks ago.

Ever most affectionately yours,ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

Arabel not being here, I send her lovewithout asking for it.

To Mrs. Martin January 30, 1843.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, Thank you foryour letter and for dear Mr. Martin'sthought of writing one! Ah! I thoughthe would not write, but not for thereason you say; it was something morepalpable and less romantic! Well, I willnot grumble any more about nothaving my letter, since you are coming,and since you seem, my dear Mrs.Martin, something in better spirits thanyour note from Southampton boretoken of. Madeira is the PromisedLand, you know; and you should hopehopefully for your invalid from hispilgrimage there. You should hope with

those who hope, my dearest Mrs.Martin....

Our 'event' just now is a new purchaseof a 'Holy Family,' supposed to be byAndrea del Sarto. It has displaced theGlover over the chimney-piece in thedrawing-room, and dear Stormie andAlfred nearly broke their backs incarrying it upstairs for me to see beforethe placing. It is probably a fine picture,and I seem to see my way through thedark of my ignorance, to admire thegrouping and colouring, whateverdoubt as to the expression and divinitymay occur otherwise. Well, you willjudge. 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 landscape piece,and you may imagine the local politicsof the arrangement and hanging, withtheir talk and consultation; while I, onthe storey higher, have my arranging tomanage of my pretty new books andmy three hyacinths, and a pot ofprimroses which dear Mr. Kenyon hadthe good nature to carry himselfthrough the streets to our door. But allthe flowers forswear me, and die eithersuddenly or gradually as soon as theybecome aware of the want of fresh airand light in my room. Talking of airand light, what exquisite weather this is!What a summer in winter! It is thefourth day since I have had the firewrung from me by the heat of

temperature, and I sit here very warmindeed, notwithstanding that bare grate.Nay, yesterday I had the door thrownopen for above an hour, and was warmstill! You need not ask, you see, how Iam.

Tell me, have you read Mr. Dickens's'America;' and what is your thought ofit like If I were an American, it wouldmake me rabid, and certain of the freecitizens are furious, I understand, whileothers 'speak peace and ensue it,'admire as much of the book asdeserves any sort of admiration, andattribute the blameable parts to theprejudices of the party with whom thewriter 'fell in,' and not to a want of

honesty or brotherhood in his ownintentions. I admire Mr. Dickens as animaginative writer, and I love theAmericans I cannot possibly admire orlove this book. Does Mr. Martin Do you

Henrietta would send her love to you ifI could hear her voice nearer than I doactually, as she sings to the guitardownstairs. And her love is not theonly one to be sent. Give mine to dearMr. Martin, though he can't make uphis mind to the bore of writing to me.And remember us all, both of you, aswe do you.

Dearest Mrs. Martin, your affectionateBA.

To James Martin February 6, 1843.

You make us out, my dear Mr. Martin,to be such perfect parallel lines that Ishould be half afraid of completingthe definition by our never meeting, ifit were not for what you say afterwards,of the coming to London, and ofpromising to come and see Flush. Ifyou should be travelling while I amwriting, it was only what happened tome when I wrote not long ago todearest Mrs. Martin, and everybody inthis house cried out against the fatuityof the coincidence. As if I could knowthat she was travelling, when nobodytold me, and I wasn't a witch! If the

same thing happens to-day, believe inthe innocence of my ignorance. I shallbe consoled if it does for certainreasons. But for none in the world can Ihelp thanking you for your letter, whichgave me so much pleasure from thefirst sight of the handwriting to thethought of the kindness spent uponme in it, that after all I cannot thankyou as I would.

Yet I won't let you fancy me of such anirrational state of simplicity as not tobe fully aware that you, with your'nature of the fields and forests,' lookdown disdainfully and with an inwardheat of glorying, upon me who have allmy pastime in books dead and seethed.

Perhaps, if it were a little warmer, Imight even grant that you are right inyour pride. As it is, I grumble feebly tomyself something about the definitionof nature, and how we in the town(which 'God made' just as He madeyour hedges) have our share of naturetoo; and then I have secret thoughts ofthe state of the thermometer, andwonder how people can breathe out ofdoors. In the meantime, Flush, who is abetter philosopher, pushes deep intomy furs, and goes to sleep. Perhaps Ishould fear the omen for mycorrespondent.

Oh yes! That picture in 'Boz' isbeautiful. For my own part, and by a

natural womanly contradiction, I havenever cared so much in my life forflowers as since being shut out fromgardens unless, indeed, in the happydays of old when I had a garden of myown, and cut it out into a great Hectorof Troy, in relievo, with a high heroicbox nose and shoeties of columbine.[72] But that was long ago. Now Icount the buds of my primrose with anew kind of interest, and you neversaw such a primrose! I begin to believein Ovid, and look for a metamorphosis.The leaves are turning white andspringing up as high as corn. Want ofair, and of sun, I suppose. I should beloth to think it want of friendship tome!

Do you know that the royal Boz livesclose to us, three doors from Mr.Kenyon in Harley Place The newnumbers appear to me admirable, andfull of life and blood whatever we maysay to the thick rouging andextravagance of gesture. There is abeauty, a tenderness, too, in the organscene, which is worthy of thegilliflowers. But my admiration for'Boz' fell from its 'sticking place,' Iconfess, a good furlong, when I readVictor Hugo; and my creed is, that, notin his tenderness, which is as much hisown as his humour, but in his seriouspowerful Jew-trial scenes, he hasfollowed Hugo closely, and never

scarcely looked away from 'Les TroisJours d'un Condamne.'

If you should not be on the road, Ihope you won't be very long before youare, and that dearest Mrs. Martin willput off building her greenhouse yousee I believe she will build it until shegets home again.

How kind of you and of her to havepoor old Mrs. Barker at Colwall!

Do believe me, both of you, with lovefrom all of us,

Very affectionately yours, BA.

[Footnote 72: See 'Hector in theGarden' (Poetical Works, iii. 37).]

To H.S. Boyd February 21, 1843.

Thank you, my very dear friend, I am aswell as the east wind will suffer me tobe; and that, indeed, is not very well, myheart being fuller of all manner of evilthan is necessary to its humanity. Butthe wind is changed, and the frost isgone, and it is not quite out of myfancy yet that I may see you nextsummer. You and summer are not out of thequestion yet. Therefore, you see, I cannotbe very deep in tribulation. But youmay consider it a bad symptom that Ihave just finished a poem of some five

hundred lines in stanzas, called 'TheLost Bower,'[73] and about nothing atall in particular.

As to Arabel, she is not an icicle. Thereare flowers which blow in the frostwhen we brambles are brown with theirinward death and she is of them, dearthing. You are not a bramble, though,and I hope that when you talk of'feeling the cold,' you mean simply torefer to your sensation, and not to yourhealth. Remember also, dearest Mr.Boyd, what a glorious winter we havehad. Take away the last ten days and afew besides, and call the whole summerrather than winter. Ought we tocomplain, really Really, no.

I venture another prophecy upon theshoulders of the ast, though my handshakes so that nobody will read it.

You can't abide my 'Cry of the Human,' andfour sonnets. They have none of themfound favor in your eyes.

In or out of favor,

Ever your affectionate E.B.B.

Do you think that next summer youmight, could, or would walk across thepark to see me supposing always that Ifail in my aspiration to go and see you Ionly ask by way of hypothesis. Consider

and revolve it so. We live on the vergeof the town rather than in it, and ournoises are cousins to silence; and youshould pass into a room where thesilence is most absolute. Flush'sbreathing is my loudest sound, andthen the watch's tickings, and then myown heart when it beats tooturbulently. Judge of the quiet and thesolitude!

[Footnote 73: Poetical Works, iii. 105.]

To H.S. Boyd April 19, 1843.

My very dear Friend, The earth turnsround, to be sure, and we turn with it,but I never anticipated the day and the

hour for you to turn round and beguilty of high treason to our Greeks. Icry 'Ai! ai!' as if I were a chorus, and allvainly. For, you see, arguing about itwill only convince you of my obstinacy,and not a bit of Homer's supremacy.Ossian has wrapt you in a cloud, a fog,a true Scotch mist. You have caughtcold in the critical faculty, perhaps. Atany rate, I can't see a bit more of yourreasonableness than I can see of Fingal.Sic transit! Homer like the darkened halfof the moon in eclipse! You have spoiltfor me now the finest image in yourOssian-Macpherson.

My dearest Mr. Boyd, you will find asfew believers in the genuineness of

these volumes among the mostaccomplished antiquarians in poetry asin the genuineness of Chatterton'sRowley, and of Ireland's Shakespeare.The latter impostures boasted ofdisciples in the first instance, but thediscipleship perished by degrees, andthe place thereof, during this present1843, knows it no more. So has it beenwith the belief in Macpherson's Ossian.Of those who believed in the poems atthe first sight of them, who kept hiscreed to the end And speaking so, Ispeak of Macpherson's contemporarieswhom you respect.

I do not consider Walter Scott a greatpoet, but he was highly accomplished

in matters of poetical antiquarianism,and is certainly citable as an authorityon this question.

Try not to be displeased with me. Icannot conceal from you that myastonishment is profound andunutterable at your new religion yournew faith in this pseud-Ossian andyour desecration, in his service, of theold Hellenic altars. And by the way, myown figure reminds me to inquire ofyou whether you are not sometimesstruck with a want in him a want verygrave in poetry, and very strange inantique poetry the want of devotionalfeeling and conscience of God.Observe, that all antique poets rejoice

greatly and abundantly in their divinemythology; and that if this Ossian beboth antique and godless, he is anexception, a discrepancy, a monster inthe history of letters and experience ofhumanity. As such I leave him.

Oh, how angry you will be with me.But you seemed tolerably prepared inyour last letter for my being in apassion.... Ever affectionately yours,

ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

Why should I be angry with Flush Hedoes not believe in Ossian. Oh, I assureyou he doesn't.

The following letter was called forth bya criticism of Mr. Kenyon's on MissBarrett's poem, The Dead Pan, which hehad seen in manuscript; but it alsomeets some criticisms which others hadmade upon her last volume (see above,p. 65).

To John Kenyan Wimpole Street: March25, 1843.

My very dear Cousin, Your kindnesshaving touched me much, and yourgood opinion, whether literary orotherwise, being of great price to me, itis even with tears in my eyes that Ibegin to write to you upon a differencebetween us. And what am I to say To

admit, of course, in the first place, theinjuriousness to the 'popularity,' of thescriptural tone. But am I to sacrifice aprinciple to popularity Would youadvise me to do so Should I be moreworthy of your kindness by doing soand could you (apart from thekindness) call my refusal to do so eitherperverseness or obstinacy Even if youcould, I hope you will try a little to bepatient with me, and to forgive, at least,what you find it impossible to approve.

My dear cousin, if you had notreminded me of Wordsworth'sexclamation

I would rather be A pagan, suckled in a

creed outworn

and if he had never made it, I do thinkthat its significance would haveoccurred to me, by a sort of instinct, inconnection with this discussion.Certainly I would rather be a paganwhose religion was actual, earnest,continual for week days, work days, andsong days than I would be a Christianwho, from whatever motive, shrankfrom hearing or uttering the name ofChrist out of a 'church.' I am nofanatic, but I like truth and earnestnessin all things, and I cannot choose butbelieve that such a Christian shows butill beside such a pagan. What paganpoet ever thought of casting his gods

out of his poetry In what pagan poemdo they not shine and thunder And if Ito approach the point in question if I,writing a poem the end of which is theextolment of what I consider to beChristian truth over the pagan mythsshrank even there from naming thename of my God lest it should notmeet the sympathies of some readers,or lest it should offend the delicaciesof other readers, or lest, generally, itshould be unfit for the purposes ofpoetry in what more forcible mannerthan by that act (I appeal to Philipagainst Philip) can I controvert my ownpoem, or secure to myself and myargument a logical and unanswerableshame If Christ's name is improperly

spoken in that poem, then indeed isSchiller right, and the true gods ofpoetry are to be sighed for mournfully.For be sure that Burns was right, andthat a poet without devotion is belowhis own order, and that poetry withoutreligion will gradually lose its elevation.And then, my dear friend, we do notlive among dreams. The Christianreligion is true or it is not, and if it istrue it offers the highest and purestobjects of contemplation. And thepoetical faculty, which expresses thehighest moods of the mind, passesnaturally to the highest objects. Whocan separate these things Did DanteDid Tasso Did Petrarch Did CalderonDid Chaucer Did the poets of our best

British days Did any one of theseshrink from speaking out Divine nameswhen the occasion came Chaucer, withall his jubilee of spirit and resoundinglaughter, had the name of Jesus Christand God as frequently to familiarity onhis lips as a child has its father's name.You say 'our religion is not vital notweek-day enough.' Forgive me, but thatis a confession of a wrong, not anargument. And if a poet be a poet, it ishis business to work for the elevationand purification of the public mind,rather than for his own popularity!while if he be not a poet, no sacrificeof self-respect will make amends for adefective faculty, nor ought to makeamends.

My conviction is that the poetry ofChristianity will one day be developedgreatly and nobly, and that in themeantime we are wrong, poetically asmorally, in desiring to restrain it. No, Inever felt repelled by any Christianphraseology in Cowper although he isnot a favorite poet of mine from othercauses nor in Southey, nor even inJames Montgomery, nor in Wordsworthwhere he writes 'ecclesiastically,' nor inChristopher North, nor inChateaubriand, nor in Lamartine.

It is but two days ago since I had aletter and not from a fanatic toreproach my poetry for not being

Christian enough, and this is not thefirst instance, nor the second, of myreceiving such a reproach. I tell you thisto open to you the possibility ofanother side to the question, whichmakes, you see, a triangle of it!

Can you bear with such a long answerto your letter, and forbear calling it a'preachment' There may be such a thingas an awkward and untimelyintroduction of religion, I know, and Ihave possibly been occasionally guiltyin this way. But for my principle I mustcontend, for it is a poetical principle andmore, and an entire sincerity in respectto it is what I owe to you and to myself.Try to forgive me, dear Mr. Kenyon. I

would propitiate your indulgence forme by a libation of your own eau deCologne poured out at your feet! It isexcellent eau de Cologne, and you arevery kind to me, but, notwithstandingall, there is a foreboding within me thatmy 'conventicleisms' will be inodorousin your nostrils.

[Incomplete.]

To John Kenyon Tuesday [about March1843].

My very dear Cousin, I have read yourletter again and again, and feel yourkindness fully and earnestly. You haveadvised me about the poem,[74]

entering into the questions referring toit with the warmth rather of the authorof it than the critic of it, and this I amsensible of as absolutely as anyone canbe. At the same time, I have a strongperception rather than opinion aboutthe poem, and also, if you would notthink it too serious a word to use insuch a place, I have a conscience about it.It was not written in a desultoryfragmentary way, the last stanzasthrown in, as they might be thrown out,but with a design, which leans its wholeburden on the last stanzas. In fact, thelast stanzas were in my mind to say, andall the others presented the mereavenue to the end of saying them.Therefore I cannot throw them out I

cannot yield to the temptation even ofpleasing you by doing so; I make acompromise with myself, and do notthrow them out, and do not print the poem.Now say nothing against this, my dearcousin, because I am obstinate, as youknow, as you have good evidence forknowing. I will not either alter or print it.Then you have your manuscript copy,which you can cut into any shape youplease as long as you keep it out ofprint; and seeing that the poem reallydoes belong to you, having had itsorigin in your paraphrase of Schiller'sstanzas, I see a great deal of poeticaljustice in the manuscript copyrightremaining in your hands. For the rest Ishall have quite enough to print and to

be responsible for without it, and I amquite satisfied to let it be silent for a fewyears until either I or you (as may be thecase even with me!) shall have revisedour judgments in relation to it.

This being settled, you must suffer meto explain (for mere personal reasons,and not for the good of the poem) thatno mortal priest (of St. Peter's orotherwise) is referred to in a particularstanza, but the Saviour Himself. Who is'the High Priest of our profession,' andthe only 'priest' recognised in the NewTestament. In the same way the altarcandles are altogether spiritual, or theycould not be supposed, even by themost amazing poetical exaggeration, to

'light the earth and skies.' I explain this,only that I may not appear to you tohave compromised the principle of thepoem, by compromising any truth(such in my eyes) for the sake of apoetical effect.

And now I will not say any more. Iknow that you will be inclined to cry,'Print it in any case,' but I will entreatof your kindness, which I have somuch right to trust in while entreating,not to say one such word. Be kind, and let mefollow my own way silently. I have not,indeed, like a spoilt child in a fret,thrown the poem up because I wouldnot alter it, though you have donemuch to spoil me. I act advisedly, and

have made up my mind as to what isthe wisest and best thing to do, andpersonally the pleasantest to myself,after a good deal of serious reflection.'Pan is dead,' and so best, for thepresent at least.

I shall take your advice about thepreface in every respect, and thanks forthe letter and Taylor's memoirs.

Miss Mitford talks of coming to townfor a day, and of bringing Flush withher, as soon as the weather settles, andto-day looks so like it that I havemused this morning on the possibilityof breaking my prison doors andgetting into the next room. Only there

is a forbidding north wind, they say.

Don't be vexed with me, dear Mr.Kenyon. You know there areobstinacies in the world as well asmortalities, and thereto appertaining.And then you will perceive through allmine, that it is difficult for me to actagainst your judgment so far as to putmy own tenacity into print.

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

[Footnote 74: 'The Dead Pan' (PoeticalWorks, iii. 280).]

It is to the honour of America that it

recognised from the first the genius ofMiss Barrett; and for a large part of herlife some of the closest of her personaland literary connections were withAmericans. The same is true in bothrespects of Robert Browning. Asappears from some letters printedfarther on in these volumes, at a timewhen the sale of his poems in Englandwas almost infinitesimal, they wereknown and highly prized in the UnitedStates. Expressions of Mrs. Browning'ssympathy with America and ofgratitude for the kindly feelings ofAmericans recur frequently in theletters, and it is probable that there arestill extant in the States many letterswritten to friends and correspondents

there. Only three or four such havebeen made available for the presentcollection; and of these the firstfollows here in its place in thechronological sequence. It was writtento Mr. Cornelius Mathews, then editorof 'Graham's Magazine,' who hadinvited Miss Barrett to sendcontributions to his periodical. Thewarm expression in it of sympathy withthe poetry of Robert Browning, whomshe did not yet know personally, isespecially interesting to readers of thislater day, who, like the spectators at aGreek tragedy, watch the developmentof a drama of which the denouement isalready known to them.

To Cornelius Mathews 50 Wimpole Street:April 28, 1843.

My dear Mr. Mathews, In replying toyour kind letter I send some more versefor Graham's, praying such demi-semi-gods as preside over contributors tomagazines that I may not appear over-loquacious to my editor. Of course it isnot intended to thrust three or fourpoems into one number. My pluralitiesgo to you simply to 'bide your time,'and be used one by one as theopportunity is presented. In themeanwhile you have received, I hope, ashort letter written to explain myunwillingness to apply, as you desiredme at first, to Wiley and Putnam an

unwillingness justified by what youtold me afterwards. I did not apply, norhave I applied, and I would rather notapply at all. Perhaps I shall hear fromthem presently. The pamphlet onInternational Copyright is welcome at adistance, but it has not come near meyet; and for all your kindness in relationto the prospective gift of your works Ithank you again and earnestly. You arekind to me in many ways, and I wouldwillingly know as much of yourintellectual habits as you teach me ofyour genial feelings. This 'Pathfinder'(what an excellent name for anAmerican journal!) I also owe to you,with the summing up of yourperformances in it, and with a notice of

Mr. Browning's 'Blot on the Scutcheon,'which would make one poet furious(the 'infelix Talfourd') and another alittle melancholy namely, Mr. Browninghimself. There is truth on both sides,but it seems to me hard truth onBrowning. I do assure you I never sawhim in my life do not know him evenby correspondence and yet, whetherthrough fellow-feeling for Eleusinianmysteries, or whether through the moregenerous motive of appreciation of hispowers, I am very sensitive to thethousand and one stripes with whichthe assembly of critics doth expoundits vocation over him, and the'Athenaeum,' for instance, made mequite cross and misanthropical last

week.[75] The truth is and the worldshould know the truth it is easier tofind a more faultless writer than a poetof equal genius. Don't let us fall intothe category of the sons of Noah.Noah was once drunk, indeed, butonce he built the ark. Talking of poets,would your 'Graham's Miscellany' careat all to have occasional poeticalcontributions from Mr. Horne I am incorrespondence with him, and I think Icould manage an arrangement upon thesame terms as my engagement rests on,if you please and your friends please,that is, and without formality, if itshould give you any pleasure. He is awriter of great power, I think. And thisreminds me that you may be looking all

the while for the 'Athenaeum's' reply toyour friend's proposition of which Ilost no time in apprising the editor, Mr.Dilke, and here are some of his words:'An American friend who had beenlong in England, and often conversedwith me on the subject, resolved on hisreturn to establish such acorrespondence. In all things worthknowing all reviews of good books'(which 'are published first orsimultaneously,' says Mr. Dilke, 'inLondon'), 'he was anticipated, and aftersome months he was driven ofnecessity to geological surveys,centenary celebrations, progress ofrailroads, manufactures, &c., and thusthe prospect was abandoned altogether.'

Having made this experiment, Mr.Dilke is unwilling to risk another.Neither must we blame him for thereserve. When the internationalcopyright shall at once protect thenational meum and tuum in literature andgive it additional fullness and value, weshall cease to say insolently to you thatwhat we want of your books we willget without your help, but as it is, theMr. Dilkes of us have nothing muchmore courteous to do. I wish I couldhave been of any use to your friend Ihave done what I could. In regard tocritical papers of mine, I wouldwillingly give myself up to you, seeingyour good nature; but it is the truththat I never published any prose papers

at all except the series on the GreekChristian poets and the other series onthe English poets in the 'Athenaeum'of last year, and both of which youhave probably seen. Afterwards I threwup my brief and went back to mypoetry, in which I feel that I must dowhatever I am equal to doing at all.That life is short and art long appearsto us more true than usual when we lieall day long on a sofa and are asfrightened of the east wind as if it werea tiger. Life is not only short, butuncertain, and art is not only long, butabsorbing. What have I to do withwriting 'scandal' (as Mr. Jones would say)upon my neighbour's work, when Ihave not finished my own So I threw

up my brief into Mr. Dilke's hands, andwent back to my verses. Whenever Iprint another volume you shall have it,if Messrs. Wiley and Putnam willconvey it to you. How can I send you,by the way, anything I may have to sendyou Why will you not, as a nation,embrace our great penny post scheme,and hold our envelopes in allacceptation You do not know cannotguess what a wonderful liberty ourRowland Hill has given to Britishspirits, and how we 'flash a thought'instead of 'wafting' it from our extremesouth to our extreme north, paying 'apenny for our thought' and for theelectricity included. I recommend youour penny postage as the most

successful revolution since the 'gloriousthree days' of Paris.

And so, you made merry with my scornof my 'Prometheus.' Believe me believeme absolutely I did not strike thatothers might spare, but from an earnestremorse. When you know me better,you will know, I hope, that I am true,whether right or wrong, and you knowalready that I am right in this thing, theonly merit of the translation being itscloseness. Can I be of any use to you,dear Mr. Mathews When I can, makeuse of me. You surprise and disappointme in your sketch of the Boston poet,for the letter he wrote to me struck meas frank and honest. I wonder if he

made any use of the verses I sent him;and I wonder what I sent him for Inever made a note of it, throughnegligence, and have quite forgotten.Are you acquainted with Mrs.Sigourney She has offended us muchby her exposition of Mrs. Southey'sletter, and I must say not without cause.I rejoice in the progress of 'Wakondah,'wishing the influences of mountainand river to be great over him and inhim. And so I will say the 'God blessyou' your kindness cares to hear, andremain,

Sincerely and thankfully yours,ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

(Endorsed in another hand) E.B. Barrett,London, received May 12, 1843, 4poems, previously furnished toGraham's Magazine, $50.

[Footnote 75: The Athenaeum of April22 contained a review of Browning's'Dramatic Lyrics,' charging him withtaking pleasure in being enigmatical,and declaring this to be a sign ofweakness, not strength. It spoke ofmany of the pieces composing thevolume as being rather fragments andsketches than having any right toindependent existence.]

To John Kenyan May 1, 1843

My dear Cousin, Here is my copyrightfor you, and you will see that I have put'word' instead of 'sound,' as certainlythe proper 'word.' Do let me thank youonce more for all the trouble andinterest you have taken with me and inme. Observe besides that I have alteredthe title according to your unconscioussuggestion, and made it 'The Dead Pan,'which is a far better name, I think, thanthe repetition of the refrain.

But I spoil my exemplary docility so far,by confessing that I don't like 'scornfulchildren' half no, not half so well asmy 'railing children,' although, to besure, you proved to me that the last wasnigh upon nonsense. You proved it that

is, you almost proved it, for don't wesay at least, mightn't we say 'the thunderwas silent' 'thunder' involving the idea ofnoise, as much as 'railing children' do.Consider this I give it up to you.[76]

I am ashamed to have kept Carlyle solong, but I quite failed in trying to readhim at my "usual pace he won't be readquick. After all, and full of beauty andtruth as that book is, and strongly as ittakes hold of my sympathies, there isnothing new in it not even a newCarlyleism, which I do not say by wayof blaming the book, because theauthor of it might use words like theapostle's: 'To write the same things untoyou, to me indeed is not grievous, and

to you it is safe.' The world being blindand deaf and rather stupid, requires areiteration of certain uncongenialtruths....

Thank you for the address. Everaffectionately yours, E.B.B.

I observe that the most questionable rhymesare not objected to by Mr. Merivale;also but this letter is too long already.

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

To Mrs. Martin May 3, 1843.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, If youpromised (which you did), I ought tohave promised and therefore we mayask each other's pardon....

How is the dog and how does dear Mr.Martin find himself in Arcadia Do weall stand in his recollection like aspecies of fog, or a concentratedessence of brick wall How I wish andsince I said it aloud to you I have oftenwished it over in a whisper that youwould put away your romance, or cut itin two, and spend six months of theyear in London with us! Miss Mitfordbelieves that wishes, if wished hardenough, realise themselves, but myexperience has taught me a less cheerful

creed. Only if wishes do realisethemselves!

Miss Mitford is at Bath, where she hasspent one week and is about to spendtwo, and then goes on her way intoDevonshire. She amused me so theother day by desiring me to look at thedate of Mr. Landor's poems in theirfirst edition, because she was sure thatit must be fifty years since, and shefinds him at this 1843, the veryLothario of Bath, enchanting the wives,making jealous the husbands, and'enjoying,' altogether, the worst ofreputations. I suggested that if sheproved him to be seventy-five, as longas he proved himself enchanting, it

would do no manner of good in theway of practical ethics; and that,besides, for her to travel round theworld to investigate gentlemen's ageswas invidious, and might be alarmingas to the safe inscrutability of ladies'ages. She is delighted with the scenery ofBath, which certainly, take it altogether,marble and mountains, is the mostbeautiful town I ever looked upon.Cheltenham, I think, is a merecommonplace to it, although theavenues are beautiful, to be sure....

Mrs. Southey complains that she haslost half her income by her marriage,and her friend Mr. Landor is anxious topersuade, by the means of intermediate

friends, Sir Robert Peel to grant her apension. She is said to be in Londonnow, and has at least left Keswick forever. It is not likely that Wordsworthshould come here this year, which I amsorry for now, although I shouldcertainly be sorry if he did come. Ahappy state of contradiction, notconfined either to that particularmovement or no-movement, inasmuchas I was gratified by his sending me thepoem you saw, and yet read it with suchextreme pain as to incapacitate me fromjudging of it. Such stuff we are madeof!

This is a long letter and you are tired, Ifeel 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 thelying in state, as lying stark and dead iscalled whimsically, of the Duke ofSussex. It was a fine sight, they say.

To H.S. Boyd May 9, 1843 [postmark].

My very dear Friend, I thank you muchfor the copies of your 'Anti-Puseyistic

Pugilism.' The papers reached myhands quite safely and so missed settingthe world on fire; and I shall be as waryof them evermore (be sure) as if theywere gunpowder. Pray send them toMary Hunter. Why not Why should youthink that I was likely to 'object' to yourdoing so She will laugh. I laughed,albeit in no smiling mood; for I havebeen transmigrating from one room toanother, and your packet found mehalf tired and half excited, and wholegrave. But I could not choose but laughat your Oxford charge; and when I hadcounted your great guns and javelinpoints and other militaryappurtenances of the Punic war, I saidto myself or to Flush, 'Well, Mr. Boyd

will soon be back again with thedissenters.' Upon which I think Flushsaid, 'That's a comfort.'

Mary's direction is, 111 London Road,Brighton. You ought to send the versesto her yourself, if you mean to pleaseher entirely: and I cannot agree withyou that there is the slightest danger insending them by the post. Letters arenever opened, unless you tempt theflesh by putting sovereigns, or shillings,or other metallic substances inside theenvelope; and if the devil entered intome causing me to write a libel againstthe Queen, I would send it by the postfearlessly from John o' Groat's toLand's End inclusive.

One of your best puns, if not the best,

Hatching succession apostolical, Withother falsehoods diabolical,

lies in an octosyllabic couplet; and whatbusiness has that in your heroic libel

The 'pearl' of maidens sends her loveto you.

Your very affectionate ELIZABETH 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 your controversialpoem. Certainly, if you count thesyllables on your fingers, there are tensyllables in each line: of that I amperfectly aware; but the lines are nonethe less belonging to the species ofversification called octosyllabic. Do younot observe, my dearest Mr. Boyd, thatthe final accent and rhyme fall on theeighth syllable instead of the tenth, andthat that single circumstance determinesthe class of verse that they are in factoctosyllabic verses with triple rhymes

Hatching succession apostolical, Withother falsehoods diabolical.

Pope has double rhymes in his heroicverses, but how does he manage themWhy, he admits eleven syllables,throwing the final accent and rhyme onthe tenth, thus:

Worth makes the man, and want of itthe fellow, The rest is nought butleather and prunella.

Again, if there is a double rhyme to anoctosyllabic verse, there are always ninesyllables in that verse, the final accentand rhyme falling on the eighth syllable,thus:

Compound for sins that we're inclined

to, By damning those we have no mindto.

('Hudibras.')

Again, if there is a triple rhyme to anoctosyllabic verse (precisely the presentcase) there must always be ten syllablesin that verse, the final accent and rhymefalling on the eighth syllable; thus from'Hudibras' again:

Then in their robes the penitentials Arestraight presented with credentials.Remember how in arms and politics,We still have worsted all your holytricks.

You will admit that these last coupletsare precisely of the same structure asyours, and certainly they areoctosyllabics, and made use of byButler in an octosyllabic poem, whereasyours, to be rendered of the heroicstructure, should run thus:

Hatching at ease succession apostolical,With many other falsehoods diabolical.

I have written a good deal about anoversight on your part of littleconsequence; but as you charged mewith a mistake made in cold blood andunder corrupt influences from Lake-mists, why I was determined to makethe matter clear to you. And as to the

influences, if I were guilty of thismistake, or of a thousand mistakes,Wordsworth would not be guilty in me.I think of him now, exactly as Ithought of him during the first yearsof my friendship for you, only with anequal admiration. He was a great poet tome always, and always, while I have asoul for poetry, will be so; yet I said,and say in an under-voice, butsteadfastly, that Coleridge was thegrander genius. There is scarcelyanything newer in my estimation ofWordsworth than in the colour of myeyes!

Perhaps I was wrong in saying 'a pun.'But I thought I apprehended a double

sense in your application of the term'Apostolical succession' to Oxford's'breeding' and 'hatching,' words whichimply succession in a wayunecclesiastical.

After all which quarrelling, I amdelighted to have to talk of yourcoming nearer to me within reachalmost within my reach. Now if I amable to go in a carriage at all thissummer, it will be hard but that Imanage to get across the park andserenade you in Greek under yourwindow.

Your ever affectionate ELIZABETH B.BARRETT.

To H.S. Boyd May 18, 1843.

My very dear Friend, Yes, you havesurprised me!

I always have thought of you, and Ialways think and say, that you aretruthful and candid in a supremedegree, and therefore it is not yourcandour about Wordsworth whichsurprises me.

He had the kindness to send me thepoem upon Grace Darling when it firstappeared; and with a curious mixtureof feelings (for I was much gratified byhis attention in sending it) I yet read it

with so much pain from the nature ofthe subject, that my judgment wasscarcely free to consider the poetry Icould scarcely determine to myselfwhat I thought of it from feeling toomuch.

But I do confess to you, my dear friend,that I suspect through the mist of mysensations the poem in question to bevery inferior to his former poems; Iconfess that the impression left on mymind is, of its decided inferiority, and Ihave heard that the poet's friends andcritics (all except one) are mourning overits appearance; sighing inwardly,'Wordsworth is old.'

One thing is clear to me, however, andover that I rejoice and triumph greatly.If you can esteem this poem of 'GraceDarling,' you must be susceptible to thegrandeur and beauty of the poemswhich preceded it; and the cause ofyour past reluctance to recognise thepoet's power must be, as I have alwayssuspected, from your having given avery partial attention and considerationto his poetry. You were partial in yourattention I, perhaps, was injudicious inmy extracts; but with your truth and hisgenius, I cannot doubt but that the timewill come for your mutual amity. Ohthat I could stand as a herald of peace,with my wool-twisted fillet! I do notunderstand the Greek metres as well as

you do, but I understand Wordsworth'sgenius better, and do you forgive that itshould console me.

I will ask about his collegian extraction.Such a question never occurred to me.Apollo taught him under the laurels,while all the Muses looked through theboughs.

Your ever affectionate ELIZABETH B.BARRETT,

Oh, yes, it delights me that you shouldbe nearer. Of course you know thatWordsworth is Laureate.[77]

[Footnote 77: Wordsworth was

nominated Poet Laureate after thedeath of Southey in March 1843.]

To John Kenyan May 19, 1843,

Thank you, my dear cousin, for all yourkindness to me. There is ivy enough fora thyrsus, and I almost feel ready toenact a sort of Bacchus triumphalis 'forjollitie,' as I see it already planted, andlooking in at me through the window. Inever thought to see such a sight as thatin my London room, and amoverwhelmed with my own glory.

And then Mr. Browning's note! Unlessyou say 'nay' to me, I shall keep thisnote, which has pleased me so much,

yet not more than it ought. Now, Iforgive Mr. Merivale for his hardthoughts of my easy rhymes. But allthis pleasure, my dear Mr. Kenyon, Iowe to you, and shall remember that Ido.

Ever affectionately yours, E.B.B.

To Mrs. Martin May 26, 1843.

... I thank you for your part in thegaining of my bed, dearest Mrs. Martin,most earnestly; and am quite ready tobelieve that it was gained by wishdom,which believing is wisdom! No, youwould certainly never recognise myprison if you were to see it. The bed,

like a sofa and no Bed; the large tableplaced out in the room, towards thewardrobe end of it; the sofa rolledwhere a sofa should be rolled oppositethe arm-chair: the drawers crownedwith a coronal of shelves fashioned bySette and Co. (of papered deal andcrimson merino) to carry my books; thewashing table opposite turned into acabinet with another coronal ofshelves; and Chaucer's and Homer'sbusts in guard over these twodepartments of English and Greekpoetry; three more busts consecratingthe wardrobe which there was noannihilating; and the window oh, Imust take a new paragraph for thewindow, I am out of breath.

In the window is fixed a deep box fullof soil, where are springing up my scarletrunners, nasturtiums, andconvolvuluses, although they weredisturbed a few days ago by therevolutionary insertion among them ofa great ivy root with trailing branchesso long and wide that the top tendrilsare fastened to Henrietta's window ofthe higher storey, while the lower onescover all my panes. It is Mr. Kenyon'sgift. He makes the like to flourish outof mere flowerpots, and embower hisbalconies and windows, and whyshouldn't this flourish with me Butcertainly there is no shutting my eyes tothe fact that it does droop a little. Papa

prophesies hard things against it everymorning, 'Why, Ba, it looks worse andworse,' and everybody preachesdespondency. I, however, persist inbeing sanguine, looking out for newshoots, and making a sure pleasure inthe meanwhile by listening to thesound of the leaves against the pane, asthe wind lifts them and lets them fall.Well, what do you think of my ivy AskMr. Martin, if he isn't jealous already.

Have you read 'The Neighbours,' MaryHowitt's translation of FredericaBremer's Swedish Yes, perhaps. Haveyou read 'The Home,'[1] fresh from thesame springs Do, if you have not. It hasnot only charmed me, but made me

happier and better: it is fuller ofChristianity than the most orthodoxcontroversy in Christendom; andrepresents to my perception orimagination a perfect and beautifulembodiment of Christian outward lifefrom the inward, purely and tenderly.At the same time, I should tell you thatSette says, 'I might have liked it tenyears ago, but it is too young and sillyto give me any pleasure now.' For me,however, it is not too young, andperhaps it won't be for you and Mr.Martin. As to Sette, he is among thepatriarchs, to say nothing of the lawyersand there we leave him....

Ever your affectionate BA.

To John Kenyan 50 Wimpole Street:Wednesday, or is it Thursday [summer1843].

My dear Cousin, ... I send you myfriend Mr. Horne's new epic,[78] andbeg you, if you have an opportunity, todrop it at Mr. Eagles' feet, so that hemay pick it up and look at it. I have notgone through it (I have another copy),but it appears to me to be full of finethings. As to the author's fantasy ofselling it for a farthing, I do not enterinto the secret of it unless, indeed, heshould intend a sarcasm on the age'sgenerous patronage of poetry, which ispossible.

[Footnote 78: Orion, the early editionsof which were sold at a farthing, inaccordance with a fancy of the author.Miss Barrett reviewed it in theAthenaum (July 1843).]

To John Kenyan June 30, 1843.

Thank you, my dear Mr. Kenyon, forthe Camden Society books, and also forthese which I return; and also for thehope of seeing you, which I keptthrough yesterday. I honor Mrs.Coleridge for the readiness ofreasoning and integrity in reasoning, forthe learning, energy, and impartialitywhich she has brought to her purpose,

and I agree with her in many of herobjects; and disagree, by opposing heropponents with a fuller front than sheis always inclined to do. In truth, I cannever see anything in these sacramentalordinances except a prospective sign inone (Baptism), and a memorial sign inthe other, the Lord's Supper, and couldnot recognise either under anymodification as a peculiar instrumentof grace, mystery, or the like. Thetendencies we have towards makingmysteries of God's simplicities are asmarked and sure as our missing theactual mystery upon occasion. God'slove is the true mystery, and thesacraments are only too simple for us tounderstand. So you see I have read the

book in spite of prophecies. After all Ishould like to cut it in two it would bebetter for being shorter and it might beclearer also. There is, in fact, somedullness and perplexity a few passageswhich are, to my impression,contradictory of the general purposesomething which is not generous,about nonconformity and what Icannot help considering a superfluoustenderness for Puseyism. Moreover sheis certainly wrong in imagining that theante-Nicene fathers did not as a bodyteach regeneration by baptism evenGregory Nazianzen, the most spiritualof many, did, and in the fourth century.But, after all, as a work of theologicalcontroversy it is very un-bitter and well-

poised, gentle, and modest, and as thework of a woman you must admire itand we be proud of it that remainscertain at last.

Poor Mr. Haydon! I am so sorry for hisreverse in the cartoons.[79] It is athunderbolt to him. I wonder, in thepauses of my regret, whether Mr.Selous is your friend whether 'Boadiceavisiting the Druids,' suggested by you, Ithink, as a subject, is this victorious'Boadicea' down for a hundred poundprize You will tell me when you come.

I have just heard an uncertain rumourof the arrival of your brother. If it isnot all air, I congratulate you heartily

upon a happiness only not past myappreciation.

Ever affectionately yours, E.B.B.

I send the copy of 'Orion' for yourself,which you asked for. It is in the fourthedition.

[Footnote 79: This refers to thecompetition for the cartoons to bepainted in the Houses of Parliament, inwhich Haydon was unsuccessful. Thedisappointment was the greater,inasmuch as the scheme for decoratingthe building with historical pictures wasmainly due to his initiative.]

To Mrs. Martin July 8, 1843.

Thank you, my dearest Mrs. Martin, foryour kind sign of interest in thequestioning note, although I will notpraise the stenography of it. I shall be asbrief to-day as you, not quite out ofrevenge, but because I have beenwriting to George and am the lessprone to activities from having caughtcold in an inscrutable manner, andbeing stiff and sore from head to footand inclined to be a little feverish andirritable of nerves. No, it is not of theslightest consequence; I tell you thetruth. But I would have written to you

the day before yesterday if it had notbeen for this something between crampand rheumatism, which was ratherunbearable at first, but yesterday wasbetter, and is to-day better than better,and to-morrow will leave me quite well,if I may prophesy. I only mention it lestyou should have upbraided me for notanswering your note in a moment, as itdeserved to be answered. So don't putany nonsense into Georgie's headforgive me for beseeching you! I havebeen very well downstairs seven oreight times; lying on the floor in Papa'sroom; meditating the chair, which wouldhave amounted to more than ameditation except for this littlecontrariety. In a day or two more, if this

cool warmth perseveres in serving me,and no Ariel refills me 'with aches,' Ishall fulfil your kind wishes perhapsand be out and so, no more about me!...

Oh, I do believe you think me aCockney a metropolitan barbarian! ButI persist in seeing no merit and nosuperior innocence in being shut upeven in precincts of rose-trees, awayfrom those great sources of humansympathy and occasions of mentalelevation and instruction withoutwhich many natures grow narrow,many others gloomy, and perhaps, ifthe truth were known, very few prosperentirely, lit is not that I, who havealways lived a good deal in solitude and

live in it still more now, and love thecountry even painfully in myrecollections of it, would decry eitherone or the other solitude is mosteffective in a contrast, and if you donot break the bark you cannot bud thetree, and, in short (not to be in long), Icould write a dissertation, which I willspare you, 'about it and about it.' ...

Tell George to lend you nay, I think Iwill be generous and let him give you,although the author gave me the bookthe copy of the new epic, 'Orion,'which he has with him. You haveprobably observed the advertisement,and are properly instructed that Mr.Horne the poet, who has sold three

editions already at a farthing a copy,and is selling a fourth at a shilling, andis about to sell a fifth at half a crown(on the precise principle of the aerialmachine launching himself intopopularity by a first impulse on thepeople), is my unknown friend, withwhom I have corresponded these fouryears without having seen his face. Doyou remember the beech leaves sent tome from Epping Forest Yes, you must.Well, the sender is the poet, and thepoem I think a very noble one, and Iwant you to think so too. So hereby Iempower you to take it away fromGeorge and keep it for my sake if youwill!

Dear Mr. Martin was so kind as tocome and see me as you commanded,and I must tell you that I thought himlooking so better than well that I wasmore than commonly glad to see him.Give my love to him, and join me in asmuch metropolitan missionary zeal aswill bring you both to London for sixmonths of the year. Oh, I wish youwould come! Not that it is necessary foryou, but that it will be so good for us.

My ivy is growing, and I have greenblinds, against which there is an outcry.They say that I do it out of envy, andfor the equalisation of complexions.

Ever your affectionate, BA.

To Mr. Westwood 50 Wimpole Street:August 1843.

Dear Mr. Westwood, I thank you verymuch for the kindness of yourquestioning, and am able to answer thatnotwithstanding the, as it seems to you,fatal significance of a woman's silence,I am alive enough to be sincerelygrateful for any degree of interest spentupon me. As to Flush, he should thankyou too, but at the present moment heis quite absorbed in finding a cool placein this room to lie down in, havingsacrificed his usual favorite place at myfeet, his head upon them, oppressed bythe torrid necessity of a thermometer

above 70. To Flopsy's acquaintance hewould aspire gladly, only hoping thatFlopsy does not 'delight to bark andbite,' like dogs in general, because if hedoes Flush would as soon beacquainted with a cat, he says, for hedoes not pretend to be a hero. PoorFlush! 'the bright summer days onwhich I am ever likely to take him outfor a ramble over hill and meadow' arenever likely to shine! But he follows, orrather leaps into my wheeled chair, andforswears merrier company even now,to be near me. I am a good deal better,it is right to say, and look forward to apossible prospect of being better still,though I may be shut out fromclimbing the Brocken otherwise than in

a vision.

You will see by the length of the'Legend'[80] which I send to you (in itsonly printed form) why I do not send itto you in manuscript. Keep the book aslong as you please. My new volume isnot yet in the press, but I am writingmore and more in a view to it, pleasedwith the thought that some kind handsare already stretched out in welcomeand acceptance of what it may become.Not as idle as I appear, I have also beenwriting some fugitive verses forAmerican magazines. This is myconfession. Forgive its tediousness, andbelieve me thankfully and very sincerelyyours,

ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

[Footnote 80: The Lay of the BrownRosary.]

To Mr. Westwood 50 Wimpole Street:September 2, 1843.

Dear Mr. Westwood, Your letter comesto remind me how much I ought to beashamed of myself.... I received thebook in all safety, and read your kindwords about my 'Rosary' with moregrateful satisfaction than appears fromthe evidence. It is great pleasure to meto have written for such readers, and itis great hope to me to be able to write

for them. The transcription of the'Rosary' is a compliment which I neveranticipated, or you should have had themanuscript copy you asked for,although I have not a perfect one in myhands. The poem is full of faults, as,indeed, all my poems appear to myselfto be when I look back upon theminstead of looking down. I hope to beworthier in poetry some day of thegenerous appreciation which you andyour friends have paid me in advance.

Tennyson is a great poet, I think, andBrowning, the author of 'Paracelsus,'has to my mind very noble capabilities.Do you know Mr. Horne's 'Orion,' thepoem published for a farthing, to the

wonder of booksellers and bookbuyerswho could not understand 'thespeculation in its eyes ' There are veryfine things in this poem, and altogetherI recommend it to your attention. Butwhat is 'wanting' in Tennyson He canthink, he can feel, and his language ishighly expressive, characteristic, andharmonious. I am very fond ofTennyson. He makes me thrillsometimes to the end of my fingers, asonly a true great poet can.

You praise me kindly, and if, indeed,the considerations you speak of couldbe true of me, I am not one who couldlament having 'learnt in suffering whatI taught in song.' In any case, working

for the future and counting gladly onthose who are likely to consider anywork of mine acceptable to themselves,I shall be very sure not to forget myfriends at Enfield.

Dear Mr. Westwood, I remain sincerelyyours, ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

To Mrs. Martin September 4, 1843.Finished September 5.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, ... I have had agreat gratification within this week ortwo in receiving a letter nay, two lettersfrom Miss Martineau, one of the laststrangers in the world from whom Ihad any right to expect a kindness. Yet

most kind, most touching in kindness,were both of these letters, so much sothat I was not far from crying forpleasure as I read them. She is veryhopelessly ill, you are probably aware,at Tynemouth in Northumberland,suffering agonies from internal cancer,and conquering occasional repose bythe strength of opium, but 'almostforgetting' (to use her own words) 'towish for health, in the intenseenjoyment of pleasures independent ofthe body.' She sent me a little work ofhers called 'Traditions of Palestine.' Herfriends had hoped by the stationarycharacter of some symptoms that thedisease was suspended, but lately it issaid to be gaining ground, and the

serenity and elevation of her mind aremore and more triumphantly evident asthe bodily pangs thicken....

And now I am going to tell you whatwill surprise you, if you do not know italready. Stormie and Georgie arepassing George's vacation on the Rhine.You are certainly surprised if you didnot know it. Papa signed and sealedthem away on the ground of its beinggood and refreshing for both of them,and I was even mixed up a little withthe diplomacy of it, until I found theywere going, and then it was a hard,terrible struggle with me to be calm andsee them go. But that was childish, andwhen I had heard from them at Ostend

I grew more satisfied again, andattained to think less of the fatalinfluences of my star. They went awayin great spirits, Stormie 'quite elated,' touse his own words, and then at the endof the six weeks they must be at homeat Sessions; and no possible way ofpassing the interim could be pleasanterand better and more exhilarating forthemselves. The plan was to go fromOstend by railroad to Brussels andCologne, then to pass down the Rhineto Switzerland, spend a few days atGeneva, and a week in Paris as theyreturn. The only fear is that Stormiewon't go to Paris. We have too manyfriends there a strange obstacle.

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

May God bless you all with the mostenduring consolations! Give my love toMr. Martin, and believe also, both ofyou, in my sympathy. I am glad thatyour poor Fanny should be sosupported. May God bless her and allof you!

Dearest Mrs. Martin's affectionate BA.

I am very well for me, and was out inthe chair yesterday.

To H.S. Boyd September 8, 1843.

My very dear Friend, I ask you humblynot to fancy me in a passion whenever Ihappen to be silent. For a woman to besilent is ominous, I know, but it neednot be significant of anything quite soterrible as ill-humour. And yet it alwayshappens so; if I do not write I am sureto be cross in your opinion. You set medown directly as 'hurt,' which meansirritable; or 'offended,' which meanssulky; your ideal of me having, in fact,'its finger in its eye' all day long.

I, on the contrary, humbled as I was byyour hard criticism of my soft rhymesabout Flush,[81] waited for Arabel tocarry a message for me, begging to

know whether you would care at all tosee my 'Cry of the Children'[82] beforeI sent it to you. But Arabel wentwithout telling me that she was going:twice she went to St. John's Wood andmade no sign; and now I find myselfthrown on my own resources. Will yousee the 'Cry of the Human'[83] or notIt will not please you, probably. Itwants melody. The versification iseccentric to the ear, and the subject (thefactory miseries) is scarcely an agreeableone to the fancy. Perhaps altogether youhad better not see it, because I knowyou think me to be deteriorating, and Idon't want you to have furtherhypothetical evidence of so false anopinion. Humbled as I am, I say 'so

false an opinion.' Frankly, if nothumbly, I believe myself to have gainedpower since the time of the publicationof the 'Seraphim,' and lost nothingexcept happiness. Frankly, if nothumbly!

With regard to the 'House ofClouds'[84] I disagree both with youand Miss Mitford, thinking it,comparatively with my other poems,neither so bad nor so good as you twoaccount it. It has certainly been singledout for great praise both at home andabroad, and only the other day Mr.Horne wrote to me to reproach me fornot having mentioned it to him,because he came upon it accidentally

and considered it 'one of my bestproductions.' Mr. Kenyon holds thesame opinion. As for Flush's verses,they are what I call cobweb verses, thinand light enough; and Arabel wasmistaken in telling you that MissMitford gave the prize to them. Herwords were, 'They are as tender andtrue as anything you ever wrote, butnothing is equal to the "House ofClouds."' Those were her words, or tothat effect, and I refer to them to you,not for the sake of Flush's verses,which really do not appear even tomyself, their writer, worth a defence,but for the sake of your judgment of heraccuracy in judging.

Lately I have received two letters fromthe profoundest woman thinker inEngland, Miss Martineau letters whichtouched me deeply while they gave mepleasure I did not expect.

My poor Flush has fallen intotribulation. Think of Catiline, the greatsavage Cuba bloodhound belonging tothis house, attempting last night toworry him just as the first Catiline didCicero. Flush was rescued, but notbefore he had been wounded severely:and this morning he is on three legsand in great depression of spirits. Mypoor, poor Flushie! He lies on my sofaand looks up to me with most patheticeyes.

Where is Annie If I send my love toher, will it ever be found again

May God bless you both! Dearest Mr.Boyd's affectionate and grateful E.B.B.

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

[Footnote 82: Published in Blackwood'sMagazine for August 1843, and calledforth by Mr. Horne's report as assistantcommissioner on the employment ofchildren in mines and manufactories.]

[Footnote 83: Evidently a slip of thepen for 'Children.']

[Footnote 84: Poetical Works, iii. 186. Mr.Boyd's opinion of it may be learntfrom Miss Barrett's letter to Horne,dated August 31, 1843 (Letters to R.H.Horne, i. 84): 'Mr. Boyd told me that hehad read my papers on the GreekFathers with the more satisfactionbecause he had inferred from my"House of Clouds" that illness hadimpaired my faculties.']

To H.S. Boyd Monday, September 19,1843.

My own dear Friend, I should havewritten instantly to explain myself outof appearances which did me injustice,

only I have been in such distress as tohave no courage for writing. Flush wasstolen away, and for three days I couldneither sleep nor eat, nor do anythingmuch more rational than cry. Confiteortibi, oh reverend father. And if you callme very silly, I am so used to thereproach throughout the week as to behardened to the point of vanity. Theworst of it is, now, that there will be noneed of more 'Houses of Clouds' toprove to you the deterioration of myfaculties. Q.E.D.

In my own defence, I really believe thatmy distress arose somewhat less fromthe mere separation from dear littleFlushie than from the consideration of

how he was breaking his heart, castupon the cruel world. Formerly, whenhe has been prevented from sleeping onmy bed he has passed the night inmoaning piteously, and often he hasrefused to eat from a strange hand. Andthen he loves me, heart to heart; therewas no exaggeration in my verses abouthim, if there was no poetry. And whenI heard that he cried in the street andthen vanished, there was little wonderthat I, on my part, should cry in thehouse.

With great difficulty we hunted thedog-banditti into their caves of the city,and bribed them into giving back theirvictim. Money was the least thing to

think of in such case; I would havegiven a thousand pounds if I had hadthem in my hand. The audacity of thewretched men was marvellous. Theysaid that they had been 'about stealingFlush these two years,' and warned usplainly to take care of him for thefuture.

The joy of the meeting between Flushand me would be a good subject for aGreek ode I recommend it to you. Itmight take rank next to the epicalparting of Hector and Andromache.He dashed up the stairs into my roomand into my arms, where I hugged himand kissed him, black as he was blackas if imbued in a distillation of St.

Giles's. Ah, I can break jests about itnow, you see. Well, to go back to theexplanations I promised to give you, Imust tell you that Arabel perfectly forgotto say a word to me about 'Blackwood'and your wish that I should send themagazine. It was only after I heard thatyou had procured it yourself, and afterI 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 giving you anyprinted verses of mine that you care tohave. Never mind! I may print anothervolume before long, and lay it at yourfeet. In the meantime, you endure my'Cry of the Children' better than I had

anticipated just because I neveranticipated your being able to read it tothe end, and was over-delicate ofplacing it in your hands on that veryaccount. My dearest Mr. Boyd, you areright in your complaint against therhythm. The first stanza came into myhead in a hurricane, and I was obligedto make the other stanzas like it that isthe whole mystery of the iniquity. Ifyou look Mr. Lucas from head to foot,you will never find such a rhythm onhis person. The whole crime of theversification belongs to me. So blameme, and by no means another poet, andI will humbly confess that I deserve tobe blamed in some measure. There is aroughness, my own ear being witness,

and I give up the body of my criminalto the rod of your castigation, kissingthe last as if it were Flush.

A report runs in London that Mr. Boydsays of Elizabeth Barrett: 'She is aperson of the most perverted judgmentin England.' Now, if this be true, I shallnot mend my evil position in youropinion, my very dear friend, byconfessing that I differ with you, themore the longer I live, on the groundof what you call 'jumping lines.' I amspeaking not of particular cases, but ofthe principle, the general principle, ofthese cases, and the tenacity of myjudgment does not arise from theteaching of 'Mr. Lucas,' but from the

deeper study of the old master-poetsEnglish poets those of the Elizabethand James ages, before the corruptionof French rhythms stole in with Wallerand Denham, and was acclimated into anational inodorousness by Dryden andPope. We differ so much upon thissubject that we must proceed byagreeing to differ, and end, perhaps, byfinding it agreeable to differ; there canbe no possible use in an argument.Only you must be upright in justice,and find Wordsworth innocent ofmisleading me. So far from having readhim more within these three years, Ihave read him less, and have taken nonew review, I do assure you, of hisposition and character as a poet, and

these facts are testified unto by theother fact that my poetry, neither in itsbest features nor its worst, is adjustedafter the fashion of his school.

But I am writing too much; you willhave no patience with me. 'TheExcursion' is accused of being lengthy,and so you will tell me that I convictmyself of plagiarism, currente calamo.

I have just finished a poem of someeight hundred lines, called 'The Visionof Poets,'[85] philosophical, allegoricalanything but popular. It is in stanzas,every one an octosyllabic triplet, whichyou will think odd, and I have notsanguinity enough to defend.

May God bless you, my dearest Mr.Boyd! Yes, I heard I was glad to hear ofyour having resumed that which usedto be so great a pleasure to you MissMarcus'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 toTennyson, for whom, with all my

admiration of him, I would willinglysecure more exaltation and a broaderclasping of truth. Still, it is not possibleto have so much beauty without acertain portion of truth, the positionof the Utilitarians being true in theinverse. But I think as I did of 'uses'and 'responsibilities,' and do hold thatthe poet is a preacher and must look tohis doctrine.

Perhaps Mr. Tennyson will grow moresolemn, like the sun, as his day goes on.In the meantime we have the noble'Two Voices,' and, among other grandintimations of a teaching power, certainstanzas to J.K. (I think the initials are)on the death of his brother,[86] which

very deeply affected me.

Take away the last stanzas, whichshould be applied more definitely tothe body, or cut away altogether as a lieagainst eternal verity, and the poemstands as one of the finest ofmonodies. The nature of human griefnever surely was more tenderlyintimated or touched it brought tears tomy eyes. Do read it. He is not aChristian poet, up to this time, but letus listen and hear his next songs. He isone of God's singers, whether heknows it or does not know it.

I am thinking, lifting up my pen, what Ican write to you which is likely to be

interesting to you. After all I come tochaos and silence, and even old night itis growing so dark. I live in London, tobe sure, and except for the glory of it Imight live in a desert, so profound ismy solitude and so complete myisolation from things and personswithout. I lie all day, and day after day,on the sofa, and my windows do noteven look into the street. To abusemyself with a vain deceit of rural life Ihave had ivy planted in a box, and ithas flourished and spread over onewindow, and strikes against the glasswith a little stroke from the thickerleaves when the wind blows at allbriskly. Then I think of forests andgroves; it is my triumph when the

leaves strike the window pane, and thisis not a sound like a lament. Books andthoughts and dreams (almost tooconsciously dreamed, however, for methe illusion of them has almost passed)and domestic tenderness can and oughtto leave nobody lamenting. Also God'swisdom, deeply steeped in His love, isas far as we can stretch out our hands.

[Footnote 86: The lines 'To J.S.,' whichbegin:

'The wind that beats the mountainblows More softly round the openwold.'

To Mr. Westwood 50 Wimpole Street:December 26, 1843.

Dear Mr. Westwood, You think me,perhaps, and not without apparentreason, ungrateful and insensible toyour letter, but indeed I am neither onenor the other, and I am writing now totry and prove it to you. I was muchtouched by some tones of kindness inthe letter, and it was welcomealtogether, and I did not need the 'owl'which came after to waken me, becauseI was wide awake enough from the firstmoment; and now I see that you havebeen telling your beads, while I seemedto be telling nothing, in that dread

silence of mine. May all true saints ofpoetry be propitious to the wearer ofthe 'Rosary.'

In answer to a question which you putto me long ago on the subject of booksof theology, I will confess to you that,although I have read rather widely thedivinity of the Greek Fathers, Gregory,Chrysostom, and so forth, and have ofcourse informed myself in the worksgenerally of our old English divines,Hooker, Jeremy Taylor, and so forth, Iam not by any means a frequent readerof books of theology as such, and asthe men of our times have made them.I have looked into the 'Tracts' fromcuriosity and to hear what the world

was talking of, and I was disappointedeven in the degree of intellectual powerdisplayed in them. From motives of adesire of theological instruction I veryseldom read any book except God'sown. The minds of persons aredifferently constituted; and it is nopraise to mine to admit that I am apt toreceive less of what is called edificationfrom human discourses on divinesubjects, than disturbance andhindrance. I read the Scriptures everyday, and in as simple a spirit as I can;thinking as little as possible of thecontroversies engendered in that greatsunshine, and as much as possible ofthe heat and glory belonging to it. It is asure fact in my eyes that we do not

require so much more knowledge, as astronger apprehension, by the faith andaffections, of what we already know.

You will be sorry to hear that Mr.Tennyson is not well, although hisfriends talk of nervousness, and do notfear much ultimate mischief....[87]

It is such a lovely May day, that I amafraid of breaking the spell by writingdown Christmas wishes.

Very faithfully yours, ELIZABETHBARRETT.

[Footnote 87: About the same date shewrites to Home (Letters to R.H. Horne, i.

86): 'I am very glad to hear that nothingreally very bad is the matter withTennyson. If anything were to happento Tennyson, the world should go intomourning.']

To Mr. Westwood 50 Wimpole Street:December 31, 1843.

If you do find the paper I was invitedto write upon Wordsworth[88], youwill see to which class of your admiringor abhorring friends I belong. Perhapsyou will cry out quickly, 'To the blindadmirers, certes.' And I have a highadmiration of Wordsworth. His spirithas worked a good work, and has freedinto the capacity of work other noble

spirits. He took the initiative in a greatpoetic movement, and is not only to bepraised for what he has done, but forwhat he has helped his age to do. Forthe rest, Byron has more passion andintensity, Shelley more fancy and music,Coleridge could see further into theunseen, and not one of those poets hasinsulted his own genius by theproduction of whole poems, such as Icould name of Wordsworth's, thevulgarity of which is childish, and thechildishness vulgar. Still, the wings ofhis genius are wide enough to cast ashadow over its feet, and our gratitudeshould be stronger than our criticalacumen. Yes, I will be a blind admirerof Wordsworth's. I will shut my eyes

and be blind. Better so, than see toowell for the thankfulness which is hisdue from me....

Yes, I mean to print as much as I canfind and make room for, 'BrownRosary' and all. I am glad you liked'Napoleon,'[89] but I shall be more gladif you decide when you see this newbook that I have made some generalprogress in strength and expression.Sometimes I rise into hoping that I mayhave done so, or may do so still more.

The poet's work is no light work. Hiswheat will not grow without labour anymore than other kinds of wheat, andthe sweat of the spirit's brow is wrung

by a yet harder necessity. And, thinkingso, I am inclined to a little regret thatyou should have hastened your bookeven for the sake of a sentiment. Nowyou will be angry with me....

There are certain difficulties in the wayof the critic unprofessional, as I knowby experience. Our most sweet voicesare scarcely admissible among the mostsour ones of the regular brotherhood....

Harriet Martineau is quitewell,'trudging miles together in thesnow,' when the snow was, and in greatspirits. Wordsworth is to be in Londonin the spring. Tennyson is dancing thepolka and smoking cloud upon cloud

at Cheltenham. Robert Browning ismeditating a new poem, and anexcursion on the Continent. MissMitford came to spend a day with mesome ten days ago; sprinkled, as to thesoul, with meadow dews. Am I at theend of my account I think so.

Did you read 'Blackwood' and in thatcase have you had deep delight in anexquisite paper by the Opium-eater,which my heart trembled through fromend to end What a poet that man is!how he vivifies words, or deepensthem, and gives them profoundsignificance....

I understand that poor Hood is

supposed to be dying, really dying, atlast. Sydney Smith's last laugh mixeswith his, or nearly so. But Hood had adeeper heart, in one sense, than SydneySmith, and is the material of a greaterman.

And what are you doing Writingreading or musing of either Are you areviewer-man in opposition to thewriter Once, reviewing was mybesetting sin, but now it is only myfrailty. Now that I lie here at the mercyof every reviewer, I save myself by aninstinct of self-preservation from that'gnawing tooth' (as Homer andAeschylus did rightly call it), and springforward into definite work and

thought. Else, I should perish. Do youunderstand that If you are a reviewer-man you will, and if not, you must setit down among those mysteries of minewhich 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 theplague of rhymers, and of bad rhymes,

is upon the land, and it was only threeweeks ago that, at a 'Literary Institute' atBrighton, I heard of the Reverendsomebody Stoddart gravely proposing'Poetry for the Million' to his audience;he assuring them that 'poets made amystery of their art,' but that in factnothing except an English grammar,and a rhyming dictionary, and someinstruction about counting on thefingers, was necessary in order to makea poet of any man!

This is a fact. And to this extent has theart, once called divine, been desecratedamong the educated classes of ourcountry.

Very sincerely yours, ELIZABETHBARRETT.

Besides the poems, to which referencehas been made in the above letters, MissBarrett was engaged, during the year1843, in co-operating with her friendMr. Home in the production of hisgreat critical enterprise, 'The New Spiritof the Age.' In this the much daringauthor undertook no less a task thanthat of passing a sober and seriousjudgment on his principal livingcomrades in the world of letters. Notunnaturally he ended by bringing ahornets' nest about his ears alike ofthose who thought they should havebeen mentioned and were not, and of

those who were mentioned but interms which did not satisfy the goodopinion of themselves with whichProvidence had been pleased to giftthem. The volumes appeared underHome's name alone, and he took thewhole responsibility; but he invitedassistance from others, and in particularused the collaboration of Miss Barrettto no small extent. She did not indeedcontribute any complete essay to hiswork; but she expressed her opinion,when invited, on several writers, in aseries of elaborate letters, which weresubsequently worked up by Home intohis own criticisms.[90] The secret ofher cooperation was carefully kept, andshe does not appear to have suffered

any of the evil consequences of hisindiscretions, real or imagined. Anothercontribution from her consisted of thesuggestion of mottoes appropriate toeach writer noticed at length; and inthis work she had an unknowncollaborator in the person of RobertBrowning. So ends the somewhatuneventful year of 1843.

[Footnote 90: Her contributions to theessays on Tennyson and Carlyle haverecently been printed in Messrs.Nichols and Wise's Literary Anecdotes ofthe Nineteenth Century, i. 33, ii. 105.]

CHAPTER IV

1844-46

The year 1844 marks an importantepoch in the life of Mrs. Browning. Itwas in this year that, as a result of thepublication of her two volumes of'Poems,' she won her general andpopular recognition as a poetess whoserank was with the foremost of livingwriters. It was six years since she hadpublished a volume of verse; and in themeanwhile she had been gainingstrength and literary experience. Shehad tried her wings in the pages ofpopular periodicals. She had profitedby the criticisms on her earlier work,

and by intercourse with men of letters;and though her defects in literary artwere by no means purged away, yet theflights of her inspiration were strongerand more assured. The result is that,although the volumes of 1844 do notcontain absolutely her best work noone with the 'Sonnets from thePortuguese' in his mind can affirm somuch as that they contain that whichhas been most generally popular, andwhich won her the position which forthe rest of her life she held in popularestimation among the leaders ofEnglish poetry.

The principal poem in these twovolumes is the 'Drama of Exile.' Of the

genesis of this work, Miss Barrett givesthe following account in a letter toHome, dated December 28 1843:

'A volume full of manuscripts hadbeen ready for more than a year, whensuddenly, a short time ago, when Ifancied I had no heavier work than tomake copy and corrections, I fell upona fragment of a sort of masque on"The First Day's Exile from Eden" orrather it fell upon me, and beset me tillI 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 two volumes;but this design was abandoned, andthey appeared under the simpledescription of 'Poems, by ElizabethBarrett Barrett.' The 'Vision of Poets'comes next in length to the 'Drama';and among the shorter pieces wereseveral which rank among her bestwork, 'The Cry of the Children,' 'Wineof Cyprus,' 'The Dead Pan,' 'Bertha inthe Lane,' 'Crowned and Buried,' 'TheMourning Mother,' and 'The Sleep,'together with such popular favouritesas 'Lady Geraldine's Courtship,' 'TheRomaunt of the Page,' and 'The Rhymeof the Duchess May.' Since thepublication of 'The Seraphim' volume,the new era of poetry had developed

itself to a notable extent. Tennyson hadpublished the best of his earlier verse,'Locksley Hall,' 'Ulysses,' the 'Morted'Arthur,' 'The Lotus Eaters,' 'A Dreamof Fair Women,' and many more;Browning had issued his wonderfulseries of 'Bells and Pomegranates,'including 'Pippa Passes,' 'King Victorand King Charles,' 'Dramatic Lyrics,''The Return of the Druses,' and 'TheBlot on the 'Scutcheon'; and it wasamong company such as this that MissBarrett, by general consent, now tookher place.

To Mrs. Martin January 8, 1844.

Thank you again and again, my dearest

Mrs. Martin, for your flowers, and theverses which gave them anotherperfume. The 'incense of the heart' lostnot a grain of its perfume in coming sofar, and not a leaf of the flowers wasruffled, and to see such gorgeouscolours all on a sudden at Christmastime was like seeing a vision, andalmost made Flush and me rub oureyes. Thank you, dearest Mrs. Martin;how kind of you! The grace of theverses and the brightness of theflowers were too much for mealtogether. And when Georgeexclaimed, 'Why, she has certainly laidbare her greenhouse,' I had not a wordto say in justification of myself forbeing the cause of it.

Papa admired the branch of Australianorigin so much that he walked all overthe house with it. Beautiful it is indeed;but my eyes turn back to the camellias.I do believe that I like to look at acamellia better than at a rose; and thenthese have a double association....

I meant to write a long letter to you to-day, but Mr. Kenyon has been to see meand cut my time short before post time.You remember, perhaps, how hisbrother married a German, and, afteran exile of many years in Germany,returned last summer to England tosettle. Well, he can't bear us any longer!His wife is growing paler and paler

with the pressure of English socialhabits, or rather unsocial habits; and hehimself is a German at heart; andbesides, being a man of a singularlygenerous nature, and accustomed togive away in handfuls of silver andgold one-third of every year's income,he dislikes the social obligation ofspending it here. So they are going back.Poor Mr. Kenyon! I am full ofsympathy with him. This returning toEngland was a dream of all last year tohim. He gave up his house to the newcomers, and bought a new one; andtalked of the brightness secured to hislatter years by the presence of his onlyremaining near relative; and I see that,for all his effort towards a bright view

of the matter, he is disappointed very.Should you suppose that four hundredpounds in Vienna go as far as athousand in England I should neverhave fancied it.

You shall hear from me, my dearestMrs. Martin, in another few days; and Isend this as it is, just because I ambenighted by the post hour, and do notlike to pass your kindness with evenone day's apparent 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 to you fromthe deepest of our hearts.

But shall you not be coming setting outvery soon, before I can write again

Your affectionate BA.

To John Kenyan [ January 1844.]

I am so sorry, dear Mr. Kenyon, to hearwhich I did, last night, for the first timeof your being unwell. I had hoped thatto-day would bring a better account,but your note, with its next weekprospect, is disappointing. The'ignominy' would have been verypreferable to us, at least, particularly asit 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. Weshould all be well, if it were not for meand my cough, which is better, but I amnot quite well, nor have yet been out.

A letter came to me from dear MissMitford a few days since, which I hadhoped to talk to you about. Some ofthe subject of it is Mr. Kenyon's 'onlyfault,' which ought, of course, to be alarge one to weigh against themultitudinous ones of other people,but which seems to be: 'He has thehabit of walking in without givingnotice. He thinks it saves trouble,whereas in a small family, and at adistance from a town, the effect is that

one takes care to be provided for thewhole time that one expects him, andthen, by some exquisite ill luck, on theonly day when one's larder is empty, inhe comes!' And so, if you have notwritten to interrupt her in this processof indefinite expectation, the 'onlyfault' will, in her eyes, grow, as it ought,as large as fifty others.

I do hope, dear Mr. Kenyon, soon tohear that you are better and well andthat your course of prophecy may notrun smooth all through next week.

Very truly yours, E. BARRETT.

Saturday. To John Kenyon Saturday night

[about March 1844].

I return Mr. Burges's criticism, which Iomitted to talk to you of this morning,but which interested me much in thereading. Do let him understand howobliged to him I am for permitting meto look, for a moment, according to hisview of the question. Perhaps mypoetical sense is not convinced allthrough, and certainly my critical senseis not worth convincing, but I amdelighted to be able to call by the nameof Aeschylus, under the authority ofMr. Burges, those noble electrical lines(electrical for double reasons) whichhad struck me twenty times asAeschylean, when I read them among

the recognised fragments of Sophocles.You hear Aeschylus's footsteps andvoice in the lines. No other of the godscould tread so heavily, or speak so likethundering.

I wrote all this to begin with, hesitatinghow else to begin. My very dear andkind friend, you understand do you notthrough an expression which, whetherwritten or spoken, must remainimperfect, to what deep, full feeling ofgratitude your kindness has moved me.[92] The good you have done me, andjust at the moment when I should havefailed altogether without it, and in morethan one way, and in a deeper than theobvious degree all this I know better

than you do, and I thank you for itfrom the bottom of my heart. I shallnever forget it, as long as I live toremember anything. The book may failsignally after all that is another question;but I shall not fail, to begin with, andthat I owe to you, for I was falling topieces in nerves and spirits when youcame to help me. I had only enoughinstinct left to be ashamed, a little,afterwards, of having sent you, incompany, too, with Miss Martineau'sheroic cheerfulness, that note of weakbecause unavailing complaint. It was along compressed feeling breakingsuddenly into words. Forgive and forgetthat I ever so troubled you no,'troubled' is not the word for your

kindness! and remember, 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 onthe 'Drama of Exile,' which he hadseen 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, asthere does not seem much to arrange.The type and size of Tennyson's books

seem, upon examination, to suit mypurpose excellently.

To John Kenyan March 21, 1844.

No, you never sent me back MissMartineau's letter, my dear cousin; butyou will be sure, or rather Mr. CrabbRobinson will, to find it in some toosafe a place; and then I shall have it. Inthe meantime here are the other lettersback again. You will think that I waskeeping them for a deposit, a security,till I 'had my ain again,' but I have onlybeen idle and busy together. They arethe most interesting that can be, andhave quite delighted me. By the way, I,who saw nothing to object to in the

'Life in the Sick Room,' object verymuch to her argument in behalf of itan argument certainly founded on amiserable misapprehension of thespecial doctrine referred to in her letter.There is nothing so elevating andennobling to the nature and mind ofman as the view which represents itraised into communion with GodHimself, by the justification andpurification of God Himself. Plato'sdream brushed by the gate of thisdoctrine when it walked highest, andwon for him the title of 'Divine.' That itis vulgarised sometimes by narrow-minded teachers in theory, and byhypocrites in action, might be anargument (if admitted at all) against all

truth, poetry, and music!

On the other hand, I was glad to seethe leaning on the Education question;in which all my friends the Dissentersdid appear to me so painfully wrongand so unworthily wrong at once.

And Southey's letters! I did quitedelight in them! They are more personalthan any I ever saw of his; and havemore warm every-day life in them.

The particular Paul Pry in question (tocome down to my life) never 'intrudes.'It is his peculiarity. And I put the stopexactly where I was bid; and was goingto put Gabriel's speech,[93] only with

the pen in my hand to do it I foundthat the angel was a little tooexclamatory altogether, and that he hadcried out, 'O ruined earth!' and 'Omiserable angel!' just before,approaching to the habit of a merecaller of names. So I altered the passageotherwise; taking care of your full stopafter 'despair.' Thank you, my dear Mr.Kenyon.

Also I sent enough manuscript for thefirst sheet, and a note to Moxonyesterday, last night, thanking him forhis courtesy about Leigh Hunt's poems;and following your counsel in everypoint. 'Only last night,' you will say! ButI have had such a headache and some

very painful vexation in the prospect ofmy maid's leaving me, who has beenwith me throughout my illness; so thatI am much attached to her, with thebest reasons for being so, while the ideaof a stranger is scarcely tolerable to meunder my actual circumstances.

The 'Palm Leaves'[94] are full of strongthought and good thought thoughtexpressed excellently well; but ofpoetry, in the true sense, and ofimagination in any, I think them bareand cold somewhat wintry leaves tocome from the East, surely, surely!

May the change of air be rapid in doingyou good the weather seems to be

softening on purpose for you. MayGod bless you, dear Mr. Kenyon; Inever can thank you enough. When youreturn I shall be rustling my 'proofs'about you, to prove my faith in yourkindness.

Ever affectionately yours, E.B.B.

[Footnote 93: In the 'Drama of Exile,'near the beginning (Poetical Works, 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 long a letter toyou; I am aware that nine times toolong a silence is scarcely the way tomake up for it. Forgive me, however, asfar as you can, for every sort of fault.When I once begin to write to you, I donot know how to stop; and I have hadso much to do lately as scarcely toknow how to begin to write to you.Hence these faults not quite tears in spiteof my penitence and the quotation.

At last my book is in the press. Mygreat poem (in the modest comparativesense), my 'Masque of Exile' (as I call itat last[95]), consists of some nineteenhundred or two thousand lines, and Icall it 'Masque of Exile' because it refers

to Lucifer's exile, and to that othermystical exile of the Divine Beingwhich was the means of the returnhomewards of my Adam and Eve.After the exultation of boldness ofcomposition, I fell into one of mydeepest fits of despondency, and at last,at the end of most painful vacillations,determined not to print it. Never was amanuscript so near the fire as my'Masque' was. I had not even theinstinct of applying for help toanybody. In the midst of this Mr.Kenyon came in by accident, and askedabout my poem. I told him that I hadgiven it up, despairing of my republic.In the kindest way he took it into hishands, and proposed to carry it home

and read it, and tell me his impression.'You know,' he said, 'I have a prejudiceagainst these sacred subjects for poetry,but then I have another prejudice foryou, and one may neutralise the other.'The next day I had a letter from himwith the returned manuscript a letterwhich I was absolutely certain, before Iopened it, would counsel against thepublication. On the contrary! Hisimpression is clearly in favour of thepoem, and, while he makes sundrycriticisms on minor points, he considersit very superior as a whole to anything Iever did before more sustained, andfuller in power. So my nerves arebraced, and I grow a man again; andthe manuscript, as I told you, is in the

press. Moreover, you will be surprisedto hear that I think of bringing out twovolumes of poems instead of one, byadvice of Mr. Moxon, the publisher.Also, the Americans have commandedan American edition, to come out innumbers, either a little before orsimultaneously with the English one,and provided with a separate prefacefor themselves.

There now! I have told you all this,knowing your kindness, and that youwill care to hear of it.

It has given me the greatest concern tohear of dear Annie's illness, and I dohope, both for your sake and for all our

sakes, that we may have better news ofher before long.

But I don't mean to fall into anotherscrape to-day by writing too much. MayGod bless you, my very dear friend!

I am ever your affectionate E.B.B.

[Footnote 95: There was, however, astill later last, when it became the'Drama of Exile.']

To H.S. Boyd April I, 1844.

My very dear Friend, Your kind letter Iwas delighted to receive. You mistake agood deal the capacities in judgment of

'the man.'[96] The 'man' is highlyrefined in his tastes, and leaning to theclassical (I was going to say to yourclassical, only suddenly I thought ofOssian) a good deal more than I do. Hehas written satires in the manner ofPope, which admirers of Pope havepraised warmly and deservedly. If I hadhesitated about the conclusiveness ofhis judgments, it would have beenbecause of his confessed indispositiontowards subjects religious and waysmystical, and his occasional insufficientindulgence for rhymes and rhythmswhich he calls 'Barrettian.' But thesethings render his favourable inclinationtowards my 'Drama of Exile' still moreencouraging (as you will see) to my

hopes for it.

Still, I do tremble a good deal inwardlywhen I come to think of what yourown thoughts of my poem, and poemsin their two-volume development, mayfinally be. I am afraid of you. You willtell me the truth as it appears to youupon that I may rely; and I should notwish you to suppress a single disastrousthought for the sake of theunpleasantness it may occasion to me.My own faith is that I have madeprogress since 'The Seraphim,' only it istoo possible (as I confess to myself andyou) that your opinion may be exactlycontrary to it.

You are very kind in what you sayabout wishing to have someconversation, as the medium of yourinformation upon architecture, withOctavius Occy, as we call him. He isvery much obliged to you, andproposes, if it should not beinconvenient to you, to call upon youon Friday, with Arabel, at about oneo'clock. Friday is mentioned because itis a holiday, no work being done at Mr.Barry's. Otherwise he is engaged everyday (except, indeed, Sunday) from ninein the morning to five in the afternoon.May God bless you, dearest Mr. Boyd. Iam ever

Your affectionate ELIZABETH B.

BARRETT.

[Footnote 96: John Kenyon: see the lastletter.]

To Mr. Westwood April 16, 1844.

... Surely, surely, it was not likely Ishould lean to utilitarianism in thenotice on Carlyle, as I remember thewriter of that article leans somewhere I,who am reproached with trans-trans-transcendentalisms, and not withoutreason, or with insufficient reason.

Oh, and I should say also that Mr.Home, in his kindness, has enlargedconsiderably in his annotations and

reflections on me personally.[97] Mybeing in correspondence with all theKings of the East, for instance, is anexaggeration, although literary work inone way will bring with it, happily,literary association in others.... Still, Iam not a great letter writer, and I don'twrite 'elegant Latin verses,' as all thegods of Rome know, and I have notbeen shut up in the dark for seven yearsby any manner of means. By the way, abarrister said to my barrister brotherthe other day, 'I suppose your sister isdead ' 'Dead ' said he, a little struck;'dead ' 'Why, yes. After Mr. Home'saccount of her being sealed uphermetically in the dark for so manyyears, one can only calculate upon her

being dead by this time.'

ELIZABETH BARRETT.

Several of the letters to Mr. Boyd whichfollow refer to that celebrated gift ofCyprus wine which led to thecomposition of one of Miss Barrett'sbest known and most quoted poems.

[Footnote 97: In The New Spirit of theAge.]

To H.S. Boyd June 18, 1844.

Thank you, my very dear friend! I write

to you drunk with Cyprus. Nothing canbe worthier of either gods or demi-gods; and if, as you say, Achilles did notdrink of it, I am sorry for him. Isuppose Jupiter had it instead, just thenHebe pouring it, and Juno's ox-eyesbellowing their splendour at it, if youwill forgive me that broken metaphor,for the sake of Aeschylus's genius, andmy own particular intoxication.

Indeed, there never was, in modern days,such wine. Flush, to whom I offeredthe last drop in my glass, felt it wassupernatural, and ran away. I have anidea that if he had drunk that drop, hewould have talked afterwards eitherGreek or English.

Never was such wine! The very taste ofideal nectar, only stiller, from keeping.If the bubbles of eternity were on it, weshould run away, perhaps, like Flush.

Still, the thought comes to me, ought Ito take it from you Is it right of me areyou not too kind in sending it andshould you be allowed to be too kindIn any case, you must, not think ofsending me more than you have alreadysent. It is more than enough, and I amnot less than very much obliged to you.

I have passed the middle of my secondvolume, and I only hope that criticsmay say of the rest that it smells of

Greek wine. Dearest Mr. Boyd's

Ever affectionate E.B. BARRETT.

To Mr. Westwood June 28, 1844.

My dear Mr. Westwood, I have certainlyand considerably increased the evidenceof my own death by the sepulchralsilence of the last few days. But after allI am not dead, not even at heart, so as tobe insensible to your kind anxiety, and Ican assure you of this, upon very fairauthority, neither is the book dead yet.It has turned the corner of the felo de se,and if it is to die, it will be by thecritics. The mystery of the long delay, itwould not be very easy for me to

explain, notwithstanding I hear Mr.Moxon says: 'I suppose Miss Barrett isnot in a hurry about her publication;'and I say: 'I suppose Moxon is not in ahurry about the publication.' There maybe a little fault on my side, when I havekept a proof a day beyond the hour, orwhen 'copy' has put out new buds inmy hands as I passed it to the printer's.Still, in my opinion, it is a good dealmore the fault of Mr. Moxon's notbeing in a hurry, than in the excessivevirtue of my patience, or vice of myindolence. Miss Mitford says, as you do,that she never heard of so slow-footeda book.

To H.S. Boyd 50 Wimpole Street:

Wednesday, August I, 1844 [postmark].

My very dear Friend, Have youexpected to hear from me and are youvexed with me I am a little ambitiousof the first item yet hopeful of anescape from the last. If you did butknow how I am pressed for time, andhow I have too much to do every day,you would forgive me for mynegligence; even if you had sent menectar instead of mountain,[98] and Ihad neglected laying my gratitude atyour feet. Last Saturday, upon its beingdiscovered that my first volumeconsisted of only 208 pages, and mysecond of 280 pages, Mr. Moxonuttered a cry of reprehension, and

wished to tear me to pieces by hisprinters, as the Bacchantes didOrpheus. Perhaps you might haveheard my head moaning all the way toSt. John's Wood! He wanted to tearaway several poems from the end ofthe second volume, and tie them on tothe end of the first! I could not andwould not hear of this, because I hadset my mind on having 'Dead Pan' toconclude with. So there was nothingfor it but to finish a ballad poem called'Lady Geraldine's Courtship,' whichwas lying by me, and I did so bywriting, i.e. composing, one hundred andforty lines last Saturday![99] I seemed to bein a dream all day! Long lines too withfifteen syllables in each! I see you shake

your head all this way off. Moreover itis a 'romance of the age,' treating ofrailroads, routes, and all manner of'temporalities,' and in so radical atemper that I expect to be reproved forit by the Conservative reviews round.By the way, did I tell you of the goodnews I had from America the third ofthis month The 'Drama of Exile' is inthe hands of a New York publisher;and having been submitted to variouschief critics of the country on its way,was praised loudly and extravagantly.This was, however, by a private readingonly. A bookseller at Philadelphia hadannounced it for publication heintended to take it up when the Englishedition reached America; but upon its

being represented to him that the NewYork publisher had proof sheets directfrom the author and would give copymoney, he abandoned his intention tothe other. I confess I feel very muchpleased at the kind spirit the spirit ofeager kindness indeed with which theAmericans receive my poetry. It is notwrong to be pleased, I hope. In thiscountry there may be mortificationswaiting for me; quite enough to keepmy modesty in a state of cultivation. Ido not know. I hope the work will beout this week, and then! Did I explain toyou that what 'Lady Geraldine'sCourtship' was wanted for was toincrease the size of the first volume, soas to restore the equilibrium of

volumes, without dislocating 'Pan' Oh,how anxious I shall be to hear youropinion! If you tell me that I have lostmy intellects, what in the world shall Ido then what shall I do My Americansthat is, my Americans who were in atthe private reading, and perhaps Imyself are of opinion that I have madegreat progress since 'The Seraphim.' Itseems to me that I have more reach,whether in thought or language. Butthen, to you it may appear quiteotherwise, and I shall be verymelancholy if it does. Only you musttell me the precise truth; and I trust toyou that you will let me have it in itsintegrity.

All the life and strength which are inme, seem to have passed into mypoetry. It is my pou sto not to move theworld; but to live on in.

I must not forget to tell you that thereis a poem towards the end of thesecond volume, called 'Cyprus Wine,'which I have done myself the honorand pleasure of associating with yourname. I thought that you would not bedispleased by it, as a proof of gratefulregard from me.

Talking of wines, the Mountain has itsattraction, but certainly is not to becompared to the Cyprus. You will seehow I have praised the latter. Well, now

I must say 'good-bye,' which you willpraise me for!

Dearest Mr. Boyd's affectionate E.B.B.

P.S. Nota bene I wish to forewarn youthat I have cut away in the text none ofmy vowels by apostrophes. When I say'To efface,' wanting two-syllablemeasure, I do not write 'T' efface' as inthe old fashion, but 'To efface' fulllength. This is the style of the day. Alsoyou will find me a little lax perhaps inmetre a freedom which is the result notof carelessness, but of conviction, andindeed of much patient study of thegreat Fathers of English poetry notmeaning Mr. Pope. Be as patient with

me as you can. You shall have thevolumes as soon as they are ready.

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

[Footnote 99: It will be observed thatthis is not quite the same as the currentlegend, which asserts that the wholepoem (of 412 lines) was composed intwelve hours.]

To H.S. Boyd August 6, 1844.

My very dear Friend, I cannot becertain, from my recollections, whether

I did or did not write to you before, asyou suggest; but as you never receivedthe letter and I was in a continual pressof different thoughts, the probability isthat I did not write. The Cyprus wine inthe second vial I certainly did receive;and was grateful to you with the wholeforce of the aroma of it. And now Iwill tell you an anecdote.

In the excess of my filial tenderness, Ipoured out a glass for papa, andoffered it to him with my right hand.

'What is this ' said he.

'Taste it,' said I as laconically, but withmore emphasis.

He raised it to his lips; and, after amoment, recoiled, with such a face assinned against Adam's image, and witha shudder of deep disgust.

'Why,' he said, 'what most beastly andnauseous thing is this Oh,' he said,'what detestable drug is this Oh, oh,' hesaid, 'I shall never, never, get thishorrible taste out of my mouth.'

I explained with the proper degree ofdignity that 'it was Greek wine, Cypruswine, and of very great value.'

He retorted with acrimony, that 'itmight be Greek, twice over; but that it

was exceedingly beastly.'

I resumed, with persuasive argument,that 'it could scarcely be beastly,inasmuch as the taste reminded one oforanges and orange flower together, tosay nothing of the honey of MountHymettus.'

He took me up with stringent logic,'that any wine must positively bebeastly, which, pretending to be wine,tasted sweet as honey, and that it wasbeastly on my own showing!' I sendyou this report as an evidence of acurious opinion. But drinkers of portwine cannot be expected to judge ofnectar and I hold your 'Cyprus' to be

pure nectar.

I shall have pleasure in doing what youask me to do that is, I will if youpromise never to call me Miss Barrettagain. You have often quite vexed meby it. There is Ba Elizabeth ElzbethEllie any modification of my name youmay call me by but I won't be calledMiss Barrett by you. Do you understandArabel means to carry your copy of mybook to you. And I beg you not tofancy that I shall be impatient for youto read the two volumes through. Ifyou ever read them through, it will be asufficient compliment, and indeed I donot expect that you ever will.

May God bless you, dearest Mr. Boyd.

I remain,

Your affectionate and gratefulELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

The date of this last letter marks, asnearly as need be, the date ofpublication of Miss Barrett's volumes.The letters which follow deal mainlywith their reception, first at the hand offriends, and then by the regular critics.The general verdict of the latter wasextremely complimentary. 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 thesisterhood, there is all the differencewhich exists between the putting-on of"singing robes" for altar service, andthe taking up lute or harp to enchant anindulgent circle of friends and kindred.'In the 'Examiner,'[101] John Forsterdeclared that 'Miss Barrett is anundoubted poetess of a high and fineorder as regards the first requisites ofher art imagination and expression....She is a most remarkable writer, and hervolumes contain not a little which thelovers of poetry will never willingly letdie,' a phrase then not quite sohackneyed as it has since become. The'Atlas'[102] asserted that 'the presentvolumes show extraordinary powers,

and, abating the failings of which allthe followers of Tennyson are guilty,extraordinary genius.' More influentialeven than these, 'Blackwood'[103] paidher the compliment of a whole article,criticising her faults frankly, butdeclaring that 'her poetical meritsinfinitively outweigh her defects. Hergenius is profound, unsullied, andwithout a flaw.' All agreed in assigningher a high, or the highest, place amongthe poetesses of England; but, as MissBarrett herself pointed out, this, initself, was no great praise.[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, thecritics did not take kindly to the 'Dramaof Exile,' and 'Blackwood' in particularcriticised it at considerable length,calling it 'the least successful of herworks.' The subject, while halfchallenging comparison with Milton,lends itself only too readily tofancifulness and unreality, which wereamong the most besetting sins of Miss

Barrett's genius. The minor poems wereincomparably more popular, and thefavourite of all was that masterpiece ofrhetorical sentimentality, 'LadyGeraldine's Courtship.' It must havebeen a little mortifying to the authoressto find this piece, a large part of whichhad been dashed off at a single heat inorder to supply the printers' needs,preferred to others on which she hademployed all the labour of herdeliberate art; but with the general toneof all the critics she had every reason tobe as content as her letters show her tohave been. Only two criticisms rankled:the one that she was a follower ofTennyson, the other that her rhymeswere slovenly and careless. And these

appeared, in varying shapes, in nearly allthe reviews.

The former of these allegations is oflittle weight. Whatever qualities MissBarrett may have shared with Tennyson,her substantial independence isunquestionable. It is a case rather ofcoincidence than imitation; or ifimitation, it is of a slight andunconscious kind. The second criticismdeserves fuller notice, because it isconstantly repeated to this day. Thefollowing letters show how stronglyMiss Barrett protested against it. As shetold Horne,[105] with reference to thisvery subject: 'If I fail ultimately beforethe public that is, before the people for

an ephemeral popularity does notappear to me to be worth trying for itwill not be because I have shrunk fromthe amount of labour, where labourcould do anything. I have worked atpoetry; 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 defencewas that the inexactness was due to adeliberate attempt to widen the artisticcapabilities of the English language.Partly, perhaps, as a result of heracquaintance with Italian literature, shehad a marked fondness for disyllabicrhymes; and since pure rhymes of thiskind are not plentiful in English, shetried the experiment of using

assonances instead. Hence such rhymesas silence and islands, vision and procession,panther and saunter, examples whichcould be indefinitely multiplied if needwere. Now it may be that a writer with avery sensitive ear would not haveattempted such an experiment, and it isa fact that public taste has not approvedit; but the experiment itself is aslegitimate as, say, the metricalexperiments in hexameters andhendecasyllabics of Longfellow orTennyson, and whether approved ornot it should be criticised as anexperiment, not as mere carelessness.That Mrs. Browning's ear was quite-capable of discerning true rhymes isshown by the fact that she tacitly

abandoned her experiment inassonances. Not only in the pure andhigh art of the 'Sonnets from thePortuguese,' but even in 'Casa GuidiWindows,' the rhetorical and sometimescolloquial tone of which might havebeen thought to lend itself to suchdevices, imperfect rhymes occur butrarely not exceeding the limits allowedto himself by every poet who hasrhymed given and heaven; and the roll ofthose who have not done so must besmall indeed.

[Footnote 105: Letters to R.H. Horne, ii.119.]

The point has seemed worth dwelling

on, because it touches a commonplaceof criticism as regards Mrs. Browning;but we may now make way for her owncomments on her critics and friends.

To H.S. Boyd Tuesday, August 13, 1844[postmark].

My very dear Friend, I must thank youfor the great kindness with which youhave responded to a natural expressionof feeling on my part, and for all thepleasure of finding you pleased withthe inscription of 'Cyprus Wine.' Yournote has given me much true pleasure.Yes; if my verses survive me, I shouldwish them to relate the fact of mybeing your debtor for many happy

hours.

And now I must explain to you thatmost of the 'incorrectnesses' you speakof may be 'incorrectnesses,' but are notnegligences. I have a theory about doublerhymes for which I shall be attacked bythe critics, but which I could justifyperhaps on high authority, or at leastanalogy. In fact, these volumes of minehave more double rhymes than any twobooks of English poems that ever tomy knowledge were printed; I mean ofEnglish poems not comic. Now, ofdouble rhymes in use, which are perfectrhymes, you are aware how few thereare, and yet you are also aware of whatan admirable effect in making a rhythm

various and vigorous, double rhymingis in English poetry. Therefore I haveused a certain licence; and after muchthoughtful study of the Elizabethanwriters, have ventured it with thepublic. And do you tell me, you whoobject to the use of a different vowel ina double rhyme, why you rhyme (aseverybody does, without blame fromanybody) 'given' to 'heaven,' when youobject to my rhyming 'remember' and'chamber' The analogy surely is all onmy side, and I believe that the spirit ofthe English language is also.

I write all this because you will findmany other sins of the sort, besidesthose in the 'Cyprus Wine;' and because

I wish you to consider the subject as apoint for consideration seriously, and not toblame me as a writer of careless verses.If I deal too much in licences, it is notbecause I am idle, but because I amspeculative for freedom's sake. It ispossible, you know, to be wrongconscientiously; and I stand up for myconscience only.

I thank you earnestly for your candourhitherto, and I beseech you to becandid to the end.

It is tawny as Rhea's lion.

I know (although you don't say so) youobject to that line. Yet consider its

structure. Does not the final 'y' of'tawny' suppose an apostrophe andapocope Do you not run 'tawny as' intotwo syllables naturally I want you to seemy principle.

With regard to blank verse, the greatFletcher admits sometimes seventeensyllables into his lines.

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

Believe me, I write only freely and notarrogantly; and I am impressed with theconviction that my work abounds withfar more faults than you in your

kindness will discover, notwithstandingyour acumen.

Always your affectionate and gratefulELIBET.

To H.S. Boyd Wednesday, August 14,1844 [postmark].

My dearest Mr. Boyd, I must thank youfor the great great pleasure with whichI have this moment read your note, themore welcome, as (without hypocrisy) Ihad worked myself up into a nervousapprehension, from your former one,that I should seem so 'rudis atqueincomposita' to you, in consequence ofcertain licences, as to end by being

intolerable. I know what an ear youhave, and how you can hear the dust onthe wheel as it goes on. Well, I wrote toyou yesterday, to beg you to be patientand considerate.

But you are always given to surprise mewith abundant kindness withsupererogatory kindness. I believe inthat, certainly.

I am very very glad that you think mestronger and more perspicuous. For theperspicuity, 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 youshould prefer 'The Seraphim'! AngryNo indeed, indeed, I am grateful for 'TheSeraphim,' and not exacting for the'Drama,' and all the more because of asecret obstinate persuasion that the'Drama' will have a majority of friendsin the end, and perhaps deserve to havethem. Nay, why should I throwperhapses over my own impressions,and be insincere to you who havehonoured me by being sincere Whyshould I dissemble my own belief thatthe 'Drama' is worth two or three

'Seraphims' my own belief, you know,which is worth nothing, writersknowing themselves so superficially,and having such a natural leaning totheir last work. Still, I may say honestlyto you, that I have a far more modestvalue for 'The Seraphim' than yourkindness suggests, and that I haveseemed to myself to have a clear insightinto the fact that that poem was onlyborne up by the minor poemspublished with it, from immediatedestruction. There is a want of unity init which vexes me to think of, and theother faults magnify themselves day byday, more and more, in my eyes.Therefore it is not that I care more forthe 'Drama,' but I care less for 'The

Seraphim.' Both poems fall short of myaspiration and desire, but the 'Drama'seems to me fuller, freer and stronger,and worth the other three times over. Ifit has anything new, I think it must besomething new into which I have lived,for certainly I wrote it sincerely andfrom an inner impulse. In fact, I neverwrote any poem with so much sense ofpleasure in the composition, and sorapidly, with continuous flow from fiftyto a hundred lines a day, and quite in aglow of pleasure and impulse allthrough. Still, you have not been usedto see me in blank verse, and there maybe something in that. That the poem isfull of faults and imperfections I donot in the least doubt. I have vibrated

between exultations and despondenciesin the correcting and printing of it,though the composition went smoothlyto an end, and I am prepared to receivethe bastinado to the critical degree, I doassure you. The few opinions I have yethad are all to the effect that my advanceon the former publication is very greatand obvious, but then I am aware thatpeople who thought exactly thecontrary would be naturally backwardin giving me their opinion.... Indeed, Ithank you most earnestly. Truth andkindness, how rarely do they cometogether! I am very grateful to you. It iscurious that 'Duchess May' is not afavorite of mine, and that I have sighedone or two secret wishes towards its

extirpation, but other writers besidesyourself have singled it out for praisein private letters to me. There has beenno printed review yet, I believe; andwhen I think of them, I try to think ofsomething else, for with no privatefriends among the critical body (notthat I should desire to owe security insuch a matter to private friendship) it isawful enough, this looking forward tobe reviewed. Never mind, the ultimateprosperity of the book lies far abovethe critics, and can neither be mendednor made nor unmade by them.

To John Kenyan Wednesday morning[August 1844].

I return Mr. Chorley's[106] note, mydear cousin, with thankful thoughts ofhim as of you. I wish I could persuadeyou of the rightness of my view about'Essays on Mind' and such things, andhow the difference between them andmy present poems is not merely thedifference between two schools, as youseemed to intimate yesterday, nor eventhe difference between immaturity andmaturity; but that it is the differencebetween the dead and the living,between a copy and an individuality,between what is myself and what is notmyself. To you who have a personalinterest and may I say affection for me,the girl's exercise assumes a factitiousvalue, but to the public the matter is

otherwise and ought to be otherwise.And for the 'psychological' side of thequestion, do observe that I have notreputation enough to suggest acuriosity about my legends. Instead ofyour 'legendary lore,' it would be just alegendary bore. Now you understandwhat I mean. I do not underrate Popenor his school, but I do disesteemeverything which, bearing the shape ofa book, is not the true expression of amind, and I know and feel (and so doyou) that a girl's exercise written when allthe experience lay in books, and themind was suited rather for intelligencethan production, lying like an infant'sface with an undeveloped expression,must be valueless in itself, and if

offered to the public directly orindirectly as a work of mine, highlyinjurious to me. Why, of the'Prometheus' volume, even, you knowwhat I think and desire. 'The Seraphim,'with all its feebleness and shortcomingsand obscurities, yet is the first utteranceof my own individuality, and thereforethe only volume except the last which isnot a disadvantage to me to havethought of, and happily for me, theearly books, never having beenadvertised, nor reviewed, except byaccident, once or twice, are as safe fromthe public as manuscript.

Oh, I shudder to think of the lineswhich might have been 'nicked in,' and

all through Mr. Chorley's good nature.As if I had not sins enough to ruin mein the new poems, without revivingjuvenile ones, sinned when I knew nobetter. Perhaps you would like to havethe series of epic poems which I wrotefrom nine years old to eleven. Theymight illustrate some doctrine of innateideas, and enrich (to that end) themyths of metaphysicians.

And also agree with me in reverencingthat wonderful genius Keats, who, risingas a grand exception from among thevulgar herd of juvenile versifiers, wasan individual man from the beginning,and spoke with his own voice, thoughsurrounded by the yet unfamiliar

murmur of antique echoes.[107] LeighHunt calls him 'the young poet' veryrightly. Most affectionately andgratefully yours,

E.B.B.

Do thank Mr. Chorley for me, will you

[Footnote 106: Henry FothergillChorley (1808-1872) was one of theprincipal members of the staff of theAthenaeum, especially in literary andmusical matters. Dr. Garnett (in theDictionary of National Biography) says ofhim, shortly after his first joining thestaff in 1833, that 'his articles largelycontributed to maintain the reputation

the Athenaeum had already acquired forimpartiality at a time when puffery wasmore rampant than ever before or since,and when the only other Londonliterary journal of any pretension wasnotoriously venal.' He also wroteseveral novels and dramas, which metwith but little popular success.]

[Footnote 107: Compare AuroraLeigh's asseveration:

'By Keats' soul, the man who neverstepped In gradual progress likeanother man, But, turning grandly onhis central self, Ensphered himself intwenty perfect years And died, notyoung.'

('Aurora Leigh,' book i.; Poetical Works,vi. 38.)]

To Mrs. Martin Thursday, August 1844.

Thank you, my dearest Mrs. Martin, foryour most kind letter, a reply to whichshould certainly, as you desired, havemet you at Colwall; only, right orwrong, I have been flurried, agitated,put out of the way altogether, byStormie's and Henry's plan of going toEgypt. Ah, now you are surprised. Nowyou think me excusable for being silenttwo days beyond my time yes, and they

have gone, it is no vague speculation. Youknow, or perhaps you don't know, that,a little time back, papa bought a ship,put a captain and crew of his own in it,and began to employ it in his favourite'Via Lactea' of speculations. It has beenonce to Odessa with wool, I think; andnow it has gone to Alexandria withcoals. Stormie was wild to go to bothplaces; and with regard to the last, papahas yielded. And Henry goes too. Thiswas all arranged weeks ago, but nothingwas said of it until last Monday to me;and when I heard it, I was a good dealmoved of course, and althoughresigned now to their having their wayin it, and their pleasure, which is betterthan their way, still I feel I have entered

a new anxiety, and shall not be quite atease again till they return....

And now to thank you, my ever-dearestMrs. Martin, for your kind andwelcome letter from the Lakes. I knewquite at the first page, and long beforeyou said a word specifically, that dearMr. Martin was better, and think thatsuch a scene, even from under anumbrella, must have done good to thesoul and body of both of you. I wish Icould have looked through your eyesfor once. But I suppose that neitherthrough yours, nor through my own,am I ever likely to behold that sight. Inthe meantime it is with considerablesatisfaction that I hear of your failure of

Wordsworth, which was my salvation in avery awful sense. Why, if you had donesuch a thing, you would have put me tothe shame of too much honor. Thespeculation consoles me entirely foryour loss in respect to Rydal Hall andits poet. By the way, I heard the otherday that Rogers, who was intending tovisit him, said, 'It is a bad time of yearfor it. The god is on his pedestal; andcan only give gestures to hisworshippers, and no conversation tohis friends.' ...

Although you did not find a letter fromme on your return to Colwall, I dohope 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 hearyour own and Mr. Martin's trueimpression; and whether you think itworse or better than 'The Seraphim.'The only review which has yet appearedor had time to appear has been a verykind and cordial one in the'Athenaeum.' ...

Your ever affectionate BA.

To Mr. Westwood August 31, 1844.

My dear Mr. Westwood, I send you themanuscript you ask for, and also mycertificate that, although I certainly wasonce a little girl, yet I never in my life

had fair hair, or received lessons whenyou mention. I think a cousin of mine,now dead, may have done it. The'Barrett Barrett' seems to specify myfamily. I have a little cousin with brightfair hair at this moment who is anElizabeth Barrett (the subject of my'Portrait'[108]), but then she is a'Georgiana' besides, and your friendmust refer to times past. My hair is verydark indeed, and always was, as long asI remember, and also I have a friendwho makes serious affidavit that I havenever changed (except by being rathertaller) since I was a year old. Altogether,you cannot make a case of identity out,and I am forced to give up the glory ofbeing so long remembered for my

cleverness.

You do wrong in supposing meinclined to underrate Mr. Melville'spower. He is inclined to High-Churchism, and to such doctrines asapostolical succession, and I, who, am aDissenter, and a believer in a universalChristianity, recoil from the exclusivedoctrine.

But then, that is not depreciatory of hispower and eloquence surely not.

E.B.

[Footnote 108: Poetical Works, iii. 172.]

To Mr. Chorley 50 Wimpole Street:Monday. [About the end of August1844.]

Dear Mr. Chorley, Kindnesses are morefrequent things with me thangladnesses, but I thank you earnestlyfor both in the letter I have thismoment received.[109] You have givenme a quick sudden pleasure which goesdeeper (I am very sure) than self-love,for it must be something better thanvanity that brings the tears so near theeyes. I thank you, dear Mr. Chorley.

After all, we are not quite strangers. Ihave had some early encouragementand direction from you, and much

earlier (and later) literary pleasures fromsuch of your writings as did not referto me. I have studied 'Music andManners'[110] under you, and foundan excuse for my love of romance-reading from your grateful fancy. Then,as dear Miss Mitford's friend, you couldnot help being (however against yourwill!) a little my acquaintance; and thisshe daringly promised to make you inreality some day, till I took the fervourfor prophecy.

Altogether I am justified, while I thankyou as a stranger, to say one more wordas a friend, and that shall be the bestword 'May God bless you!' The trials withwhich He tries us all are different, but

our faces may be turned towards theend in cheerfulness, for 'to the end Hehas loved us.' I remain,

Very faithfully, your obligedELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

You may trust me with the secret ofyour kindness to me. It shall not gofarther.

[Footnote 109: A summary of itscontents is given in the next letter butone.]

[Footnote 110: Music and Manners inFrance and Germany: a Series of TravellingSketches of Art and Society, published by

Mr. Chorley in 1841.]

To H.S. Boyd Monday, September 1,1844.

My dearest Mr. Boyd, I thank you forthe Cyprus, and also for a still sweeteramreeta your praise. Certainly to bepraised as you praise me might well besupposed likely to turn a sager headthan mine, but I feel that (with all mysensitive and grateful appreciation ofsuch words) I am removed rather belowthan above the ordinary temptations ofvanity. Poetry is to me rather a passionthan an ambition, and the gadfly whichdrives me along that road pricks deeperthan an expectation of fame could do.

Moreover, there will be plenty ofcounter-irritation to prevent me fromgrowing feverish under your praises.And as a beginning, I hear that the'John Bull' newspaper has cut me upwith sanguinary gashes, for theedification of its Sabbath readers. Ihave not seen it yet, but I hear so. The'Drama' is the particular victim. Do notsend for the paper. I will let you have it,if you should wish for it.

One thing is left to me to say. Arabeltold you of a letter I had received froma professional critic, and I am sorry thatshe should have told you so withoutbinding you to secrecy on the point at

the same time. In fact, the writer of theletter begged me not to speak of it, andI took an engagement to him not tospeak of it. Now it would be veryunpleasant to me, and dishonorable tome, if, after entering into thisengagement, the circumstance of theletter should come to be talked about.Of course you will understand that Ido not object to your having beeninformed of the thing, only Arabelshould have remembered to ask younot to mention again the name of thecritic who wrote to me.

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

Your ever affectionate ELIBET.

There is no review in the 'Examiner' yet,nor any continuation in the'Athenaeum.'[111]

[Footnote 111: The Athenaeum hadreserved the two longer poems, the'Drama of Exile' and the 'Vision ofPoets,' for possible notice in a secondarticle, which, however, neverappeared.]

To Mrs. Martin September 10, 1844.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, I will not lose apost in assuring you that I was not

silent because of any disappointmentfrom your previous letter. I could onlyfeel the kindness of that letter, and thiswas certainly the chief and uppermostfeeling at the time of reading it, andsince. Your preference of 'TheSeraphim' one other person besidesyourself has acknowledged to me inthe same manner, and although Imyself perhaps from the naturalleaning to last works, and perhaps froma wise recognition of the completefailure of the poem called 'TheSeraphim ' do disagree with you, yet Ican easily forgive you for such athought, and believe that you seesufficient grounds for entertaining it.More and more I congratulate myself

(at any rate) for the decision I came toat the last moment, and in the face ofsome persuasions, to call the book'Poems,' instead of trusting itsresponsibility to the 'Drama,' by such atitle as 'A Drama of Exile, and Poems.'It is plain, as I anticipated, that for oneperson who is ever so little pleased withthe 'Drama,' fifty at least will like thesmaller poems. And perhaps they areright. The longer sustaining of asubject requires, of course, morepower, and I may have failed in italtogether.

Yes, I think I may say that I am satisfiedso far with the aspect of things inrelation to the book. You see there has

scarcely been time yet to give any excepta sanguine or despondent judgment Imean, there is scarcely room yet forforming a very rational inference ofwhat will ultimately be, without thepresentiments of hope or fear. Thebook came out too late in August forany chance of a mention in theSeptember magazines, and at the deadtime of year, when the very critics werethinking more of holiday innocencethan of their carnivorous instincts. Thiswill not hurt it ultimately, although itmight have hurt a novel. The regularcritics will come back to it; and in themeantime the newspaper critics arenoticing it all round, with more or lessadmissions to its advantage. The 'Atlas'

is the best of the newspapers forliterary notices; and it spoke graciouslyon the whole; though I do protestagainst being violently attached to a'school.' I have faults enough, I know;but it is just to say that they are at leastmy own. Well, then! It is true that the'Westminster Review' says briefly whatis great praise, and promises to take theearliest opportunity of reviewing me 'atlarge.' So that with regard to the critics,there seems to be a good prospect.Then I have had some very pleasantprivate letters one from Carlyle; an oathfrom Miss Martineau to give her wholemind to the work and tell me her freeand full opinion, which I have notreceived yet; an assurance from an

acquaintance of Mrs. Jameson that shewas much pleased. But the letter whichpleased me most was addressed to meby a professional critic, personallyunknown to me, who wrote to say thathe had traced me up, step by step, eversince I began to print, and that my lastvolumes were so much better than anypreceding them, and were such livingbooks, that they restored to him theimpulses of his youth and constrainedhim to thank me for the pleasantemotions they had excited. I cannot saythe name of the writer of this letter,because he asked me not to do so, butof course it was very pleasant to read.Now you will not call me vain forspeaking of this. I would not speak of

it; only I want (you see) to prove to youhow faithfully and gratefully I have atrust in your kindness and sympathy. Itis certainly the best kindness to speakthe truth to me. I have written thosepoems as well as I could, and I hope towrite others better. I have not reachedmy own ideal; and I cannot expect tohave satisfied other people'sexpectation. But it is (as I sometimessay) the least ignoble part of me, that Ilove poetry better than I love my ownsuccesses in it.

I am glad that you like 'The LostBower.' The scene of that poem is thewood above the garden at Hope End.

It is very true, my dearest Mrs. Martin,all that you say about the voyage toAlexandria. And I do not feel theanxiety I thought I should. In fact, I amsurprised to feel so little anxiety. Still, whenthey are at home again, I shall behappier than I am now, that I feelstrongly besides.

What I missed most in your first letterwas 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; butalthough I was delighted on everyaccount at his late victory,[112] orrather at the late victory of justice andconstitutional law, he never was a hero

of mine and is not likely to becomeone. If he had been (by the way) a heroof mine, I should have been quiteashamed of him for being so unequalto his grand position as wasdemonstrated by the speech from thebalcony. Such poetry in the position,and such prose in the speech! He hasnot the stuff in him of which heroesare made. There is a thread of cottoneverywhere crossing the silk....

With our united love to both of you,Ever, dearest Mrs. Martin, mostaffectionately yours, BA.

[Footnote 112: The reversal by theHouse of Lords of his conviction inIreland for conspiracy, which theEnglish Court of Queen's Bench hadconfirmed.]

To Mrs. Martin Wednesday [aboutSeptember 1844].

My dearest Mrs. Martin, ... Did I tellyou that Miss Martineau had promisedand vowed to me to tell me the wholetruth with respect to the poems Herletter did not come until a few days ago,and for a full month after thepublication; and I was so fearful of theprobable sentence that my hands shookas they broke the seal. But such a

pleasant letter! I have been overjoyedwith it. She says that her 'predominantimpression is of the originality' verypleasant to hear. I must not forget,however, to say that she complains of'want of variety' in the general effect ofthe drama, and that she 'likes Luciferless 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, thereis scarcely a word to require consolationin her letter, and what did not pleaseme least nay, to do myself justice, whatput all the rest out of my head forsome minutes with joy is the accountshe gives of herself. For she is betterand likely still to be better; she has

recovered appetite and sleep, and lostthe most threatening symptoms ofdisease; she has been out for the firsttime for four years and a half, lying onthe grass flat, she says, with my booksopen beside her day after day. (That doessound vain of me, but I cannot resistthe temptation of writing it!) And themeans the means! Such means youwould never divine! It is mesmerism. Sheis thrown into the magnetic trancetwice a day; and the progress ismanifest; and the hope for the futureclear. Now, what do you both thinkConsider what a case it is! No case of aweak-minded woman and a nervousaffection; but of the most manlikewoman in the three kingdoms in the

best sense of man a woman gifted withadmirable fortitude, as well as exercisedin high logic, a woman of sensibilityand of imagination certainly, but apt tocarry her reason unbent wherever shesets her foot; given to utilitarianphilosophy and the habit of logicalanalysis; and suffering under a diseasewhich has induced change of structureand yielded to no tried remedy! Is it notwonderful, and past expectation Shesuggests that I should try the meansbut I understand that in cases like minethe remedy has done harm instead ofgood, by over-exciting the system. Buther experience will settle the questionof the reality of magnetism with awhole generation of infidels. For my

own part, I have long been a believer, inspite of papa. Then I have had very kindletters from Mrs. Jameson, the'Ennuyee'[113] and from Mr. SerjeantTalfourd and some less famouspersons. And a poet with a Welsh namewrote to me yesterday to say that he waswriting a poem 'similar to my "Dramaof Exile,"' and begged me to subscribeto it. Now I tell you all this to makeyou smile, and because some of it willinterest you more gravely. It will proveto dear unjust Mr. Martin that I do notdistrust your sympathy. How could hethink so of me I am half vexed that heshould think so. Indeed indeed I amnot so morbidly vain. Why, if you hadtold me that the books were without

any sort of value in your eyes, do youimagine that I should not have valuedyou, reverenced you ever after for yourtruth, so sacred a thing in friendship Ireally believe it would have been mypredominant feeling. But you provedyour truth without trying me so hardly;I had both truth and praise from you,and surely quite enough, and more thanenough, as many would think, of thelatter.

My dearest papa left us this morning togo for a few days into Cornwall for thepurpose of examining a quarry inwhich he has bought or is about to buyshares, and he means to strike on forthe Land's End and to see Falmouth

before he returns. It depresses me tothink of his being away; his presence orthe sense of his nearness having somuch cheering and soothing influencewith me; but it will be an excellentchange for him, even if he does not, ashe expects, dig an immense fortune outof the quarries....

Your affectionate and ever obliged BA.

[Footnote 113: Mrs. Jameson's earliestbook, and one which achievedconsiderable popularity, was her Diaryof an Ennuyee.]

To Cornelius Mathews London, 50Wimpole Street: October 1, 1844.

My dear Mr. Mathews, I have justreceived your note, which, on theprinciple of single sighs or breathsbeing wafted from Indies to the poles,arrived quite safely, and I was very gladto have it. I shall fall into monotony ifI go on to talk of my continued warmsense of your wonderful kindness tome, a stranger according to the mannerof men; and, indeed, I have just thismoment been writing a note to a friendtwo streets away, and calling it'wonderful kindness.' I cannot,however, of course, allow you to runthe tether of your impulse and furnishme with the reviews of my books andother things you speak of at your own

expense, and I should prefer, if youwould have the goodness to give thenecessary direction to Messrs. Putnam& Co., that they should send whatwould interest me to see, together witha note of the pecuniary debt tothemselves. I shall like to see thereviews, of course; and that you shouldhave taken the first word of Americanjudgment into your own mouth is apleasant thought to me, and leaves megrateful. In England I have no reasonso far to be otherwise than well pleased.There has not, indeed, been much yetbesides newspaper criticisms except'Ainsworth's Magazine,' which isbenignant! there has not been time. Themonthly reviews give themselves 'pause'

in such matters to set the plumes oftheir dignity, and I am rather glad thanotherwise not to have the first fruits oftheir haste. The 'Atlas,' the bestnewspaper for literary reviews,excepting always the 'Examiner,' whodoes not speak yet, is generous to me,and I have reason to be satisfied withothers. And our most influentialquarterly (after the 'Edinburgh' andright 'Quarterly'), the 'WestminsterReview,' promises an early paper withpassing words of high praise. Whatvexed me a little in one or two of thejournals was an attempt made to fix mein a school, and the calling me afollower of Tennyson for my habit ofusing compound words, noun-

substantives, which I used to do beforeI knew a page of Tennyson, andadopted from a study of our oldEnglish writers, and Greeks and evenGermans. The custom is so far frombeing peculiar to Tennyson, that Shelleyand Keats and Leigh Hunt are allredolent of it, and no one can read ourold poets without perceiving theleaning of our Saxon to that species ofcoalition. Then I have had letters ofgreat kindness from 'Spirits of the Age,'whose praises are so many crowns, andaltogether am far from being out ofspirits about the prospect of my work.I am glad, however, that I gave thename of 'Poems' to the work instead ofadmitting the 'Drama of Exile' into the

title-page and increasing itsresponsibility; for one person who likesthe 'Drama,' ten like the other poems.Both Carlyle and Miss Martineau selectas favorite 'Lady Geraldine's Courtship,'which amuses and surprises mesomewhat. In that poem I hadendeavoured to throw conventionalities(turned asbestos for the nonce) into thefire of poetry, to make them glow andglitter as if they were not dull things.Well, I shall soon hear what you likebest and worst. I wonder if you havebeen very carnivorous with me! Itremble a little to think of yourhereditary claim to an instrument calledthe tomahawk. Still, I am sure I shallhave to think most, ever as now, of your

kindness; and truth must be sacred to allof us, whether we have to suffer or beglad by it. As for Mr. Horne, I cannotanswer for what he has received or notreceived. I had one note from him onsilver paper (fear of postage havingreduced him to a transparency) fromGermany, and that is all, and I did notthink him in good spirits in what hesaid of himself. I will tell him what youhave the goodness to say, andsomething, too, on my own part. Hehas had a hard time of it with his 'Spiritof the Age;' the attacks on the bookhere being bitter in the extreme. Your'Democratic' does not comfort him forthe rest, by the way, and, indeed, he isalmost past comfort on the subject. I

had a letter the other day from Dr.Shelton Mackenzie, whom I do notknow personally, but who is about topublish a 'Living Author Dictionary,'and who, by some association, talkedof the effeminacy of 'the Americanpoets,' so I begged him to read yourpoems on 'Man' and prepare anexception to his position. I wish towrite more and must not.

Most faithfully yours, E.B.B.

Am I the first with the great and goodnews for America and England thatHarriet Martineau is better and likely tobe better She told me so herself, andattributes the change to the agency of

mesmerism.

To H.S. Boyd October 4, 1844.

My dearest Mr. Boyd, ... As to 'The LostBower,' I am penitent about havingcaused you so much disturbance. Isometimes fancy that a little varying ofthe accents, though at the obviousexpense of injuring the smoothness ofevery line considered separately, givesvariety of cadence and fuller harmonyto the general effect. But I do notquestion that I deserve a great deal ofblame on this point as on others. Manylines in 'Isobel's Child' are very slovenlyand weak from a multitude of causes. Ihope you will like 'The Lost Bower'

better when you try it again than youdid at first, though I do not, of course,expect that you will not see much to cryout against. The subject of the poemwas an actual fact of my childhood.

Oh, and I think I told you, when givingyou the history of 'Lady Geraldine'sCourtship,' that I wrote the thirteen lastpages of it in one day. I ought to havesaid nineteen pages instead. But don't tellanybody; only keep the circumstance inyour mind when you need it and seethe faults. Nobody knows of it exceptyou and Mr. Kenyon and my ownfamily for the reason I told you. I sentoff 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 haveheard of Mr. Eagles, one of the firstwriters in 'Blackwood' and a man ofvery refined taste, adding another nameto the many of those who havepreferred it to anything in the twovolumes. He says that he has read it atleast six times aloud to various persons,and calls it a 'beautiful sui generis drama.'On which Mr. Kenyon observes that Iam 'ruined for life, and shall be surenever to take pains with any poemagain.'

The American edition (did Arabel tellyou ) was to be out in New York aweek ago, and was to consist of fifteenhundred copies in two volumes, as in

England.

She sends you the verses and asks youto make allowances for the delay indoing so. I cannot help believing that ifyou were better read in Wordsworthyou would appreciate him better. Eversince I knew what poetry is, I havebelieved in him as a great poet, and Ido not understand how reasonablythere can be a doubt of it. Will youremember that nearly all the first mindsof the age have admitted his power(without going to intrinsic evidence),and then say that he can be a mere GrubStreet writer It is not that he is only orchiefly admired by the profanum vulgus,that he is a mere popular and

fashionable poet, but that men ofgenius in this and other countries unitein confessing his genius. And is not thisa significant circumstance significant, atleast ...

Believe me, yourself, your affectionateand grateful ELIBET B.B.

How kind you are, far too kind, aboutthe Cyprus wine; I thank you verymuch.

To Mrs. Martin October 5, 1844.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, ... Well, papacame back from Cornwall just as Icame back to my own room, and he

was as pleased with his quarry as I wasto have the sight again of his face.During his absence, Henrietta had alittle polka (which did not bring thehouse down on its knees), and I had atransparent blind put up in my openwindow. There is a castle in the blind,and a castle gate-way, and two walks,and several peasants, and groves oftrees which rise in excellent harmonywith the fall of my green damaskcurtains new, since you saw me last.Papa insults me with the analogy of aback window in a confectioner's shop,but is obviously moved when thesunshine lights up the castle,notwithstanding. And Mr. Kenyon andeverybody in the 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 room catches a lightfrom it. Well, and then Mr. Kenyon hasgiven me a new table, with a rail roundit to consecrate it from Flush's paws,and large enough to hold all myvarieties of vanities.

I had another letter from MissMartineau the other day, and she saysshe has a 'hat of her own, a parasol ofher own,' and that she can 'walk a milewith ease.' What do miracles mean Miracleor not, however, one thing is certain itis very joyful; and her own sensations

on being removed suddenly from theverge of the prospect of a most painfuldeath a most painful and lingeringdeath must be strange andoverwhelming.

I hope I may hear soon from you thatyou had much pleasure at Clifton, andsome benefit in the air and change, andthat dear Mr. Martin and yourself areboth as well as possible. Do you take in'Punch' If not, you ought. Mr. Kenyonand I agreed the other day that weshould be more willing 'to take ourpolitics' from 'Punch' than from anyother of the newspaper oracles. 'Punch'is very generous, and I like him foreverything, except for his rough

treatment of Louis Philippe, whom Ibelieve to be a great man for a king.And then, it is well worth fourpence tolaugh once a week. I do recommend'Punch' to you.[114] Douglas Jerrold isthe editor, I fancy, and he has a troopof 'wits,' such as Planche, 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 ablebook, without character, story, orspecific teaching It is well worthreading, and worth wondering over.D'Israeli, who is a man of genius, haswritten, nevertheless, books which will

live longer, and move deeper. Buteverybody should read 'Coningsby.' It isa sign of the times. Believe me, mydearest Mrs. Martin,

Your very affectionate BA.

To John Kenyon Tuesday, October 8,1844.

Thank you, my dearest cousin, for yourkind little note, which I run the chanceof answering by that Wednesday's postyou think you may wait for. So (via yourtable) I set about writing to you, andthe first word, of course, must be anexpression of my contentment with the'Examiner' review. Indeed, I am more

than contented delighted with it. I hadsome dread, vaguely fashioned, aboutthe 'Examiner'; the very delay lookedominous. And then, I thought tomyself, though I did not say, that if Mr.Forster praised the verses on Flush toyou, it was just because he had nosympathy for anything else. But it is allthe contrary, you see, and I am themore pleased for the want of previousexpectation; and I must add that if youwere so kind as to be glad of beingassociated with me by Mr. Forster'sreference, I was so human as to be veryvery glad of being associated with youby the same. Also you shall criticise'Geraldine' exactly as you like mind, Idon't think it all so rough as the

extracts appear to be, and some varietyis attained by that playing at ball withthe pause, which causes the apparentroughness still you shall criticise'Geraldine' exactly as you like. I have agreat fancy for writing some day alonger poem of a like class a poemcomprehending the aspect and mannersof modern life, and flinching atnothing of the conventional. I think itmight be done with good effect. Yousaid once that Tennyson had done it in'Locksley Hall,' and I half agreed withyou. But looking at 'Locksley Hall'again, I find that not much has beendone in that way, noble and passionateand full as the poem is in other ways.But there is no story, no manners, no

modern allusion, except in the grandgeneral adjuration to the 'Mother-age,'and no approach to the treatment of aconventionality. But Crabbe, as you say,has done it, and Campbell in his'Theodore' in a few touches was near todo it; but Hayley clearly apprehends thespecies of poem in his 'Triumphs ofTemper' and 'Triumphs of Music,' andso did Miss Seward, who called it the'poetical novel.' Now I do think that a truepoetical novel modern, and on the levelof the manners of the day might be asgood a poem as any other, and muchmore popular besides. Do you notthink so

I had a letter from dear Miss Mitford

this morning, with yours, but I can findnothing in it that you will care to hearagain. She complains of the vaguenessof 'Coningsby,' and praises the Frenchwriters a sympathy between us, that last,which we wear hidden in our sleevesfor the sake of propriety. Not a wordof coming to London, though I asked.Neither have I heard again from MissMartineau....

Ever most affectionately and gratefullyyours, E.B.B.

[Footnote 114: It will be rememberedthat 'Punch' had only been in existencefor three years at this time, which willaccount for this apparently superfluous

advice.]

To Mrs. Martin October 15, 1844.

... Not a word more have I heard fromMiss Martineau; and shall not soon,perhaps, as she is commanded not towrite, not to read to do nothing, in fact,except the getting better. I am not, Iconfess, quite satisfied myself. But sheherself appears to be so altogether, andshe speaks of 'symptoms having givenway,' implying a structural change. Yes, Iuse the common phrase in respect tomesmerism, and think 'there issomething in it.' Only I think, besides,that, if something, there must be a greatdeal in it. Clairvoyance has precisely the

same evidence as the phenomenon ofthe trance has, and scientific andphilosophical minds are recognising allthe phenomena as facts on all sides ofus. Mr. Kenyon's is the best distinction,and the immense quantity of humbugwhich embroiders the truth over andover, and round and round, makes itneedful: 'I believe in mesmerism, butnot in mesmerists.'

We have had no other letter from ourEgyptians, but can wait a little longerwithout losing our patience.

The blind rises in favour, and the ivywould not fall, if it would but live.Alas! I am going to try guano as a last

resource. You see, in painting thewindows, papa was forced to have ittaken down, and the ivy that grows onruins and oaks is not usually takendown 'for the nonce.' I think I shallhave a myrtle grove in two or threelarge pots inside the window. I have amind to try it.

I heard twice from dear Mr. Kenyon atDover, where he was detained by theweather, but not since his entrance intoFrance. Which is grand enough wordfor the French Majesty itself 'entranceinto France.' By the way, I do hope youhave some sympathy with me in myrespect for the King of the French thatright kingly king, Louis Philippe. If

France had borne more liberty, he wouldnot have withheld it, and, for the rest,and in all truly royal qualities, he is thenoblest king, according to my idea, inEurope the most royal king in theencouragement of art and literature,and in the honoring of artists and menof letters. Let a young unknown writeraccomplish a successful tragedy, and thenext day he sits at the king's table not ina metaphor, but face to face. See howdifferent the matter is in our court,where the artists are shown up the backstairs, and where no poet (even by theback stairs) can penetrate, unless sofortunate as to be a banker also. Whatis the use of kings and queens in thesedays, except to encourage arts and

letters Really I cannot see. Anybody canhunt an otter out of a box who hasnerve enough.

I had a letter from America to-day, andheard that my book was not publishedthere until the fifth of this October.Still, a few copies had preceded thepublication, and made way among thecritics, and several reviews were in thecourse of germinating very greenly. Yes,I was delighted with the 'Examiner,' andall the more so from having interpretedthe long delay of the notice, thegloomiest manner possible. My friendstry to persuade me that the book ismaking some impression, and I amwilling enough to be convinced. Thank

you for all your kind sympathy, my dearfriend.

Now, do write to me soon again! Haveyou read Dr. Arnold's Life I have not,but am very anxious to do so, from theadmirable extracts in the 'Examiner' oflast Saturday, and also from what I hearof it in other quarters. That Dr. Arnoldmust have been a man, in the largest andnoblest sense. May God bless you, bothof 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 dearestcousin, certainly is that no green herbof a secret will spring up and flourishbetween you and me.

The loss of Flush was a secret. Myaunt's intention of coming to England(for I know not how to explain whatshe said to you, but by the suppositionof an unfulfilled intention!) was asecret. And Mr. Chorley's letter to mewas a third secret. All turned into light!

For the last, you may well praise me fordiscretion. The letter he wrote waspleasanter to me than many of thekindnesses (apart from your own)

occasioned by my book and when youasked me once 'what letters I hadreceived,' if ever a woman deserved tobe canonised for her silence, I did! Butthe effort was necessary for heparticularly desired that I would notmention to 'our common friends' thecircumstance of his having written tome; and 'common friends' could onlystand for 'Mr. Kenyon and MissMitford.' Of course what you tell me,of his liking the poems better still, isdelightful to hear; but he reviewedthem in the 'Athenaeum' surely! Thereview we read in the 'Athenaeum' wasby his hand could not be mistaken ...

Well; but Flushie! It is too true that he

has been lost lost and won; and truebesides that I was a good deal upset byit meo more; and that I found it hard toeat and sleep as usual while he was inthe hands of his enemies. It is a secrettoo. We would not tell papa of it. Papawould have been angry with theunfortunate person who took Flushout without a chain; and would havekicked against the pricks of thenecessary bribing of the thief in orderto the getting him back. Therefore wedidn't tell papa; and as I had a very badconvenient headache the day my eyeswere reddest, I did not see him (exceptonce) till Flush was on the sofa again.As to the thieves, you are very kind totalk daggers at them; and I feel no

inclination to say 'Don't.' It is quite toobad and cruel. And think of theirexceeding insolence in taking Flushaway from this very door, while Arabelwas waiting to have the door openedon her return from her walk; and inobserving (as they gave him back forsix guineas and a half) that theyintended to have him again at theearliest opportunity and that then theymust have ten guineas! I tell poorFlushie (while he looks very earnestlyin my face) that he and I shall be ruinedat last, and that I shall have no moneyto buy him cakes; but the worst is theanxiety! Whether I am particularly silly,or not, I don't know; they say here, thatI am; but it seems to me impossible for

anybody who really cares for a dog, tothink quietly of his being in the handsof those infamous men. And then Iknow how poor Flushie must feel it.When he was brought home, he beganto cry in his manner, whine, as if hisheart was full! It was just what I wasinclined to do myself ' and thus wasFlushie lost and won.'

But we are both recovered now, thankyou; and intend to be very prudent forthe future. I am delighted to think ofyour being in England; it is the nextbest thing to your being in London. Inregard to Miss Martineau, I agree withyou word for word; but I cannotovercome an additional horror, which

you do not express, or feel probably.

There is an excellent refutation ofPuseyism in the 'Edinburgh Review' bywhom and I have been reading besidesthe admirable paper by Macaulay in thesame number. And now I must bedone; having resolved to let you hearwithout a post's delay. Otherwise Imight have American news for you, as Ihear that a packet has come in.

My brothers arrived in great spirits atMalta, after a three weeks' voyage fromGibraltar; and must now be in Egypt, Ithink 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!' Canyou call me careless Remember all thealtering of manuscript and proof andremember how the obscurities used tofly away before your cloud-compelling,when you were the Jove of thecriticisms! That the books (I won't callthem our books when I am speaking ofthe faults) are remarkable for defectsand superfluities of evil, I can see quiteas well as another; but then I won'tadmit that ' it comes' of my

carelessness, and refusing to take pains.On the contrary, my belief is, that veryfew writers called ' correct ' who haveselected classical models to work from,pay more laborious attention than I dohabitually to the forms of thought andexpression. ' Lady Geraldine ' was anexception in her whole history. If Iwrite fast sometimes (and the historicalfact is that what has been writtenfastest, has pleased most), l am not aptto print without consideration. I appealto Philip sober, if I am! My dearestcousin, do remember! As to the faults, Ido not think of defending them, bevery sure. My consolation is, that I maytry to do better in time, if I may talk oftime. 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 considerfaulty), is that kind of obscurity whichis the same thing with inadequateexpression. Be very sure try to be verysure that I am not obstinate and self-opiniated beyond measure. To you incase, who have done so much for me,and who think of me so more thankindly, I feel it to be both duty andpleasure to defer and yield. Still, youknow, we could not, if we were tenyears about it, alter down the poems tothe terms of all these reviewers. Youwould not desire it, if it were possible. Ido not remember that you suggestedany change in the verse on Aeschylus.

The critic[115] mistakes my allusion,which was to the fact that in the actingof the Eumenides, when the greattragic poet did actually 'frown as thegods did,' women fell down faintingfrom the benches. I did not refer to theeffect of his human countenance'during composition.' But I am verygrateful to the reviewer whoever hemay be very and with need. See howthe 'Sun' shines in response to'Blackwood' (thank you for sending methat notice), when previously we hadhad but a wintry rag from the samequarter! No; if I am not spoilt by yourkindness, I am not likely to be so by anyof these exoteric praises, howeverbeyond what I expected or deserved.

And then I am like a bird with onewing broken. Throw it out of thewindow; and after the first feeling ofpleasure in liberty, it falls heavily. I havehad moments of great pleasure inhearing whatever good has beenthought of the poems; but the feelingof elation is too strong or rather too longfor me....

Can it be true that Mr. Newman has atlast joined the Church of Rome [116]If it is true, it will do much to prove tothe most illogical minds the realcharacter of the late movement. It willprove what the point of sight is, as by thedrawing of a straight line. Miss Mitfordtold me that he had lately sent a

message to a R. Catholic convert fromthe English Church, to the effect 'youhave done a good deed, but not at aright time.' It can but be a question oftime, indeed, to the whole party; at leastto such as are logical and honest....[Unsigned]

[Footnote 115: In Blackwood.]

[Footnote 116: Newman did notactually enter the Church of Romeuntil nearly a year later, in October1845.]

To John Kenyan 50 Wimpole Street:November 8, 1844.

Thank you, my dear dear cousin, forthe kind thought of sending me Mr.Eagles's letter, and most for your ownnote. You know we both saw that hecouldn't have written the paper inquestion; we both were poets andprophets by that sign, but I hope heunderstands that I shall gratefullyremember what his intention was. As tohis 'friend' who told him that I had'imitated Tennyson,' why I can only sayand feel that it is very particularlyprovoking to hear such things said, andthat I wish people would find faultwith my 'metre' in the place of them. Inthe matter of 'Geraldine' I shall not bepuffed up. I shall take to mind whatyou suggest. Of course, if you find it

hard to read, it must be my fault. Andthen the fact of there being a story to apoem will give a factitious merit in theeyes of many critics, which could notbe an occasion of vainglory to theconsciousness of the most vaingloriousof writers. You made me smile by yoursuggestion about the aptitude of criticsaforesaid for courting Lady Geraldines.Certes however it may be the poem hashad more attention than its due. Oh,and I must tell you that I had a letterthe other day from Mr. Westwood (oneof my correspondents unknown)referring to 'Blackwood,' and observingon the mistake about Goethe. 'Did younot mean "fell" the verb,' he said, 'or doI mistake ' So, you see, some people in

the world did actually understand whatI meant. I am eager to prove thatpossibility sometimes.

How full of life of mind Mr. Eagles'sletter is. Such letters always bring me tothink of Harriet Martineau's pestilentplan of doing to destruction half ofthe intellectual life of the world, bysuppressing every mental breathbreathed through the post office. Shewas not in a state of clairvoyance whenshe said such a thing. I have not heardfrom her, but you observed what the'Critic' said of William Howitt's beingempowered by her to declare thecircumstances of her recovery

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

Why shouldn't Miss Martineau'sapocalyptic housemaid[117] tell uswhether Flush has a soul, and what isits 'future destination' As to the fact ofhis soul, I have long had a strongopinion on it. The 'grand peut-etre,' towhich 'without revelation' the humanargument is reduced, covers dog-naturewith the sweep of its fringes.

Did you ever read Bulwer's 'Eva, or theUnhappy Marriage' That is a sort of

poetical novel, with modern mannersinclusive. But Bulwer, although a poetin prose, writes all his rhythmeticalcompositions somewhat prosaically,providing an instance of that curiousdifference which exists between thepoetical writer and the poet. It is easierto give the instance than the reason, butI suppose the cause of the rhythmeticalimpotence must lie somewhere in thewant of the power of concentration.For is it not true that the most prolixpoet is capable of briefer expressionthan the least prolix prose writer, or amI wrong ...

Your ever affectionate E.B.B.

[Footnote 117: Miss Martineau, besideshaving been cured by mesmerismherself, was blest with a housemaidwho had visions under the sameinfluence, concerning which MissMartineau subsequently wrote at greatlength in the Athenaeum.]

To Cornelius Mathews 50 Wimpole Street:November 14, 1844.

My dear Mr. Mathews, I write to tellyou only that there is nothing to tellonly in guard of my gratitude, lest youshould come to think all manner ofevil of me and of my supposedpropensity to let everything pass likeMr. Horne's copies of the American

edition of his work, sub silentio.Therefore I must write, and you are toplease to understand that I have not upto this moment received either letter orbook by the packet of October 10which was charged, according to yourintimation, with so much. I, being quiteout of patience and out of breath withexpectation, have repeatedly sent to Mr.Putnam, and he replies withundisturbed politeness that the ship hascome in, and that his part and lot inher, together with mine, remain at thedisposal of the Custom-house officers,and may remain some time longer. Soyou see how it is. I am waiting simplywaiting, and it is better to let you knowthat I am not forgetting instead.

In the meantime, your kindness will beglad to learn of the prosperity of mypoems in my own country. I am morethan satisfied in my most sanguinehope for them, and a little surprisedbesides. The critics have been good tome. 'Blackwood' and 'Tait' have thismonth both been generous, and the'New Monthly' and 'Ainsworth'sMagazine' did what they could. Then Ihave the 'Examiner' in my favor, andsuch heads and hearts as are better andpurer than the purely critical, and I amvery glad altogether, and very grateful,and hope to live long enough toacknowledge, if not to justify, muchunexpected kindness. Of course, some

hard criticism is mixed with the liberalsympathy, as you will see in'Blackwood,' but some of it I deserve,even in my own eyes; and all of it I amwilling to be patient under. The strangething is, that without a single personalfriend among these critics, they shouldhave expended on me so much'gentillesse,' and this strangeness I feelvery sensitively. Mr. Horne has notreturned to England yet, and in a letterwhich I received from him somefortnight ago he desired to have mybook sent to him to Germany, just as ifhe never meant to return to Englandagain. I answered his sayings, andreiterated, in a way that would makeyou smile, my information about your

having sent the American copies tohim. I made my oyez very plain andarticulate. He won't say again that henever heard of it be sure of that. Well,and then Mr. Browning is not inEngland either, so that whatever yousend for him must await his return fromthe east or the west or the south,wherever he is. The new spirit of theage is a wandering spirit. Mr. Dickens isin Italy. Even Miss Mitford talks ofgoing to France, which is an extremecase for her. Do you never feel inclinedto flash across the Atlantic to us, or canyou really remain still in one place

I must not forget to assure you, dearMr. Mathews, as I may conscientiously

do, even before I have looked into orreceived the 'Democratic Review,' thatwhatever fault you may find with me,my strongest feeling on reading yourarticle will or must be the sense of yourkindness. Of course I do not expect, norshould I wish, that your personalinterest in me (proved in so many ways)would destroy your critical faculty inregard to me. Such an expectation, if Ihad entertained it, would have beenscarcely honorable to either of us, and Imay assure you that I never didentertain it. No; be at rest about thearticle. It is not likely that I shall think it'inadequate.' And I may as well mentionin connection with it that before youspoke of reviewing me I (in my despair

of Mr. Horne's absence, and myimpotency to assist your book) hadthrown into my desk, to watch forsome opportunity of publication, areview of your 'Poems on Man,' frommy own hand, and that I am stillwaiting and considering and takingcourage before I send it to somecurrent periodical. There is a difficultythere is a feeling of shyness on my part,because, as I told you, I have nopersonal friend or introduction amongthe pressmen or the critics, and becausethe 'Athenaeum,' which I shouldotherwise turn to first, has alreadytreated of your work, and would not,of course, consent to reconsider anexpressed opinion. Well, I shall do it

somewhere. Forgive me the appearanceof my impotency under a generalaspect.

Ah, you cannot guess at the estate ofpoetry in the eyes of even such poeticalEnglish publishers as Mr. Moxon, whocan write sonnets himself. Poetry is intheir eyes just a desperate speculation.A poet must have tried his publicbefore he tries the publisher that is,before he expects the publisher to run arisk for him. But I will make any effortyou like to suggest for any work ofyours; I only tell you how things are. Bythe way, if I ever told you thatTennyson was ill, I may as rightly tellyou now that he is well, again, or was

when I last heard of him. I do notknow him personally. Also HarrietMartineau can walk five miles a daywith ease, and believes in mesmerismwith all her strength. Mr. Putnam hadthe goodness to write and open hisreading room to me, who am in prisoninstead in mine.

May God bless you. Do let me hearfrom 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 the new'Westminster Review' that my poems arereviewed in it, and I hope that you willboth be interested enough in myfortunes to read at the library what maybe said of them. Did George tell youthat he imagined (as I also did) the'Blackwood' paper to be by Mr.Phillimore the barrister Well, Mr.Phillimore denies it altogether, has infact quarrelled with Christopher North,and writes no more for him, so that Iam quite at a loss now where to carrymy gratitude.

Do write to me soon. I hear thateverybody should read Dr. Arnold's'Life.' Do you know also 'Eōthen,' a

work of genius You have read, perhaps,Hewitt's 'Visits to Remarkable Places' inthe first series and second; and Mrs.Jameson's 'Visits and Sketches' and 'Lifein Mexico.' Do you know the 'Santa FeExpedition,' and Custine's 'Russia,' and'Forest Life' by Mrs. Clavers You willthink that my associative process is in amost disorderly state, by all thisrunning up and down the stairs of allsorts of subjects, in the naming ofbooks. I would write a list, more as alist should be written, if I could see myway better, and this will do for abeginning in any case. You do not likeromances, I believe, as I do, and thennearly every romance now-a-days setsabout pulling the joints of one's heart

and soul out, as a process of course.'Ellen Middleton' (which I have notread yet) is said to be very painful. Doyou know Leigh Hunt's exquisite essayscalled 'The Indicator and Companion'&c., published by Moxon I hold themat once in delight and reverence. MayGod 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 youknow too well how my sympathyanswers you, 'as face to face in a glass,'for me to assure you of it here. Youraccount of yourselves altogether I taketo be satisfactory, because I neverexpected anybody to gain strength veryrapidly while in the actual endurance ofhard medical discipline. I am glad youhave found out a trustworthy adviser atDover, but I feel nevertheless that youmay both trust and hope in Dr. Bright, ofwhom I heard the very highest praisesthe other day....

Now really I don't know why I shouldfancy you to be so deeply interested inDr. Bright, that all this detail should be

necessary. What I do want you to beinterested in, is in Miss Martineau'smesmeric experience,[118] for a copyof which, in the last 'Athenaeum,' Ihave sent ever since yesterday, in theintention of sending it to you. You willadmit it to be curious as philosophy,and beautiful as composition; for therest, I will not answer. Believing inmesmerism as an agency, I hesitate toassent to the necessary connectionbetween Miss Martineau's cure and thepower; and also I am of opinion thatunbelievers will not very generallybecome converts through herrepresentations. There is a tone ofexaltation which will be observedupon, and one or two sentences are

suggestive to scepticism. I will send itto you when I get the number. Iunderstand that an intimate friend ofhers (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 her visitor. Heis fully a believer, she says, and affirmsto having seen the same phenomena inthe East, but regards the whole subjectwith horror. This still appears to be Mrs.Jameson's feeling, as you know it ismine. Mrs. Jameson came again to thisdoor with a note, and overcoming bykindness, 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 wasan embrace for a farewell. Of courseshe won my affections through myvanity (Mr. Martin will be sure to say, soI hasten to anticipate him) and byexaggerations about my poetry; butreally, and although my heart beat itselfalmost to pieces for fear of seeing heras she walked upstairs, I do think Ishould have liked her without the flattery.She is very light has the lightest of eyes,the lightest of complexions; noeyebrows, and what looked to me likevery pale red hair, and thin lips of nocolour at all. But with all this indecisionof exterior the expression is ratheracute than soft; and the conversation inits principal characteristics, analytical

and examinative; throwing out nothought which is not as clear as glasscritical, in fact, in somewhat of anaustere sense. I use 'austere,' of course,in its intellectual relation, for nothing inthe world could be kinder, or moregraciously kind, than her whole mannerand words were to me. She is comingagain in two or three days, she says. Yes,and she said of Miss Martineau's paperin the 'Athenaeum,' that she very muchdoubted the wisdom of publishing itnow; and that for the public's sake, ifnot for her own, Miss M. should havewaited till the excitement of recoveredhealth had a little subsided. She said ofmesmerism altogether that she wasinclined to believe it, but had not finally

made up her convictions. She usedwords so exactly like some I have usedmyself that I must repeat them, 'that ifthere was anything in it, there was somuch, it became scarcely possible tolimit consequences, and the subjectgrew awful to contemplate.' ...

On Saturday I had some copies of myAmerican edition, which dazzle theEnglish one; and one or two reviews,transatlantically transcendental in 'oilieflatterie.' And I heard yesterday fromthe English publisher Moxon, and hewas 'happy to tell me that the work wasselling very well,' and this without aninquiry on my part. To say the truth, Iwas afraid to inquire. It is good news

altogether. The 'Westminster Review'won't be out till next month.

Wordsworth is so excited about therailroad that his wife persuaded him togo away to recover his serenity, but hehas returned raging worse than ever. Hesays that fifty members of Parliamenthave promised him their opposition.He is wrong, I think, but I alsoconsider that if the people rememberedhis genius and his age, and suspendedthe obnoxious Act for a few years, theywould be right....

May God bless you both.

Most affectionately yours, BA.

[Footnote 118: The Athenaum ofNovember 23 contained the first of aseries of articles by Miss Martineau,giving her experiences of mesmerism.]

To James Martin December 10, 1844.

I have been thinking of you, my dearMr. Martin, more and more the colderit has been, and had made up my mindto write to-day, let me feel as dull as Imight. So, the vane only turns to youinstead of to dearest Mrs. Martin inconsequence of your letter your lettermakes that difference. I should havewritten to Dover in any case....

You are to know that Miss Martineau'smesmeric experience is only peculiar asbeing Harriet Martineau's, otherwise itexhibits the mere commonplaces of theagency. You laugh, I see. I wish I couldlaugh too. I mean, I seriously wish thatI could disbelieve in the reality of thepower, which is in every way mostrepulsive to me....

Mrs. Martin is surprised at me andothers on account of our 'horror.'Surely it is a natural feeling, and shewould herself be liable to it if she weremore credulous. The agency seems to melike the shaking of the flood-gatesplaced by the Divine Creator betweenthe unprepared soul and the unseen

world. Then the subjection of the willand vital powers of one individual tothose of another, to the extent of theapparent solution of the very identity,is abhorrent from me. And then (as tothe expediency of the matter, and toprove how far believers may be carried)there is even now a religious sect atCheltenham, of persons who callthemselves advocates of the 'thirdrevelation,' and profess to receive theirsystem of theology entirely frompatients in the sleep.

In the meantime, poor Miss Martineau,as the consequence of her desire tospeak the truth as she apprehends it, isoverwhelmed with atrocious insults

from all quarters. For my own part Iwould rather fall into the hands ofGod than of man, and suffer as she didin the body, instead of being the markof these cruel observations. But she hassingular strength of mind, and calmlycontinues her testimony.

Miss Mitford writes to me: 'Be sure it isall true. I see it every day in my Jane' hermaid, who is mesmerised for deafness,but not, I believe, with much successcuratively. As a remedy, the success hasbeen far greater in the Martineau casethan in others. With Miss Mitford'smaid, the sleep is, however, produced;and the girl professed, at the thirdseance, to be able to see behind her.

I am glad I have so much interestingmatter to look forward to in the 'EldonMemoirs' as Pincher's biography. I amonly in the first volume. Are Englishchancellors really made of such stuff Icouldn't have thought it. Pincher willhelp to reconcile me to the Law Lordsperhaps.

And, to turn from Tory legislators, I amvainglorious in announcing to you thatthe Anti-Corn-Law League has takenup my poems on the top of its pikes asantithetic to 'War and Monopoly.' HaveI not had a sonnet from Gutter LaneAnd has not the journal called the'League' reviewed me into the third

heaven, high up above the pure etherof the five points Yes, indeed. Ofcourse I should be a (magna) chartistfor evermore, even without theprevious predilection.

And what do you and Mrs. Martin sayabout O'Connell Did you read lastSaturday's 'Examiner' Tell her that Iwelcomed her kind letter heartily, andthat this is an answer to both of you.My best love to her always. May Godbless you, dear Mr. Martin! Probably Ihave written your patience to an end. Ifpapa or anybody were in the room, Ishould have a remembrance for you.

I remain, myself,

Affectionately yours, BA.

To Mrs. Martin Wednesday [December1844].

My dearest Mrs. Martin, Hardly had myletter gone to you yesterday, when yourkind present and not et arrived. I thankyou for my boots with more than thewarmth of the worsted, and feel alltheir merits to my soul (each sole) whileI thank you. A pair of boots or shoeswhich 'can't be kicked off' is somethinghighly desirable for me, in Wilson'sopinion; and this is the first thingwhich struck her. But the 'great idea' 'apropos des bottes,' which occurred to

myself, ought to be unspeakable, likeMiss Martineau's great ideas for I dobelieve it was that I needn't have thetrouble every morning, now, of puttingon my stockings....

My voice is thawing too, with all therest. If the cold had lasted I shouldhave been dumb in a day or two more,and as it was, I was forced to refuse tosee Mrs. Jameson (who had thegoodness to come again) because Icouldn't speak much above my breath.But I was tolerably well and brave uponthe whole. Oh, these murderousEnglish winters. The wonder is, howanybody can live through them....

Did I tell you, or Mr. Martin, thatRogers the poet, at eighty-three or fouryears of age, bore the bankrobbery[119] with the light-heartedbearing of a man 'young and bold,'went out to dinner two or three timesthe same week, and said witty things onhis own griefs. One of the otherpartners went to bed instead, and wasnot likely, I heard, to 'get over it.' I feltquite glad and proud for Rogers. Hewas in Germany last year, and thissummer in Paris; but he first went to seeWordsworth at the Lakes.

It is a fine thing when a light burns soclear down into the socket, isn't it I,who am not a devout admirer of the

'Pleasures of Memory,' do admire thisperpetual youth and untired energy; it isa fine thing to my mind. Then, there areother noble characteristics about thisRogers. A common friend said theother day to Mr. Kenyon, 'Rogers hatesme, I know. He is always saying bitterspeeches in relation to me, andyesterday he said so and so. But,' hecontinued, 'if I were in distress, there isone man in the world to whom I wouldgo without doubt and withouthesitation, at once, and as to a brother,and that man is Rogers.' Not that I wouldchoose to be obliged to a man whohated me; but it is an illustration of thefact that if Rogers is bitter in his words,which we all know he is, he is always

benevolent and generous in his deeds.He makes an epigram on a man, andgives him a thousand pounds; and thedeed is the truer expression of his ownnature. An uncommon development ofcharacter, in any case.

May God bless you both!

Your most affectionate BA.

I am going to tell you, in an antithesis,of the popularising of my poems. Ihad a sonnet the other day from GutterLane, Cheapside, and I heard thatCount d'Orsay had written one of thestanzas of 'Crowned and Buried' at thebottom of an engraving of Napoleon

which hangs in his room. Now I allowyou to laugh at my vaingloriousness,and then you may pin it to Mrs. Best'ssatisfaction in the dedication toDowager Majesty. By the way no, outof the way it is whispered that whenQueen Victoria goes toStrathfieldsea[120] (how do you spell it) she means to visit Miss Mitford, towhich rumour Miss Mitford (being thatrare creature, a sensible woman) says:'May God forbid.'

[Footnote 119: A great robbery fromRogers' bank on November 23, 1844, inwhich the thieves carried off 40,000Lworth of notes, besides specie andsecurities.]

[Footnote 120: Strathfieldsaye, theDuke of Wellington's house.]

To John Kenyan Wednesday morning[about December 1844].

I thank you, my dear cousin, and did sosilently the day before yesterday, whenyou were kind enough to bring me thereview and write the good news inpencil. I should be delighted to see you(this is to certify) notwithstanding thefrost; only my voice having suffered,and being the ghost of itself, you mightfind it difficult to hear me withoutinconvenience. Which is for you toconsider, and not for me. And indeed

the fog, in addition to the cold, makesit inexpedient for anyone to leave thehouse except upon business andcompulsion.

Oh no we need not mind any scornwhich assails Tennyson and us together.There is a dishonor that does honorand 'this is of it.' I never heard ofBarnes.[121]

Were you aware that the review youbrought was in a newspaper called the'League,' and laudatory to the utmostextravagance praising us too forcourage in opposing 'war andmonopoly' the 'corn ships in the offing'being duly named. I have heard that it

is probably written by Mr. Cobdenhimself, who writes for the journal inquestion, and is an enthusiast in poetry.If I thought so to the point ofconviction, do you know, I should be verymuch pleased You remember that I am asort of (magna) chartist only going alittle farther!

Flush was properly ashamed ofhimself when he came upstairs againfor his most ungrateful, inexplicableconduct towards you; and I lecturedhim well; and upon asking him to'promise never to behave ill to youagain,' he kissed my hands and waggedhis tail most emphatically. It altogetheramounted to an oath, I think. The truth

is that Flush's nervous system ratherthan his temper was in fault, and that,in that great cloak, he saw you as in acloudy mystery. And then, when youstumbled over the bell rope, he thoughtthe world was come to an end. He isnot accustomed, you see, to thevicissitudes of life. Try to forgive himand me for his ingratitude seems to'strike through' to me; and I am notwithout remorse.

Ever most affectionately yours, E.B.B.

I inclose Mr. Chorley's note which youleft behind you, but which I did not seeuntil just now. You know that I am notashamed 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, establishedreputations, as I said before.

[Footnote 121: William Barnes, theDorsetshire poet, the first part ofwhose Poems of Rural Life in the DorsetDialect appeared in 1844.]

To Mr. Westwood (On returning someillustrations of Spenser by Mr. Woods)December 11, 1844.

... With many thanks, cordial and true, Ithank you for the pleasure I haveenjoyed in connection with theseproofs of genius. To be honest, it is my

own personal opinion (I give it to youfor as much as it is worth not much!)that many of the subjects of thesedrawings are unfit for graphicrepresentation. What we can bear to seein the poet's vision, and sustained onthe wings of his divine music, weshrink from a little when brought faceto face with, as drawn out in black andwhite. You will understand what Imean. The horror and terrorpreponderate in the drawings, and whatis sublime in the poet is apt to beextravagant in the artist and this, notfrom a deficiency of power in the latter,but from a treading on groundforbidden except to the poet's foot. Imay be wrong, perhaps I do not

pretend to be right. I only tell you (asyou ask for them) what my impressionsare.

I need not say that I wish all manner ofsuccess to your friend the artist, andlaurels of the weight of gold while ofthe freshness of grass alas! animpossible vegetable! fabulous as theHalcyon!

To H.S. Boyd Monday, December 24,1844 [postmark].

My dearest Mr. Boyd, I wish I had anote from you to-day which optative

aorist I am not sure of being eithergrammatical or reasonable! Perhaps youhave expected to hear from me withmore reason....

I fancied that you would be struck byMiss Martineau's lucid and able style.She is a very admirable woman and themost logical intellect of the age, for awoman. On this account it is that themen throw stones at her, and that manyof her own sex throw dirt; but if Ibegin on this subject I shall end bygnashing my teeth. A righteousindignation fastens on me. I had a notefrom her the other day, written in anoble spirit, and saying, in reference tothe insults lavished on her, that she was

prepared from the first for publicity, andventured it all for the sake of what sheconsidered the truth she was sustained,she said, by the recollection of Godiva.

Do you remember who Godiva was orshall I tell you Think of it Godiva ofCoventry, and peeping Tom. The worstand basest is, that in this nineteenthcentury there are thousands of Toms toone.

I think, however, myself, and with allmy admiration for Miss Martineau, thather statement and her reasonings on itare not free from vagueness andapparent contradictions. She writes in astate of enthusiasm, and some of her

expressions are naturally coloured byher mood of mind and nerve.

May this Christmas give you ease andpleasantness, in various ways, mydearest friend! My Christmas wish formyself is to hear that you are well. Icannot bear to think of you suffering.Are the nights better May God blessyou. Shall you not think it a great thingif the poems go into a second editionwithin the twelvemonth I am surprisedat your not being satisfied. Considerwhat poetry is, and that four monthshave not passed since the publicationof mine; and that, where poems have tomake their way by force of themselves,and not of name nor of fashion, the

first three months cannot present theperiod of the quickest sale. That mustbe for afterwards. Think of me onChristmas Day, as of one whogratefully loves you.

ELIBET.

A passing reference in a previous letter(above, p. 217) has told of thebeginning of another friendship, whichwas to hold a large place in MissBarrett's later life; and the next letter isthe first now extant which was writtento this new friend, Anna Jameson. Mrs.Jameson had not at this time written theworks on sacred art with which hername is now chiefly associated; but she

was already engaged in her longstruggle to earn her livelihood by herpen. Her first work, 'The Diary of anEnnuyee' (1826), written before hermarriage, had attracted considerableattention. Since then she had writtenher 'Characteristics of Women,' 'Essayson Shakespeare's Female Characters,''Visits and Sketches,' and a number ofcompilations of less importance. Quiterecently she had been engaged to writehandbooks to the public and private artgalleries of London, and had soembarked on the career of artauthorship in which her best work wasdone.

The beginning and end of the

following letter are lost. The subject ofit is the long and hostile commentwhich appeared in the 'Athenaeum' forDecember 28 on Miss Martineau'sletters on mesmerism.

To Mrs. Jameson [End of December1844.]

... For the 'Athenaeum,' I have alwaysheld it as a journal, first in the very firstrank both in ability and integrity; andknowing Mr. Dilke is the 'Athenaeum,' Icould make no mistake in myestimation of himself. I have personalreasons for gratitude to both him andhis journal, and I have always felt that itwas honorable to me to have them.

Also, I do not at all think that because awoman is a woman, she is on thataccount to be spared the ordinary risksof the arena in literature andphilosophy. I think no such thing.Logical chivalry would be still moreradically debasing to us than any other.It is not therefore at all as a HarrietMartineau, but as a thinking and feelingMartineau (now don't laugh), that I holdher to have been hardly used in the latecontroversy. And, if you don't laugh atthat, don't be too grave either, with thethought of your own share andposition in the matter; because, as mustbe obvious to everyone (yourselfincluded), you did everything possibleto you to prevent the catastrophe, and

no man and no friend could have donebetter. My brother George told me ofhis conversation with you at Mr.Lough's, but are you not mistaken infancying that she blames you, that she iscold with you I really think you mustbe. Why, if she is displeased with youshe must be unjust, and is she ever unjust Iask you. I should imagine not, but then,with all my insolence of talking of heras my friend, I only admire and love herat a distance, in her books and in herletters, and do not know her face toface, and in living womanhood at all.She wrote to me once, and since wehave corresponded; and as in herkindness she has called me her friend, Ileap hastily at an unripe fruit, perhaps,

and echo back the word. She is yourfriend in a completer, or, at least, a moreordinary sense; and indeed it isimpossible for me to believe withoutstrong evidence that she could cease tobe your friend on such grounds as areapparent. Perhaps she does not writebecause she cannot contain her wrathagainst Mr. Dilke (which, betweenourselves, she cannot, very well), andrespects your connection and regard forhim. Is not that a 'peradventure' worthconsidering I am sure that you have noright to be uneasy in any case.

And now I do not like to send you thisletter without telling you my impressionabout mesmerism, lest I seem reserved

and 'afraid of committing myself,' asprudent people are. I will confess, then,that my impression is in favour of thereality of mesmerism to someunknown extent. I particularly dislikebelieving it, I would rather believe mostother things in the world; but theevidence of the 'cloud of witnesses'does thunder and lightning so in myears and eyes, that I believe, while myblood runs cold. I would not bepractised upon no, not for one ofFlushie's ears, and I hate the wholetheory. It is hideous to my imagination,especially what is called phrenologicalmesmerism. After all, however, truth isto be accepted; and testimony, when sovarious and decisive, is an ascertainer

of truth. Now do not tell Mr. Dilke,lest he excommunicate me.

But I will not pity you for the increaseof occupation produced by an increaseof such comfort as your mother's andsister's presence must give. What it willbe for you to have a branch to sunyourself on, after a long flight againstthe wind!

To Mr. Chorley 50 Wimpole Street:January 3, 1845.

Dear Mr. Chorley, I hope it will not betransgressing very much against theetiquette of journalism, or against theindividual delicacy which is of more

consequence to both of us, if I ventureto thank you by one word for the pageswhich relate to me in your excellentarticle in the 'New Quarterly.' It is notmy habit to thank or to remonstratewith my reviewers, and indeed I believeI may tell you that I never wrote tothank anyone before on these grounds.I could not thank anyone for praisingme I would not thank him for praisingme against his conscience; and if hepraised me to the measure of hisconscience only, I should have little (asfar as the praise went) to thank him for.Therefore I do not thank you for thepraise in your article, but for the kindcordial spirit which pervades bothpraise and blame, for the willingness in

praising, and for the gentleness infinding fault; for the encouragementwithout unseemly exaggeration, and forthe criticisms without critical scorn.Allow me to thank you for these thingsand for the pleasure I have received bytheir means. I am bold to do it, becauseI hear that you confess thereviewership; and am the bolder,because I recognised your hand in anact of somewhat similar kindness in the'Athenaeum' at the first appearance ofthe poems.

While I am writing of the 'NewQuarterly,' I take the liberty of makinga remark, not of course in relation tomyself I know too well my duty to my

judges but to your view of the Vantageground of the poetesses of England. Itis a strong impression with me thatprevious to Joanna Baillie there was nosuch thing in England as a poetess; andthat so far from triumphing over therest of the world in that particularproduct, we lay until then under thefeet of the world. We hear of a Mariein Brittany who sang songs worthy tobe mixed with Chaucer's for true poeticsweetness, and in Italy a VittoriaColonna sang her noble sonnets. But inEngland, where is our poetess beforeJoanna Baillie poetess in the true senseLady Winchilsea had an eye, asWordsworth found out; but theDuchess of Newcastle had more poetry

in her the comparative praise provingthe negative position than LadyWinchilsea. And when you say of theFrench, that they have only epistolarywomen and wits, while we have ourLady Mary, why what would Lady Marybe to us but for her letters and her witNot a poetess, surely! unless we acceptfor poetry her graceful vers de societe.

Do forgive me if an impulse hascarried me too far. It has been long 'afact,' to my view of the matter, thatJoanna Baillie is the first female poet inall senses in England; and I fell with thewhole weight of fact and theory againstthe edge of your article.

I recall myself now to my firstintention of being simply, but notsilently, grateful to you; and entreatingyou to pardon this letter too quickly tothink 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 todeign to answer my impertinences, andnot to be disgusted by my defamationsof 'the grandmothers,' and (to diminishmy perversity in your eyes) I am readyto admit at once that we are generally

too apt to run into prematureclassification the error of all imperfectknowledge; and into unreasonableexclusiveness the vice of it. We spoilthe shining surface of life by our blacklines drawn through and through, as ifominously for a game of the fox andgoose. For my part, however imperfectmy practice may be, I am intimatelyconvinced and more and more sincemy long seclusion that to live in ahouse with windows on every side, soas to catch both the morning andevening sunshine, is the best andbrightest thing we have to do to saynothing about the justest and wisest.Sympathies are our opportunities ofgood.

Moreover, I know nothing of your'sweet mistress Anne.'[122] I never reada verse of hers. Ignorance goes formuch, you see, in all our mal-criticisms,and my ignorance goes to this extent. Icannot write to you of your Anglo-American poetess.

Also, in my sweeping speech about thegrandmothers, I should have stoppedbefore such instances as the exquisiteballad of 'Auld Robin Gray,' which isattributed to a woman, and the pathetic'Ballow my Babe,' which tradition calls'Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament.' I havecertain doubts of my own, indeed, inrelation to both origins, and with

regard to 'Robin Gray' in particular; butdoubts are not worthy stuff enough tobe taken into an argument, andcertainly, therefore, I should haveadmitted those two ballads as worthypoems before the Joannan aera.

For what I ventured to say otherwise,would you not consent to join oursympathies, and receive the 'choir' (ah!but you are very cunningly subtle inyour distinctions; I am afraid I was toosimple for you) as agreeable writers ofverses sometimes, leaving the word poetalone Because, you see, what you callthe 'bad dispensation' by no meansaccounts for the want of the faculty ofpoetry, strictly so called. England has

had many learned women, not merelyreaders but writers of the learnedlanguages, in Elizabeth's time andafterwards women of deeperacquirements than are common now inthe greater diffusion of letters; and yetwhere were the poetesses The divinebreath which seemed to come and go,and, ere it went, filled the land with thatcrowd of true poets whom we call theold dramatists why did it never pass,even in the lyrical form, over the lips ofa woman How strange! And can wedeny that it was so I look everywherefor grandmothers and see none. It isnot in the filial spirit I am deficient, Ido assure you witness my reverent loveof the grandfathers!

Seriously, I do not presume to enterinto argument with you, and this inrelation to a critical paper which Iadmire in so many ways and amgrateful for in some; but is not the poeta different man from the cleverestversifier, and is it not well for the worldto be taught the difference Thedivineness of poetry is far more to methan either pride of sex or personalpride, and, though willing toacknowledge the lowest breath of theinspiration, I cannot the 'powder andpatch.' As powder and patch I may, butnot as poetry. And though I in turnmay suffer 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, thatthe divineness of poetry be proved inmy humanness, rather than lowered tomy uses.

But you shall not think me exclusive.Of poor L.E.L., for instance, I couldwrite with more praiseful appreciationthan you can. It appears to me that shehad the gift though in certain respectsshe dishonored the art and her latterlyrics are, many of them, of greatbeauty and melody, such as, havingonce touched the ear of a reader, liveon in it. I observe in your 'Life of Mrs.Hemans' (shall I tell you how often Ihave read those volumes ) she (Mrs. H.)

never appears, in any given letter orrecorded opinion, to esteem hercontemporary. The antagonism lay,probably, in the higher parts of Mrs.Hemans's character and mind, and weare not to wonder at it.

It is very pleasant to me to have yourapprobation of the sonnets on GeorgeSand, on the points of feeling andlightness, on which all my readers havenot absolved me equally, I have reasonto know. I am more a latitudinarian inliterature than it is generally thoughtexpedient for women to be; and I havethat admiration for genius, which dearMr. Kenyon calls my 'immoralsympathy with power;' and if Madame

Dudevant[123] is not the first femalegenius of any country or age, I reallydo not know who is. And then she hascertain noblenesses granting all the eviland 'perilous stuff' noblenesses androyalnesses which make me loyal. Dopardon me for intruding all this onyou, though you cannot justify me you,who are occupied beyond measure, andI, who know it! I have been under thedelusion, too, during this writing, ofhaving something like a friend's claimto write and be troublesome. I havelived so near your friends that I keepthe odour of them! A mere delusion,alas! my only personal right in respectto you being one that I am not likely toforget or waive the right of being

grateful to you.

But so, and looking again at the lastwords of your letter, I see that you'wish,' in the kindest of words, 'to dosomething more for me.' I hope someday to take this 'something more' ofyour kindness out in the pleasure ofpersonal intercourse; and if, in themeantime, you should consent to flattermy delusion by letting me hear fromyou now and then, if ever you have amoment to waste and inclination towaste it, why I, on my side, shall alwaysbe ready to thank you for the'something more' of kindness, asbound in the duty of gratitude. In anycase I remain

Truly and faithfully yours,ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

[Footnote 122: Probably Miss AnneSeward, a minor poetess who enjoyedconsiderable popularity at the end ofthe eighteenth century. Her elegies onCaptain Cook and Major Andre wentthrough several editions, as did herLouisa, a poetical novel, a class ofcomposition in which she was thepredecessor of Mrs. Browning herself.Her collected poetical works wereedited after her death by Sir WalterScott (1810).]

[Footnote 123: The real name of

George Sand.]

To Mr. Chorley [The beginning of this letteris lost] [1845]

... to the awful consideration of thepossibility of my reading a novel orcaring for the story of it (proh pudor!),that I am probably, not to say certainly,the most complete and unscrupulousromance reader within your knowledge.Never was a child who cared more for'a story' than I do; never even did Imyself, as a child, care more for it than Ido. My love of fiction began with mybreath, and will end with it; and goeson increasing; and the heights anddepths of the consumption which it

has induced you may guess at perhaps,but it is a sublime idea from itsvastness, and will gain on you butslowly. On my tombstone may bewritten 'Ci-git the greatest novel readerin the world,' and nobody will forbidthe inscription; and I approve of Gray'snotion of paradise more than of hislyrics, when he suggests the reading ofromances ever new, [Greek: eis tousaionas.] Are you shocked at me Perhapsso. And you see I make no excuses, asan invalid might. Invalid or not, Ishould have a romance in a drawer, ifnot behind a pillow, and I might as wellbe true and say so. There is the love ofliterature, which is one thing, and thelove of fiction, which is another. And

then, I am not fastidious, as Mrs.Hemans was, in her high purity, andtherefore the two loves have a race-course clear.

This is a long preface to coming tospeak of the 'Improvisatore.'[124] I hadsent for it already to the library, andshall dun them for it twice as much forthe sake of what you say. Only I hope Imay care for the story. I shall try.

And for the rococo, I have more feelingfor it, in a sense, than I once had, for,some two years ago, I passed through along dynasty of French memoirs,which made me feel quite differentlyabout the littlenesses of greatnesses. I

measured them all from the heights ofthe 'tabouret,'[125] and was a goodDuchess, in the 'non-natural' meaning,for the moment. Those memoirs arecharming of their kind, and if life werecut in filagree paper would beprofitable reading to the soul. Do younot think so And you mean besides,probably, that you care for beauty indetail, which we all should do if oursenses were better educated.

So the confession is not a dreadful one,after all, and mine may involve moreevil, and would to ninety-nine out of ahundred 'sensible and cultivatedpeople.' Think what Mrs. Ellis wouldsay to the 'Women of England' about

me in her fifteenth edition, if she knew!

And do you know that dear MissMitford spent this day week with me,notwithstanding the rain

Very truly yours, ELIZABETH B.BARRETT.

I have forgotten what I particularlywished to say viz. that I never thoughtof expecting to hear from you. Iunderstand that when you write it ispure grace, and never to be expected.You have too much to do, I understandperfectly.

The east wind seems to be blowing all

my letters about to-day; the t's and e'swave like willows. Now if crooked e'smean a 'greenshade' (not taken rurally),what awful significance can have thewhole crooked alphabet

[Footnote 124: By Hans Andersen; anEnglish translation by Mary Howitt waspublished in 1845.]

[Footnote 125: Duchesses in theFrench court had the privilege ofseating themselves on a tabouret or stoolwhile the King took his meals; hencethe droit du tabouret comes to mean therank of a duchess.]

To Mrs. Martin Saturday, January 1844[should be 1845].[126]

I must tell you, my dearest Mrs. Martin,Mr. Kenyon has read to me an extractfrom a private letter addressed by H.Martineau to Moxon the publisher, tothe effect that Lord Morpeth was downon his knees in the middle of the rooma few nights ago, in the presence of thesomnambule J., and conversing withher in Greek and Latin, that the fourMiss Liddels were also present, and thatthey five talked to her during one seancein five foreign languages, viz. Latin,Greek, French, Italian, and German.When the mesmeriser touches the

organ of imitation on J.'s head, while thestrange tongue is in the course of beingaddressed to her, she translates intoEnglish word for word what is said; butwhen the organ of language is touched,she simply answers in English what issaid.

My 'few words of comment' upon thisare, that I feel to be more and morestanding on my head which does notmean, you will be pleased to observe,that I understand.

Well, and how are you both going onMy voice is quite returned; and papacontinues, I am sorry to say, to have abad cold and cough. He means to stay

in the house to-day and try whatprudence will do.

We have heard from Henry, atAlexandria still, but a few days beforesailing, and he and Stormie are bringinghome, as a companion to Flushie, abeautiful little gazelle. What do youthink of it I would rather have it thanthe 'babby,' though the flourish oftrumpets on the part of the possessorsseems quite in favor of the latter.

And I had a letter from Browning thepoet last night, which threw me intoecstasies Browning, the author of'Paracelsus,' and king of the mystics.

[The rest of this letter is missing.]

[Footnote 126: The mention of herbrothers being at Alexandria issufficient to show that 1845 must bethe true date.]

To Mrs. Martin Saturday, January 1845.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, I believe ourlast letters crossed, and we might drawlots for the turn of receiving one, sothat you are to take it forsupererogatory virtue in me altogetherif I begin to write to you as 'at thesepresents.' But I want to know how you

both are, and if your last account maycontinue to be considered the true one.You have been poising yourself on theequal balance of letters, as weakconsciences are apt to do, but I writethat you may write, and also, a little,that I may thank you for the kindnessof your last letter, which was so verykind.

No, indeed, dearest Mrs. Martin. If I donot say oftener that I have a strong andgrateful trust in your affection for me,and therefore in your interest in all thatconcerns me, it is not that it is lessstrong and grateful. What I said or sangof Miss Martineau's letter was noconsequence of a distrust of you, but

of a feeling within myself that for meto show about such a letter was scarcelybecoming, and, in the matter ofmodesty, nowise discreet. I suppose Iwas writing excuses to myself forshowing it to you. I cannot otherwiseaccount for the saying and singing.And, for the rest, nobody can say orsing that I am not frank enough to youto the extent of telling all manner ofnonsense about myself which can onlybe supposed to be interesting on theground of your being presupposed tocare a little for the person concerned.Now am I not frank enough And bythe way, I send you 'The Seraphim'[127]at last, by this day's railroad.

Thursday.

To prove to you that I had notforgotten you before your letter came,here is the fragment of an unfinishedone which I send you, to begin with animperfect fossil letter, which nocomparative anatomy will bring muchsense out of except the plain fact thatyou were not forgotten....

From Alexandria we heard yesterdaythat they sailed from thence on the firstof January, and the home passage maybe long.

The changes in Mary Minto on accountof mesmerism were merely imaginary

as far as I can understand. Nobody hereobserved any change in her. Oh no.These things will be fancied sometimes.That she is an enthusiastic girl, and thatthe subject took strong hold upon her,is true enough, and not the least in theworld according to my mind to bewondered at. By the way, I had a letterand the present of a work onmesmerism Mr. Newnham's from hisdaughter, who sent it to me the otherday, in the kindest way, 'out ofgratitude for my poetry,' as she says, andfrom a desire that it might do mephysical good in the matter of health. Ido not at all know her. I wrote to thankher, of course, for the kindness andsympathy which, as she expressed them,

quite touched me; and to explain how Idid not stand in reach just now of thetemptations of mesmerism. I mighthave said that I shrank nearly as muchfrom these 'temptations' as from LordBacon's stew of infant children for thepurposes of witchcraft.

Well, then, I am getting deeper anddeeper into correspondence withRobert Browning, poet and mystic, andwe are growing to be the truest offriends. If I live a little longer shut upin this room, I shall certainly knoweverybody in the world. Mrs. Jamesoncame again yesterday, and was veryagreeable, but tried vainly to convinceme that the 'Vestiges of Creation,'

which I take to be one of the mostmelancholy books in the world, is themost comforting, and that Lady Byronwas an angel of a wife. I persisted (inrelation to the former clause) in a'determinate counsel' not to be a fullydeveloped monkey if I could help it,but when Mrs. J. assured me that sheknew all the circumstances of theseparation, though she could not betraya confidence, and entreated me 'to keepmy mind open' on a subject whichwould one day be set in the light, Istroked down my feathers as well as Icould, and listened to reason. Youknow or perhaps you do not know thatthere are two women whom I havehated all my life long Lady Byron and

Marie Louise. To prove how false thepublic effigy of the former is, however,Mrs. Jameson told me that she knewnothing of mathematics, nothing of science,and that the element preponderating inher mind is the poetical element that shecares much for my poetry! How deep inthe knowledge of the depths of vanitymust Mrs. J. be, to tell me that nowmustn't she But there was yes, and is astrong adverse feeling to work upon,and it is not worked away.

Then, I have seen a copy of a note ofLord Morpeth to H. Martineau, to theeffect that he considered the mesmericphenomena witnessed by him(inclusive, remember, of the languages)

to be 'equally beautiful, wonderful, andundeniable' but he is prudent enough todesire that no use should be made ofthis letter ... And now no more for to-day.

With love to Mr. Martin, ever believeme Your affectionate BA.

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

To John Kenyan Saturday, February 8,1845.

I return to you, dearest Mr. Kenyon, thetwo numbers of Jerold Douglas's[128]

magazine, and I wish 'by that same sign'I could invoke your presence andadvice on a letter I received thismorning. You never would guess whatit is, and you will wonder when I tellyou that it offers a request from theLeeds Ladies' Committee, authorised andbacked by the London General Councilof the League, to your cousin Ba, that shewould write them a poem for the CornLaw Bazaar to be holden at CoventGarden next May. Now my heart iswith the cause, and my vanity besides,perhaps, for I do not deny that I ampleased with the request so made, andif left to myself I should be likely atonce to say 'yes,' and write anagricultural-evil poem to complete the

factory-evil poem into a national-evilcircle. And I do not myself see how itwould be implicating my name with apolitical party to the extent of wearinga badge. The League is not a party, but'the meeting of the waters' of severalparties, and I am trying to persuadepapa's Whiggery that I may make apoem which will be a fair exponent ofthe actual grievance, leaving the remedyfree for the hands of fixed-duty menlike him, or free-trade women likemyself. As to wearing the badge of aparty, either in politics or religion, I maysay that never in my life was I so farfrom coveting such a thing. And thenpoetry breathes in another outer air.And then there is not an existent set of

any-kind-of-politics I could agree withif I tried I, who am a sort of fossilrepublican! You shall see the letterswhen you come. Remember what the'League' newspaper said of the 'Cry ofthe Children.'

Ever affectionately yours, E.B.B.

[Footnote 128: Evidently a slip of thepen for Douglas Jerrold, whose'Shilling Magazine' began to come outin 1845.]

To Miss Commeline 50 Wimpole Street:[February-March 1845].

My dear Miss Commeline, I do hope

that you will allow me to appear toremember you as I never have ceased todo in reality, and at a time whensympathy of friends is generallyacceptable, to offer you mine as if Ihad some right of friendship to do so.And I am encouraged the more toattempt this because I never shall forgetthat in the hour of the bitterest agonyof my life your brother wrote me aletter which, although I did not read it,I was too ill and distracted, I was yetshown the outside of some monthsafterwards and enabled to appreciatethe sympathy fully. Such a kindnesscould not fail to keep alive in me (if theneed of keeping alive were!) the memoryof the various kindnesses received by

me and mine from all your family, norfail to excite me to desire to impressupon you my remembrance of you andmy regard, and the interest with which Ihear of your joys and sorrowswhenever they are large enough to beseen from such a distance. Try tobelieve this of me, dear MissCommeline, yourself, and let yoursisters and your brother believe it also.If sorrow in its reaction makes us thinkof our friends, let my name comeamong the list of yours to you, andwith it let the thought come that I amnot the coldest and least sincere. MayGod bless and comfort you, I say, witha full heart, knowing what afflictionslike yours are and must be, but

confident besides that 'we know notwhat we do' in weeping for the dearest.In our sorrow we see the rough side ofthe stuff; in our joys the smooth; andwho shall say that when the taffeta isturned the most silk may not be in thesorrows It is true, however, thatsorrows are heavy, and that sometimesthe conditions of life (which sorrowsare) seem hard to us and overcoming,and I believe that much suffering isnecessary before we come to learn thatthe world is a good place to live in anda good place to die in for even the mostaffectionate and sensitive.

How glad I should be to hear from yousome day, when it is not burdensome

for you to write at length and fullyconcerning all of you of your sisterMaria, and of Laura, and of yourbrother, and of all your occupationsand plans, and whether it enters intoyour dreams, not to say plans, ever tocome to London, or to follow the trackof your many neighbours across theseas, perhaps....

For ourselves we have the happiness ofseeing our dear papa so well, that I amalmost justified in fancying happily thatyou would not think him altered. Hehas perpetual youth like the gods, and Imay make affidavit to your brothernevertheless that we never boiled himup to it. Also his spirits are good and

his 'step on the stair' so light as tocomfort me for not being able to runup and down them myself. I amessentially better in health, but remainweak and shattered and at the mercy ofa breath of air through a crevice; andthus the unusually severe winter has leftme somewhat lower than usual withoutsurprising anybody. Henrietta andArabel are quite well and at home;George on circuit, always obliged byyour proffered hospitality; and CharlesJohn and Henry returning from avoyage to Alexandria in papa's ownvessel, the 'Statira.' I set you animperfect example of egotism, andhope that you will double my I's andwe's, and kindly trust 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 Ishould have written to you before, butthe cold weather is apt to disable meand to make me feel idle when it doesnot do so quite. Now I am going towrite about your remarks on the'Dublin Review.'

Certainly I agree with you that therecan be no necessity for explaininganything about the tutorship if you donot kick against the pricks of the

insinuation yourself, and especially as Iconsider that you were in a sense my'tutor,' inasmuch as I may say, both thatnobody ever taught me so much Greekas you, and also that without you Ishould have probably lived and diedwithout any knowledge of the GreekFathers. The Greek classics I shouldhave studied by love and instinct; butthe Fathers would probably haveremained in their sepulchres, as far asmy reading them was concerned.Therefore, very gratefully do I turn toyou as my 'tutor' in the best sense, andthe more persons call you so, the betterit is for the pleasures of my gratitude.The review amused me by hitting onthe right meaning there, and besides by

its percipiency about your rememberingme during your travels in the East, andsending me home the Cyprus wine.Some of these reviewers have awonderful gift at inferences. The'Metropolitan Magazine' for March(which is to be sent to you when papahas read it) contains a flaming article inmy favour, calling me 'the friend ofWordsworth,' and, moreover, a verylittle lower than the angels. You shallsee it soon, and it is only just out, ofcourse, being the March number. Thepraise is beyond thanking for, and thenI do not know whom to thank I cannotat 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 thathe had forgotten me. But he writeskindly, and it gave me pleasure to havesome sign of recollection, if not ofregard, from one whom I consider withunalterable and grateful respect, andshall always, although I am aware thathe denies all sympathy to my works andways in literature and the world. In fact,and to set my poetry aside, he hasjoined that 'strait sect' of the PlymouthBrethren, and, of course, has straitenedhis views since we met, and I, by thereaction of solitude and suffering, havebroken many bands which held me atthat time. He was always straiter than I,and now the difference is immense. For

I think the world wider than I oncethought it, and I see God's love broaderthan I once saw it. To the 'Touch not,taste not, handle not' of the strictreligionists, I feel inclined to cry,'Touch, taste, handle, all things are pure.'But I am writing this for you and notfor him, and you probably will agreewith me, if you think as you used tothink, at least.

But I do not agree with you on theLeague question, nor on the womanquestion connected with it, only we willnot quarrel to-day, and I have writtenenough already without an argument atthe end.

Can you guess what I have been doinglately Washing out my conscience,effacing the blot on my escutcheon,performing an expiation, translatingover again from the Greek the'Prometheus' of Aeschylus.

Yes, my very dear friend, I could notbear to let that frigid, rigid exercise,called a version and called mine, cold asCaucasus, and flat as the neighbouringplain, stand as my work. A palinodia, arecantation was necessary to me, and Ihave achieved it. Do you blame me ornot Perhaps I may print it in amagazine, but this is not decided. Howdelighted I am to think of your beingwell. It makes me very happy.

Your ever affectionate and gratefulELIBET.

To Mr. Westwood March 4, 1845.

I reproach myself, dear Mr. W., for mysilence, and began to do so before yourkind note reminded me of itsunkindness. I had indeed my pen in myhand three days ago to write to you, buta cross fate plucked at my sleeve for theninety-ninth time, and left me guilty.And you do not write to reproach me!You only avenge yourself softly bykeeping back all news of your health,and by not saying a word of the effecton you of the winter which has done

its spiriting so ungently. Which bringsme down to myself. For somebody hasbeen dreaming of me, and dreams, youknow, must go by contraries. And howcould it be otherwise Although I am onthe whole essentially better on thewhole! yet the peculiar severity of thewinter has acted on me, and the truth isthat for the last month, precisely the lastmonth, I have been feeling (off and on,as people say) very uncomfortable. Notthat I am essentially worse, butessentially better, on the contrary, onlythat the feeling of discomfort andtrouble at the heart (physically) willcome with the fall of the thermometer,and the voice will go!...

And then I have another question toenunciate will the oracle answer

Do you know who wrote the article in the'Metropolitan' Beseech you, answer me. Ihave a suspicion, true, that the criticshave been supernaturally kind to me,but the kindness of this 'Metropolitan'critic so passes the ordinary limit ofkindness, metropolitan or critical, that Icannot but look among my personalfriends for the writer of the article.Coming to personal friends, I reject oneon one ground and one on another forone the graciousness is too graceful,and for another the grace almost toogracious. I am puzzled and dizzy withdoubt; and is it you Answer me, will

you If so, I should owe so muchgratitude to you. Suffer me to pay it!permit the pleasure to me of paying it!for I know too much of the pleasuresof gratitude to be willing to lose oneof them.

To John Kenyan March 6, [1845].

Thank you, dearest Mr. Kenyon theyare very fine. The poetry is in them,rather than in Blair. And now I sendthem back, and Cunningham andJerrold, with thanks on thanks; and ifyou will be kind enough not to insiston my reading the letters to Travis[129]within the 'hour,' they shall wait for the'Responsibility,' and the two go to you

together.

And as to the tiring, it has not beenmuch, and the happy day was wellworth being tired for. It is better to betired with pleasure than with frost; andif I have the last fatigue too, why it isMarch, and it is the hour of mymartyrdom always. But I am not ill onlyuncomfortable.

Ah, the 'relenting'! it is rather a bad sign,I am afraid; notwithstanding thesubtilty of your consolations; but Istroke down my philosophy, to make itshine, like a cat's back in the dark. Theargument from more deserving poetswho prosper less is not very

comforting, is it I trow not.

But as to the review, be sure be verysure that it is not Mr. Browning's. Howyou could think even of Mr. Browning,surprises me. Now, as for me, I know aswell as he does himself that he has hadnothing to do with it.

I should rather suspect Mr. Westwood,the author of some fugitive poems,who writes to me sometimes; and thesuspicion having occurred to me, Ihave written to put the questiondirectly. You shall hear, if I hear inreply.

May God bless you always. I have heard

from dear Miss Mitford.

Ever affectionately yours, E.B.B.

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

To H.S. Boyd March 29, 1845[postmark].

My dearest Mr. Boyd, As Arabel haswritten out for you the glorification of'Peter of York,'[130] I shall use an edgeof the same paper to 'fall on your sense'with my gratitude about the Cypruswine. Indeed, I could almost upbraidyou for sending me another bottle. It ismost supererogatory kindness in you to

think of such a thing. And I accept it,nevertheless, with thanks instead ofremonstrances, and promise you todrink your health in and the spring intogether, and the east wind out, if youdo not object to it. I have been betterfor several days, but my heart is not yetvery orderly not being able to recoverthe veins, I suppose, all in a moment.

For the rest, you always mean what isright and affectionate, and I am not aptto mistake your meanings in thisrespect. Be indulgent to me as far asyou can, when it appears to you that Isink far below your religious standard,as I am sure I must do oftener than youremind me. Also, it certainly does

appear, to my mind, that we are not, asChristians, called to the exclusiveexpression of Christian doctrine, eitherin poetry or prose. All truth and allbeauty and all music belong to God Heis in all things; and in speaking of all,we speak of Him. In poetry, whichincludes all things, 'the diapason closethfull in God.' I would not lose a note ofthe lyre, and whatever He has includedin His creation I take to be holy subjectenough for me. That I am blamed forthis view by many, I know, but I cannotsee it otherwise, and when you pay yourvisit to 'Peter of York' and me, and areable to talk everything over, we shallagree tolerably well, I do not doubt.

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

I did not think that you would muchlike the 'Duchess May;' but among theprofanum vulgus you cannot think howsuccessful it has been. There was anaccount in one of the fugitive reviewsof a lady falling into hysterics on theperusal of it, although that was nothingto the gush of tears of which there is atradition, down the Plutonian cheeksof a lawyer unknown, over 'Bertha inthe Lane.' But these things should notmake anybody vain. It is the story thathas power with people, just what you donot care for!

About the reviews you ask a difficultquestion; but I suppose the best, asreviews, are the 'Dublin Review,''Blackwood,' the 'New Quarterly,' andthe last 'American,' I forget the title atthis moment, the Whig 'American,' notthe Democratic. The most favorable tome are certainly the Americanunremembered, and the late'Metropolitan,' which last was written, Ihear, by Mr. Charles Grant, avoluminous writer, but no poet. Iconsider myself singularly happy in myreviews, and to have full reason forgratitude to the profession.

I forgot to say that what the Dublinreviewer did me the honor of

considering an Irishism was theexpression 'Do you mind' in 'CyprusWine.' But he was wrong, because itoccurs frequently among our elderEnglish writers, and is as British asLondon porter.

Now see how you throw me intofigurative liquids, by your last Cyprus. Itis the true celestial, this last. But Arabelpleased me most by bringing back sogood an account of you.

Your ever affectionate and gratefulELIBET.

[Footnote 130: A monster bell for YorkMinster, then being exhibited at the

Baker Street Bazaar. Mr. Boyd was anenthusiast on bells and bell ringing.]

To John Kenyan Friday [about January-March 1845].

Dearest Mr. Kenyon, If your goodnature is still not at ease, throughdoubting about how to make Lizzyhappy in a book, you will like to hearperhaps that I have thought of acertain 'Family Robinson Crusoe,'translated from the German, I think, nota Robinson purified, mind, but aRobinson multiplied and compounded.[131] Children like reading it, I believe.And then there is a 'Masterman Ready,'or some name like it, by Captain

Marryat, also popular with youngreaders. Or 'Seaward's Narrative,' byMiss Porter, would delight her, as it didme, not so many years ago.

I mention these books, but knownothing of their price; and onlybecause you asked me, I do mentionthem. The fact is that she is not hard toplease as to literature, and will bedelighted with anything.

To-day Mr. Poe sent me a volumecontaining his poems and talescollected, so now I must write andthank him for his dedication. What isto be said, I wonder, when a man callsyou the 'noblest of your sex' 'Sir, you

are the most discerning of yours.' Wereyou thanked for the garden ticketyesterday No, everybody wasungrateful, down to Flush, who drinksday by day out of his new purple cup,and had it properly explained how yougave it to him (I explained that), and yetnever came upstairs to express to youhis sense of obligation.

Affectionately yours always, E.B.B.

[Footnote 131: No doubt The SwissFamily Robinson.]

To John Kenyan Saturday [beginning ofApril 1845].

My dearest Cousin, After all I/ said toyou, said the other day, about Apuleius,and about what couldn't, shouldn't,and mustn't be done in the matter, Iended by trying the unlawful art oftranslating this prose into verse, and,one after another, have done all thesubjects of the Poniatowsky gems MissThompson sent the list of, except two,which I am doing and shall finish anon.[132] In the meantime it comes into myhead that it is just as well for you tolook over my doings, and judgewhether anything in them is to thepurpose, or at all likely to be acceptable.Especially I am anxious to impress onyou that, if I could think for a momentyou would hesitate about rejecting 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 sotake notice that I will not bear theremotest approach to ceremony in thematter. What is wrong what is rightwhat is too much those are the onlyconsiderations.

Apuleius is florid, which favored thepoetical design on his sentences. Indeedhe is more florid than I have alwaysliked to make my verses. It is not, ofcourse, an absolute translation, but as arunning commentary on the text it issufficiently faithful.

But probably (I say to myself) you donot want so many illustrations, and alltoo from one hand

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

And I wait to hear how Polyphemus isto look and also Adonis.

The Magazine goes to you with manythanks. The sonnet is full of force andexpression, and I like it as well as ever Idid better even!

Oh such happy news to-day! The'Statira' is at Plymouth, and my brothers

quite well, notwithstanding theirhundred days on the sea! It makes mehappy.

Yours most affectionately, BA.

You shall have your 'Radical' almostimmediately. I am ashamed. In such haste.

[Footnote 132: These versions were notpublished in Mrs. Browning's lifetime,but were included in the posthumousLast Poems (1862). They now appear inthe 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 tell youthat the Cyprus wine is as nectareous aspossible, so fit for the gods, in fact, thatI have been forced to leave it off asunfit for me; it made me so feverish. ButI keep it until the sun shall have mademe a little less mortal; and in themeantime recognise thankfully both itshigh qualities and your kind ones. Howdelightful it is to have this sense of asummer at hand. Shall I see you thissummer, I wonder. That is a questionamong my dreams.

By the last American packet I had twoletters, one from a poet ofMassachusetts, and another from apoetess: the he, Mr. Lowell, and the she,

Mrs. Sigourney. She says that the soundof my poetry is stirring the 'deep greenforests of the New World;' whichsounds pleasantly, does it not And Iunderstand from Mr. Moxon that a newedition will be called for before verylong, only not immediately....

Your affectionate and grateful friend,ELIBET.

Arabel and Mr. Hunter talk of payingyou a visit some day.

To Mrs. Martin April 3, 1845.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, I wrote to younot many days ago, but I must tell you

that our voyagers are safe in Sandgatebreak in 'an ugly hulk' (as poor Stormiesays despondingly), suffering three orfour days of quarantine agony, and thatwe expect to see them on Monday orTuesday in the full bloom of their illhumour. I am happy to think,according to the present symptoms, thatthe mania for sea voyages isconsiderably abated. 'Nothing could bemore miserable,' exclaims Storm; 'theonly comfort of the whole fourmonths is the safety of the beans, tellpapa' and the safety of the beans israther a Pythagoraean[133] equivalentfor four months' vexation, though not abean of them all should have lost infreshness and value! He could scarcely

write, he said, for the chilblains on hishands, and was in utter destitution ofshirts and sheets. Oh! I have very goodhopes that for the future WimpoleStreet may be found endurable.

Well, and you are at once angry andsatisfied, I suppose, about Maynooth;just as I am! satisfied with the justice asfar as it goes, and angry and disgustedat the hideous shrieks of intoleranceand bigotry which run through thecountry. The dissenters have very nearlydisgusted me, what with the Educationclamour, and the Presbyterian chapelcry, and now this Maynooth cry; andcertainly it is wonderful how peoplecan see rights as rights in their own

hands, and as wrongs in the hands oftheir opposite neighbours. Moreover itseems to me atrocious that we whoinsist on seven millions of Catholicssupporting a church they call heretical,should dare to talk of our scruples(conscientious scruples forsooth!)about assisting with a poor pittance ofvery insufficient charity their 'damnableidolatry.' Why, every cry of complaintwe utter is an argument against thewrong we have been committing foryears and years, and must be sointerpreted by every honest anddisinterested thinker in the world. Ofcourse I should prefer the Irishestablishment coming down, to anyendowment at all; I should prefer a trial

of the voluntary system throughoutIreland; but as it is adjudged on allhands impossible to attempt this in theactual state of parties and countries,why this Maynooth grant andsubsequent endowment of the CatholicChurch in Ireland seem the simplealternative, obviously and on the firstprinciples of justice. Macaulay was verygreat, was he not He appeared to meconclusive in logic and sentiment. Thesensation everywhere is extraordinary, Iam sorry really to say!

Wordsworth is in London, having beencommanded up to the Queen's ball. Hewent in Rogers's court dress, or did Itell you so the other day And I hear

that the fair Majesty of England wasquite 'fluttered' at seeing him. 'She hadnot a word to say,' said Mrs. Jameson,who came to see me the other day andcomplained of the omission as'unqueenly;' but I disagreed with herand thought the being 'fluttered' far thehighest compliment. But she told methat a short time ago the Queenconfessed she never had readWordsworth, on which a maid ofhonour observed, 'That is a pity, hewould do your Majesty a great deal ofgood.' Mrs. Jameson declared that MissMurray, a maid of honour, very deeplyattached to the Queen, assured her(Mrs. J.) of the answer being quite asabrupt as that; as direct, and to the

purpose; and no offence intended orreceived. I like Mrs. Jameson better themore I see her, and with gratefulreason, she is so kind. Now do writedirectly, and let me hear of you [ind]etail. And tell Mr. Martin to make apoint of coming home to us, with nogrievances but political ones. TheBazaar is to be something sublime in itsdegree, and I shall have a sackclothfeeling all next week. All the railcarriages will be wound up to radiateinto it, I hear, and the whole country isto be shot into the heart of London.

May God bless you.

Your ever affectionate BA.

I hear that Guizot suffers intensely, andthat there are fears lest he may sink. Notthat the complaint is mortal.

[Footnote 133: Referring to thePythagorean doctrine of the sanctity ofbeans.]

To Mr. Westwood Wimpole Street: April9, 1845.

Poor Hood! Ah! I had feared that thescene was closing on him. And I amglad that a little of the poor gratitudeof the world is laid down at his doorjust now to muffle to his dying ear theharsher sounds of life. I forgive much

to Sir Robert for the sake of that letterthough, after all, the minister is nothigh-hearted, or made of heroic stuff.[134]

I am delighted that you shouldappreciate Mr. Browning's high powervery high, according to my view veryhigh, and various. Yes, 'Paracelsus' youshould have. 'Sordello' has many finethings in it, but, having been throwndown by many hands as unintelligible,and retained in mine as certainly of theSphinxine literature, with all its power, Ihesitate to be imperious to you in myrecommendations of it. Still, the bookis worth being studied study is necessaryto it, as, indeed, though in a less degree,

to all the works of this poet; study ispeculiarly necessary to it. He is a truepoet, and a poet, 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 to renounceit Do I not, day by day Do you knowthat I have been told that I have writtenthings harder to interpret thanBrowning himself only I cannot,cannot believe it he is so very hard. Tellme honestly (and although I attributedthe excessive good nature of the'Metropolitan' criticism to you, I know

that you can speak the truth truly!) ifanything like the Sphinxineness ofBrowning, you discover in me; take meas far back as 'The Seraphim' volumeand answer! As for Browning, the faultis certainly great, and the disadvantagescarcely calculable, it is so great. He cutshis language into bits, and one has tojoin them together, as young childrendo their dissected maps, in order tomake any meaning at all, and to studyhard before one can do it. Not that Igrudge the study or the time. The depthand power of the significance (when itis apprehended) glorifies the puzzle.With you and me it is so; but with themajority of readers, even of readers ofpoetry, it is not and cannot be so.

The consequence is, that he is not readexcept in a peculiar circle very strait andnarrow. He will not die, because theprinciple of life is in him, but he willnot live the warm summer life which ispermitted to many of very inferiorfaculty, because he does not come outinto 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 thenotification that he had conferred onhim a pension of 100L a year, withremainder to his wife.]

The following letter relates to thecontroversy raging round MissMartineau and her mesmerism. MissBarrett had evidently referred to it in aletter to Mr. Chorley, which has notbeen preserved.

To Mr. Chorley 50 Wimpole Street: April28, 1845.

Dear Mr. Chorley, I felt quite sure thatyou would take my postscript for awomanish thing, and a little doubtfulwhether you would not take the wholeallusion (in or out of a postscript) foran impertinent thing; but the impulseto speak was stronger than the fear of

speaking; and from the peculiarities ofmy position, I have come to write byimpulses just as other people talk bythem. Still, if I had known that thesubject was so painful to you, Icertainly would not have touched on it,strong as my feeling has been about it,and full and undeniable as is mysympathy with our noble-mindedfriend, both as a woman and a thinker.Not that I consider (of course Icannot) that she has made out anythinglike a 'fact' in the Tynemouth story notthat I think the evidence offered in anysort sufficient; take it as it was in thebeginning and unimpugned not that Ihave been otherwise than of opinionthroughout that she was precipitate and

indiscreet, however generously so, inher mode and time of advocating themesmeric question; but that she is atliberty as a thinking being (in my mind)to hold an opinion, the grounds ofwhich she cannot yet justify to theworld. Do you not think she may beHave you not opinions yourselfbeyond what you can prove to othersHave we not all And because some ofthe links of the outer chain of a logicalargument fail, or seem to fail, are wetherefore to have our 'honours'questioned, because we do not yieldwhat is suspended to an inneruninjured chain of at once subtler andstronger formation For what I ventureto object to in the argument of the

'Athenaeum' is the making a moralobligation of an intellectual act, which isthe first step and gesture (is it not ) inall persecution for opinion; and theinvolving of the 'honour' of anopponent in the motion of recantationshe is invited to. This I do venture toexclaim against. I do cry aloud againstthis; and I do say this, that when we callit 'hard,' we are speaking of it softly.Why, consider how it is! The'Athenaeum' has done quite enough todisprove the proving of the wreck story,[135] and no more at all. Thedisproving of the proof of the wreckstory is indeed enough to disprove thewreck story and to disprove mesmerismitself (as far as the proof of

mesmerism depends on the proof ofthe wreck story, and no farther) with alldoubters and undetermined inquirers;but with the very large class ofprevious believers, this disproof of aproof is a mere accident, and cannot beexpected to have much logicalconsequence. Believing that such thingsmay be as this revelation of a wreck,they naturally are less exacting of thestabilities of the proving process. Whatwe think probable we do not callseverely for the proof of. MoreoverMiss Martineau is not only a believer inthe mysteries of mesmerism (and shewrote to me the other day that inBirmingham, where she is, she haspresent cognisance of three cases of

clairvoyance), but she is a believer in thepersonal integrity of her witnesses. Shehas what she has well called an'incommunicable confidence.' And this,however incommunicable, issufficiently comprehensible to allpersons who know what personal faithis, to place her 'honour,' I do maintain,high above any suspicion, any chargewith the breath of man's lips. I am sureyou agree with me, dear Mr. Chorley ah!it will be a comfort and joy together.Dear Miss Mitford and I often quarrelsoftly about literary life and its toils andsorrows, she against and I in favour of;but we never could differ about theworth and comfort of domesticaffection.

Ever sincerely yours, ELIZABETH B.BARRETT.

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

[Footnote 135: One of the visions ofMiss Martineau's 'apocalyptichousemaid' related to the wreck of avessel in which the Tynemouth peoplewere much interested. Unfortunately itappeared that news of the wreck hadreached the town shortly before hervision, and that she had been out ofdoors immediately before submitting tothe mesmeric trance.]

To Mr. Chorley 50 Wimpole Street: April28, 1845.

Dear Mr. Chorley, ... For MissMartineau, is it not true that she hasadmitted her wreck story to have noproof Surely she has. Surely she saidthat the evidence was incapable, at thispoint of time, of justification to theexoteric, and that the question had sunknow to one of character, to which heropponent answered that it had alwaysbeen one of character. And you mustadmit that the direct and unmitigatedmanner of depreciating the reputation,not merely of Jane Arrowsmith, but ofMrs. Wynyard, a personal friend ofMiss Martineau's to whom she

professes great obligations, could notbe otherwise than exasperating to awoman of her generous temper, andthis just in the crisis of her gratitudefor her restoration to life andenjoyment by the means (as sheconsiders it) of this friend. Not that Ifeel at all convinced of her having beencured by mesmerism; I have told heropenly that I doubt it a little, and she isnot angry with me for saying so. Also,the wreck story, and (as you suggest)the three new cases of clairvoyance;why, one cannot, you know, give one'sspecific convictions to generalsweeping testimonies, with a mist allround them. Still, I do lean to believingthis class of mysteries, and I see nothing

more incredible in the apocalypse ofthe wreck and other marvels ofclairvoyance, than in that singularadaptation of another person's senses,which is a common phenomenon ofthe simple forms of mesmerism. If it iscredible that a person in a mesmericsleep can taste the sourness of thevinegar on another person's palate, Iam ready to go the whole length of thetransmigration of senses. But after all,except from hearing so much, I am asignorant as you are, in my ownexperience. One of my sisters wasthrown into a sort of swoon, andcould not open her eyelids, though sheheard what passed, once or twice orthrice; and she might have been a

prophetess by this time, perhaps, if,partly from her own feeling on thesubject, and partly from mine, she hadnot determined never to try theexperiment again. It is hideous anddetestable to my imagination; as Iconfessed to you, it makes my bloodrun backwards; and if I were you, Iwould not (with the nervous weaknessyou speak of) throw myself into theway of it, I really would not. Think ofa female friend of mine begging me togive her a lock of my hair, or ratherbegging my sister to 'get it for her,' thatshe might send it to a celebratedprophet of mesmerism in Paris, to havean oracle concerning me. Did you ever,since the days of the witches, hear a

more ghastly proposition It shook meso with horror, I had scarcely voice tosay 'no,' hough I did say it veryemphatically at last, I assure you. A lockof my hair for a Parisian prophet Why,if I had yielded, I should have felt thesteps of pale spirits treading as thick assnow all over my sofa and bed, by dayand night, and pulling a correspondinglock of hair on my head at awfulintervals. I, who was born with adouble set of nerves, which are alwaysout of order; the most excitable personin the world, and nearly the mostsuperstitious. I should have beenscarcely sane at the end of a fortnight, Ibelieve of myself! Do you rememberthe little spirit in gold shoe-buckles,

who was a familiar of HeinrichStilling's Well, I should have had aFrench one to match the German, withBalzac's superfine boot-polish in placeof the buckles, as surely as I lie here amortal woman.

I congratulate you (amid all cares andanxieties) upon the view of Naples inthe distance, but chiefly on your ownhappy and just estimate of yourselected position in life. It does appearto me wonderfully and mournfullywrong, when men of letters, as it is toomuch the fashion for them to do, taketo dishonoring their profession byfruitless bewailings and gnashings ofteeth; when, all the time, it must be

their own fault if it is not the noblest inthe world. Miss Mitford treats me as ablind witness in this case; because Ihave seen nothing of the literary world,or any other sort of world, and yet cryagainst her 'pen and ink' cry. It is thecry I least like to hear from her lips, ofall others; and it is unworthy of themaltogether. On the lips of a woman ofletters, it sounds like jealousy (which itcannot be with her), as on the lips of awoman of the world, like ingratitude.Madame Girardin's 'Ecole desJournalistes' deserved Jules Janin'sreproof of it; and there is somethingnoble and touching in that feeling ofbrotherhood among men of letters,which he invokes. I am so glad to hear

you say that I am right, glad for yoursake and glad for mine. In fact, there issomething which is attractive to me, andwhich has been attractive ever since Iwas as high as this table, even in the oldworn type of Grub Street authors andgarret poets. Men and women of lettersare the first in the whole world to me,and I would rather be the least amongthem, than 'dwell in the courts ofprinces.'

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

I am, faithfully yours, ELIZABETH B.BARRETT.

To Miss Thomson[136] 50 WimpoleStreet: Friday, May 16, 1845 [postmark].

I write one line to thank you, dear MissThomson, for your translation (so fartoo liberal, though true to the spirit ofmy intention) of my work for youralbum. How could it not be a pleasureto me to work for you

As to my using those manuscriptsotherwise than in your service, I do notat all think of it, and I wish to say this.Perhaps I do not (also) partake quiteyour 'divine fury' for converting our sexinto Greek scholarship, and I do not, Iconfess, think it as desirable as you do.

Where there is a love for poetry, andthirst for beauty strong enough tojustify labour, let these impulses, whichare noble, be obeyed; but in the case ofthe multitude it is different; and themere fashion of scholarship among womenwould be a disagreeable vain thing, andworse than vain. You, who are a Greekyourself, know that the Greek languageis not to be learnt in a flash oflightning and by Hamiltonian systems,but that it swallows up year after yearof studious life. Now I have a 'doxy' (asWarburton called it), that there is noexercise of the mind so little profitableto the mind as the study of languages.It is the nearest thing to a passiverecipiency is it not as a mental action,

though it leaves one as weary as ennuiitself. Women want to be made to thinkactively: their apprehension is quickerthan that of men, but their defect liesfor the most part in the logical facultyand in the higher mental activities. Well,and then, to remember how our ownEnglish poets are neglected andscorned; our poets of the Elizabethanage! I would rather that mycountrywomen began by loving these.

Not that I would blaspheme againstGreek poetry, or depreciate theknowledge of the language as anattainment. I congratulate you on it,though I never should think of tryingto convert other women into a desire

for it. Forgive me.

To think of Mr. Burges's comparing myNonnus to the right Nonnus makes myhair stand on end, and the truth is Ihad flattered myself that nobodywould take such trouble. I have notmuch reverence for Nonnus, and havepulled him and pushed him and madehim stand as I chose, never fearing thatmy naughty impertinences would bebrought to light. For the rest, I thankyou gratefully (and may I respectfullyand gratefully thank Miss Bayley ) forthe kind words of both of you, both inthis letter and as my sister heard them.It is delightful to me to find such gracein the eyes of dearest Mr. Kenyon's

friends, and I remain, dear MissThomson,

Truly yours, and gladly, E.B.B.

If there should be anything more at anytime for me to do, I trust to yourtrustfulness.

[Footnote 136: Afterwards Mdme. EmilBraun; see the letter of January 9, 1850.At this time she was engaged in editingan album or anthology, to which shehad asked Miss Barrett to contributesome classical translations.]

To Miss Thomson 50 Wimpole Street:Monday [1845].

My dear Miss Thomson, Believe of methat it can only give me pleasure whenyou are affectionate enough to treat meas a friend; and for the rest, nobodyneed apologise for taking another intothe vineyards least Miss Bayley andyourself to me. At the first thought Ifelt sure that there must be a great dealabout vines in these Greeks of ours,and am surprised, I confess, in turningfrom one to another, to find how fewpassages of length are quotable, andhow the images drop down into a lineor two. Do you know the passage in theseventh 'Odyssey' where there is avineyard in different stages of ripenessof which Pope has made the most, so I

tore up what I began to write, and leaveyou to him. It is in Alcinous' gardens,and between the first and secondhundred lines of the book. The onefrom the 'Iliad,' open to Miss Bayley'sobjection, is yet too beautiful andappropriate, I fancy, for you to throwover. Curious it is that my firstrecollection went from that shield ofAchilles to Hesiod's 'Shield ofHercules,' from which I send you aversion leaving out of it what dear MissBayley would object to on a likeground with the other:

Some gathered grapes, with reap-hooksin their hands, While others bore offfrom the gathering hands Whole

baskets-full of bunches, black andwhite, From those great ridges heapedup into fight, With vine-leaves and theircurling tendrils. So They bore thebaskets ...

... Yes! and all were saying Their jests,while each went staggering in a rowBeneath his grape-load to the piper'splaying. 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 saysagain, what is not worth your listeningto, perhaps:

And when that Sinus and Orion come

To middle heaven, and when Aurorashe O' the rosy fingers looks inquiringlyFull on Arcturus, straightway gatherhome The general vintage. And, Icharge you, see All, in the sun and openair, outlaid Ten days and nights, andfive days in the shade. The sixth day,pour in vases the fine juice The gift ofBacchus, who gives joys for use.

Anacreon talks to the point so well thatyou must forgive him, I think, for beingAnacreontic, and take from his handswhat is not defiled. The translation yousend me does not 'smell of Anacreon,'nor please me. Where did you get itWould this be at all fresher

Grapes that wear a purple skin, Menand maidens carry in, Brimmingbaskets on their shoulders, Which theytopple one by one Down the winepress.Men are holders Of the place there,and alone Tread the grapes out, crushthem down, Letting loose the soul ofwine Praising Bacchus as divine, Withthe loud songs called his own!

You are aware of the dresser of thevine in Homer's 'Hymn to Mercury'translated so exquisitely by Shelley, andof a very beautiful single figure inTheocritus besides. Neither probablywould suit your purpose. In the 'Pax' ofAristophanes there is an idle 'Chorus'who talks of looking at the vines and

watching the grapes ripen, and eatingthem at last, but there is nothing ofvineyard work in it, so I dismiss thewhole.

For 'Hector and Andromache,' wouldyou like me to try to do it for you Itwould amuse me, and you should notbe bound to do more with what I sendyou than to throw it into the fire if itdid not meet your wishes precisely. Thesame observation applies, remember, tothis little sheet, which I have keptdelayed sending just because I wantedto let you have a trial of my strength on'Andromache' in the same envelope;but the truth is that it is not begun yet,partly through other occupation, and

partly through the lassitude which thecold wind of the last few days alwaysbrings down on me. Yesterday I madean effort, and felt like a broken sticknot even a bent one! So wait for a warmday (and what a season we have had! Ihave been walking up and down stairsand pretending to be quite well), and Iwill promise to do my best, andcertainly an inferior hand may getnearer to touch the great Greek lion'smane than Pope's did.

Will you give my love to dear MissBayley She shall hear from me and youshall, in a day or two. And do not mindMr. Kenyon. He 'roars as softly as asucking dove;' nevertheless he is an

intolerant monster, as I half told himthe 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' Ihope so. Be sure that we may all learn(as poets) much and deeply from it, forthe writer speaks true oracles. Whenyou have read it through, then read forrelaxation and recompense the last 'Belland Pomegranate' by the same poet, his'Colombo's Birthday,' which isexquisite. Only 'Pippa Passes' I lean to,

or kneel to, with the deepest reverence.Wordsworth has been in town, and isgone. Tennyson is still here. He likesLondon, I hear, and hates Cheltenham,where he resides with his family, and hesmokes pipe after pipe, and does notmean to write any more poems. Are weto sing 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 toexceeding kindness, and I am asgrateful as any of your long-ago kind

invitations ever found me. It issomething pleasant, indeed, and like areturn to life, to be asked by you tospend two or three days in your house,and I thank you for this pleasantness,and for the goodness, on your ownpart, which induced it. You may beperfectly sure that no Claypon, thoughhe should live in Arcadia, would bepreferred by me to you as a host, and Iwonder how you could entertain theimagination of such a thing. Mr.Kenyon, indeed, has asked merepeatedly to spend a few hours on asofa in his house, and, the Regent'sPark being so much nearer than youare, I had promised to think of it. But Ihave not yet found it possible to

accomplish even that quarter of a mile'spreferment, and my ambition is forcedto be patient when I begin to think ofSt. John's Wood. I am considerablystronger, and increasing in strength, andin time, with a further advance of thesummer, I may do 'such things whatthey are yet, I know not.' Yes, I knowthat they relate to you, and that I have ahope, as well as an earnest, affectionatedesire, to sit face to face with you oncemore before this summer closes. Do, inthe meantime, believe that I am verygrateful to you for your kind,considerate proposal, and that it is notmade in vain for my wishes, and that Iam not likely willingly 'to spend two orthree days' with anybody in the world

before I do so with yourself.

Mr. Hunter has not paid us his usualSaturday's visit, and therefore I have nomeans of answering the questions youput in relation to him. We will ask himabout 'times and seasons' when next wesee him, and you shall hear.

Did you ever hear much of RobertMontgomery, commonly called SatanMontgomery because the author of'Satan,' of the 'Omnipresence of theDeity,' and of various poems whichpass through edition after edition,nobody knows how or why Iunderstand that his pew (he is aclergyman) is sown over with red

rosebuds from ladies of thecongregation, and that the same fairhands have made and presented to him,in the course of a single season, onehundred pairs of slippers. Whereuponsomebody said to this Reverend Satan,'I never knew before, Mr. Montgomery,that you were a centipede'

Dearest Mr. Boyd's affectionate andgrateful ELIBET.

Through the summer of 1845, MissBarrett, as usual, recovered strength,but so slightly that her doctor urgedthat she should not face the winter inEngland. Plans were accordingly madefor her going abroad, to which the

following letters refer, but the schemeultimately broke down before theprohibition of Mr. Barrett aprohibition for which no valid reasonwas put forward, and which, to say theleast, bore the colour of unaccountableindifference to his daughter's healthand wishes. The matter is of someimportance on account of its bearingon the action taken by Miss Barrett inthe autumn of the following year.

To Mrs. Martin Monday, July 29, 1845[postmark].

My dearest Mrs. Martin, I am ashamednot to have written before, and yet havecourage enough to ask you to write to

me as soon as you can. Day by day Ihave had good intentions enough (thefact is) about writing, to seem todeserve some good deeds from you,which is contrary to all wisdom andreason, I know, but is rather natural,after all. What my deeds have been, youwill be apt to ask. Why, all manner ofidleness, which is the most interrupting,you know, of all things. The Hedleyshave been flitting backwards andforwards, staying, some of them, for amonth at a time in London, and thengoing, and then coming again; and Ihave had other visitors, few butengrossing 'after their kind.' And I havebeen getting well which is a process goingout into the carriage two or three times

a week, abdicating my sofa for myarmchair, moving from one room toanother now and then, and walkingabout mine quite as well as, and withconsiderably more complacency than, achild of two years old. Altogether, I dothink that if you were kind enough tobe glad to see me looking better whenyou were in London, you would bekind enough to be still gladder if yousaw me now. Everybody praises me,and I look in the looking-glass with abetter conscience. Also, it is animproving improvement, and will be,until, you know, the last hem of thegarment of summer is lost sight of, andthen and then I must either follow toanother climate, or be ill again that I

know, and am prepared for. It is butdreary work, this undoing of myPenelope web in the winter, after thedoing of it through the summer, andthe more progress one makes in one'sweb, the more dreary the prospect ofthe undoing of all these fine silkenstitches. But we shall see....

Ever your affectionate BA.

To Mrs. Martin Tuesday [October 1845].

My dearest Mrs. Martin, Do believe thatI have not been, as I have seemed,perhaps, forgetful of you through thissilence. This last proof of your interestand affection for me in your letter to

Henrietta quite rouses me to speak outmy remembrance of you, and I havebeen remembering you all the time thatI did not speak, only I was so perplexedand tossed up and down by doubts andsadnesses as to require some shockfrom without to force the speech fromme. Your verses, in their grace ofkindness, and the ivy fromWordsworth's cottage, just made methink to myself that I would write toyou before I left England, but whenyou talk really of coming to see me,why, I must speak! You overcome mewith the sense of your goodness to me.

Yet, after all, I will not have you come!The farewells are bad enough which

come to us, without our going to seekthem, and I would rather wait and meetyou on the Continent, or in Englandagain, than see you now, just to partfrom you. And you cannot guess howshaken I am, and how I cling to everyplank of a little calm. Perhaps I amgoing on the 17th or 20th. Certainly Ihave made up my mind to do it, andshall do it as a bare matter of duty; andit is one of the most painful acts ofduty which my whole life has set beforeme. The road is as rough as possible, asfar as I can see it. At the same time,being absolutely convinced from myown experience and perceptions, andthe unhesitating advice of two ablemedical men (Dr. Chambers, one of

them), that to escape the English winterwill be everything for me, and that itinvolves the comfort and usefulness ofthe rest of my life, I have resolved todo it, let the circumstances of the doingbe as painful as they may. If you wereto see me you would be astonished tosee the work of the past summer; butall these improvements will ebb awaywith the sun while I am assured ofpermanent good if I leave England.The struggle with me has been a verypainful one; I cannot enter on the howand wherefore at this moment. I hadexpected more help than I have found,and am left to myself, and thrown soon my own sense of duty as to feel itright, for the sake of future years, to

make an effort to stand by myself as Ibest can. At the same time, I will nottell you that at the last hour somethingmay not happen to keep me at home.That is neither impossible norimprobable. If, for instance, I find thatI cannot have one of my brothers withme, why, the going in that case wouldbe out of the question. Under ordinarycircumstances I shall go, and if theexperiment of going fails, why, then Ishall have had the satisfaction ofhaving tried it, and of knowing that itis God's will which keeps me aprisoner, and makes me a burden. As itis, I have been told that if I had goneyears ago I should be well now; that onelung is very slightly affected, but the

nervous system absolutely shattered, as thestate of the pulse proves. I am in thehabit of taking forty drops oflaudanum a day, and cannot do with less,that is, the medical man told me that Icould not do with less, saying so withhis hand on the pulse. The coldweather, they say, acts on the lungs, andproduces the weakness indirectly,whereas the necessary shutting up actson the nerves and prevents them fromhaving a chance of recovering theirtone. And thus, without any mortaldisease, or any disease of equivalentseriousness, I am thrown out of life,out of the ordinary sphere of itsenjoyment and activity, and made aburden to myself and to others.

Whereas there is a means of escapefrom these evils, and God has openedthe door of escape, as wide as I see it!

In all ways, for my own happiness's sake Ido need a proof that the evil isirremediable. And this proof (or thecounter-proof) I am about to seek inItaly.

Dr. Chambers has advised Pisa, and Igo in the direct steamer from theThames to Leghorn. I have goodcourage, and as far as my own strengthgoes, sufficient means.

Dearest Mrs. Martin, more than Ithought at first of telling you, I have

told you. Much beside there is, painfulto talk of, but I hope I have determinedto do what is right, and that thedetermination has not been formedungently, unscrupulously, norunaffectionately in respect to thefeelings of others. I would die for someof those, but there, has been affectionopposed to affection.

This in confidence, of course. MayGod bless both of you! Pray for me,dearest Mrs. Martin. Make up yourmind to go somewhere soon shall younot before the winter shuts the lastwindow from which you see the sun.

Dr. Chambers said that he would

'answer for it' that the voyage wouldrather do me good than harm. Let mesuffer sea sickness or not, he said, hewould answer for its doing me noharm.

I hope to take Arabel with me, andeither Storm or Henry. This is my hope.

Gratefully and affectionately I think ofall your kindness and interest. May dearMr. Martin lose nothing in this comingwinter! I shall think of you, and notcease to love you. Moreover, you shallhear again from

Your ever affectionate BA.

To H.S. Boyd October 27, 1845[postmark].

My very dear Friend, It is so long sinceI wrote that I must write, I must ruffleyour thoughts with a little breath frommy side. Listen to me, my dear friend.That I have not written has scarcelybeen my fault, but my misfortunerather, for I have been quite unstrungand overcome by agitation and anxiety,and thought that I should be able totell you at last of being calmer andhappier, but it was all in vain. I do notleave England, my dear friend. It isdecided that I remain on in my prison.It was my full intention to go. Iconsidered it to be a clear duty, and I

made up my mind to perform it, let thecircumstances be ever so painfully likeobstacles; but when the moment cameit appeared impossible for me to set outalone, and also impossible to take mybrother and sister with me withoutinvolving them in difficulties anddispleasure. Now what I could risk formyself I could not risk for others, andthe very kindness with which theydesired me not to think of them onlymade me think of them more, as wasnatural and just. So Italy is given up,and I fall back into the hands of God,who is merciful, trusting Him with thetime that shall be.

Arabel would have gone to tell you all

this a fortnight since, but one of mybrothers has been ill with fever whichwas not exactly typhus, but of thetyphoid character, and we knew thatyou would rather not see her under thecircumstances. He is very much better(it is Octavius), and has been out ofbed to-day and yesterday.

Do not reproach me either for notwriting or for not going, my very dearfriend. I have been too heavy-heartedfor words; and as to the deeds, youwould not have wished me to leadothers into difficulties, the extent andresult of which no one could calculate.It would not have been just of me.

And you, how are you, and what are youdoing

May God bless you, my dear dearfriend!

Ever yours I am, affectionately andgratefully, E.B.B.

To Mr. Chorley 50 Wimpole Street:November 1845.

I must trouble you with another letterof thanks, dear Mr. Chorley, now that Ihave to thank you for the value of thework as well as the kindness of the gift,for I have read your three volumes of'Pomfret'[137] with interest and moral

assent, and with great pleasure invarious ways: it is a pure, true bookwithout effort, which, in these days ofgesture and rolling of the eyes, is anuncommon thing. Also you make your'private judgment' work itself outquietly as a simple part of the love oftruth, instead of being the loud heroicvirtue it is so apt in real life to professitself, seldom moving without drumsand trumpets and the flying of partycolours. All these you have put downrightly, wisely, and boldly, and it was, inmy mind, no less wise than bold of youto let in that odour of Tyrrwhitism intothe folds of the purple, and so preventthe very possibility of any 'prestige.' If Icomplained it might be that your

'private judgment' confines its referenceto 'public opinion,' and shuns, tooproudly perhaps, the higher and deeperrelations of human responsibility. Butthere are difficulties, I see, and youchoose your path advisedly, of course.The best character in the book I take tobe Rose; I cannot hesitate in selectinghim. He is so lifelike with the world'sconventional life that you hear hisfootsteps when he walks, and, indeed, Ithink his boots were apt to creak justthe soupcon of a creak, just as agentleman's boots might, and he isexcellently consistent, even down to thechoice of a wife whom he couldpatronise. I hope you like your own Mr.Rose, and that you will forgive me for

jilting Grace for Helena, which I couldnot help any more than Walter could.But now, may I venture to ask aquestion Would it not have been wiseof you if, on the point of reserve, youhad thrown a deeper shade ofopposition into the characters or rathermanners of these women Helena sitslike a statue (and could Grace havedone more ) when she wins Walter'sheart in Italy. Afterwards, and by fits atthe time, indeed, the artist fire burstsfrom her, but there was a great deal ofsmouldering when there should havebeen a clear heat to justify Walter'schange of feeling. And then, in respectto that, do you really think that yourGrace was generous, heroic (with the

evidence she had of the change) ingiving up her engagement For her ownsake, could she have done otherwise Ifancy not; the position seemssurrounded by its own necessities, andno room for a doubt. I write on myown doubts, you see, and you will smileat them, or understand all throughthem that if the book had notinterested me like a piece of real life, Ishould not find myself backbiting as ifall these were 'my neighbours.' The puretender feeling of the closing scenestouched me to better purpose, believeme, and I applaud from my heart andconscience your rejection of that lowcreed of 'poetical justice' which isneither justice nor poetry which is as

degrading to virtue as false toexperience, and which, thrown fromyour book, raises it into a pureatmosphere at once.

I could go on talking, but remindmyself (I do hope in time) that I mightshow my gratitude better. With sincerewishes for the success of the work (forjust see how practically we come totrust to poetical justices after all ourtheories I, I mean, and mine!), and withrespect and esteem for the writer,

I remain very truly yours, ELIZABETHBARRETT BARRETT.

[Footnote 137: A novel by Mr. Chorley,

a copy of which he had presented toMiss Barrett.]

To Mrs. Jameson 50 Wimpole Street:December 1, 1845.

My dear Mrs. Jameson, I receive yourletter, as I must do every sign of yourbeing near and inclined to think of mein kindness, gladly, and assure you atonce that whenever you can spend ahalf-hour on me you will find meenough myself to have a true pleasurein welcoming you, say any day exceptnext Saturday or the Mondayimmediately following.

As soon as I heard of your return to

England I ventured to hope that somegood might come of it to me in myroom here, besides the general good,which I look for with the rest of thepublic, when the censer swings backinto the midst of us again. And howgood of you, dear Mrs. Jameson, tothink of me there where the perfumeswere set burning; it makes me glad andgrand that you should have been ableto do so. Also the kind wishes whichcame with the thoughts (you say) werenot in vain, for I have been very idleand very well; the angel of the summerhas done more for me even than usual,and till the last wave of his wing I tookmyself to be quite well and at liberty,and even now I am as well as anyone

can be who has heard the prison doorshut for a whole winter at least, andknows it to be the only Englishalternative of a grave. Which is agloomy way of saying that I am wellbut forced to shut myself up withdisagreeable precautions all round, andI ought to be gratified instead ofgloomy. Believe me that I shall be sowhen you come to see me, remaining inthe meanwhile

Most truly yours, ELIZABETHBARRETT.

To Mrs. Martin Friday [about December1845].

I am the guilty person, dearest Mrs.Martin! You would have heard fromHenrietta at least yesterday, only Ipersisted in promising to write insteadof her; and so, if there are reproaches,let them fall. Not that I am audaciousand without shame! But I have grownfamiliar with an evil conscience as tothese matters of not writing when Iought; and long ago I grew familiarwith your mercy and power ofpardoning; and then and then if silenceand sulkiness are proved crimes ofmine to ever such an extreme, why itwould not be unnatural. Do you thinkI was born to live the life of an oyster,such as I do live here And so, themoaning and gnashing of teeth are best

done alone and without taking anyoneinto confidence. And so, this is all Ihave to say for myself, which perhapsyou will be glad of; for you will beready to agree with me that next to suchfaults of idleness, negligence, silence(call them by what names you please!)as I have been guilty of, is therepentance of them, if indeed the latterbe not the most unpardonable of thetwo.

And what are you doing so late inHerefordshire Is dear Mr. Martin toowell, and tempting the demons I dohope that the next news of you will beof your being about to approach thesun and visit us on the road. You do

not give your wisdom away to yourfriends, all of it, I hope and trust noteven to Reynolds.

Tell Mr. Martin that a new great dailynewspaper, professing 'ultraism' at theright end (meaning his and mine), ismaking 'mighty preparation,' to becalled the 'Daily News,'[138] to beedited by Dickens and to combine withthe most liberal politics such literatureas gives character to the Frenchjournals the objects being both to helpthe people and to give a status to menof letters, socially and politically greatobjects which will not be attained, Ifear, by any such means. In the firstplace, I have misgivings as to Dickens.

He has not, I think, breadth of mindenough for such work, with all his gifts;but we shall see. An immense capitalhas been offered and actually advanced.Be good patriots and order the paper.And talking of papers, I hope you readin the 'Morning Chronicle' Landor'sverses to my friend and England's poet,Mr. Browning.[139] They have muchbeauty.

You know that Occy has been ill, andthat he is well I hope you are not sobehindhand in our news as not toknow. For me, I am not yet undone bythe winter. I still sit in my chair andwalk about the room. But the prisondoors are shut close, and I could dash

myself against them sometimes with apassionate impatience of the need-lesscaptivity. I feel so intimately and fromevidence, how, with air and warmthtogether in any fair proportion, Ishould be as well and happy as the restof the world, that it is intolerable well,it is better to sympathise quietly withLady and other energetic runaways,than amuse you with being riotous tono end; and it is best to write one's ownepitaph still more quietly, is it not ...

And oh how lightly I write, and thensigh to think of what different coloursmy spirits and my paper are. Do youknow what it is to laugh, that you maynot cry Yet I hold a comfort fast....

Your very affectionate

BA.

[Footnote 138: The first number of theDaily News appeared on January 2l,1846, under the editorship of CharlesDickens.]

[Footnote 139: The well-known linesbeginning, 'There is delight in singing.'They appeared in the Morning Chroniclefor November 22, 1845.]

To Mrs. Martin Saturday [February-March 1846].

My dearest Mrs. Martin, Indeed it hasbeen tantalising and provoking to haveyou close by without being able togather a better advantage from it thanthe knowledge that you were suffering.So passes the world and the glory of it.I have been vexed into a high state ofmorality, I assure you. Now that you aregone away I hear from you again; and itdoes seem to me that almost always ithappens so, and that you come toLondon to be ill and leave it before youcan be well again. It is a comfort inevery case to know of your beingbetter, and Hastings is warm and quiet,and the pretty country all round (mindyou go and see the 'Rocks' par excellence)!

will entice you into very gentle exercise.At the same time, don't wish me intothe house you speak of. I can losenothing here, shut up in my prison, andthe nightingales come to my windowsand sing through the sooty panes. If Iwere at Hastings I should risk thechance of recovering liberty, and theconsolations of slavery would notreach me as they do here. Also, if Iwere to set my heart upon Hastings, Imight break it at leisure; there would beexactly as much difficulty in turning myface that way as towards Italy ah, youdo not understand! And I do, at last, Iam sorry to say; and it has been verylong, tedious and reluctant work, thelearning of the lesson....

Did Henrietta tell you that I heard atlast from Miss Martineau, who thoughtme in Italy, she said, and therefore wassilent She has sent me her new work(have you read it ) and speaks of herstrength and of being able to walkfifteen miles a day, which seems to melike a fairy tale, or the 'Three-leaguedBoots' at least.

What am I doing, to tell you ofNothing! The winter is kind, and thisdivine 'muggy' weather (is that thetechnical word and spelling thereof ),which gives all reasonable people coldsin their heads, leaves me the hope ofgetting back to the summer without

much injury. A friend of mine one ofthe greatest poets in England toobrought me primroses andpolyanthuses the other day, as they aregrown in Surrey![140] Surely it must benearer spring than we think.

Dearest Mrs. Martin, write and say howyou are. And say, God bless you, boththe yous, and mention Mr. Martinparticularly, and what your plans are.

Ever your affectionate BA.

[Footnote 140:

Beloved, them hast brought me manyflowers Plucked in the garden, all the

summer through, And winter, and itseemed as if they grew In this closeroom, nor missed the sun and showers.

Sonnets from the Portuguese, xliv.]

To Mrs. Martin Tuesday [end of June1846].

So, my dearest Mrs. Martin, you arequite angry with all of us and with mechiefly. Oh, you need not say no! I seeit, I understand it, and shall thereforetake up my own cause precisely as if Iwere an injured person. In the firstplace, dearest Mrs. Martin, when youwrote to me (at last!) to say that we wereboth guilty correspondents, you should

have spoken in the singular number;for I was not guilty at all, I beg to say,while you were on the Continent. Youwere uncertain, you said, on going,where you should go and how longyou should stay, and you promised towrite and give me some sort of addressa promise never kept and where was Ito write to you I heard for the firsttime, from the Peytons, of your beingat Pau, and then you were expected athome. So innocent I am, and because itis a pleasure rather rare to make asincere profession of innocence, Imeant to write to you at least ten daysago; and then (believe me you will,without difficulty) the dreadful deathof poor Mr. Haydon,[141] the artist,

quite upset me, and made medisinclined to write a word beyondnecessary ones. I thank God that Inever saw him poor gifted Haydon but,a year and a half ago, we had acorrespondence which lasted throughseveral months and was very pleasantwhile it lasted. Then it was dropped,and only a few days before the event hewrote three or four notes to me to askme to take charge of some papers andpictures, which I acceded to as once Ihad done before. He was constantly inpecuniary difficulty, and inapprehension of the seizure of goods;and nothing of fear suggested itself tomy mind nothing. The shock was verygreat. Oh! I do not write to you to write

of this. Only I would have youunderstand the real case, and that it isnot an excuse, and that it was naturalfor me to be shaken a good deal. Noartist is left behind with equal largenessof poetical conception! If the handhad always obeyed the soul, he wouldhave been a genius of the first order.As it is, he lived on the slope ofgreatness and could not be steadfastand calm. His life was one long agonyof self-assertion. Poor, poor Haydon!See how the world treats those who trytoo openly for its gratitude! 'TomThumb for ever' over the heads of thegiants.

So you heard that I was quite well

Don't believe everything you hear. But Iam really in a way to be well, if I couldhave such sunshine as we have beenburning in lately, and a fair field ofpeace besides. Generally, I am able togo out every day, either walking or inthe carriage 'walking' means as far asQueen Anne's Street. The wonderfulwinter did not cast me down, and thehot summer helps me up higher. Now,to keep in the sun is the problem to solve;and if I can do it, I shall be 'as well asanybody.' If I can't, as ill as ever. Whichis the resume of me, without a wordmore....

Your ever affectionate BA.

[Footnote 141: He committed suicideon June 22, under the influence of thedisappointment caused by theindifference of the public to hispictures, the final instance of whichwas its flocking to see General TomThumb and neglecting Haydon's largepictures of 'Aristides' and 'Nero,' whichwere being exhibited in an adjoiningroom of the Egyptian Hall.]

To H.S. Boyd June 27, 1846 [postmark].

Dearest Mr. Boyd, Let me be clear ofyour reproaches for not going to youthis week. The truth is that I have beenso much shocked and shaken by thedreadful suicide of poor Mr. Haydon,

the artist, I had not spirits for it. Hewas not personally my friend. I neversaw him face to face. But we hadcorresponded, and one of his last actswas an act of trust towards me. Also Iadmired his genius. And all to end so! Ithas naturally affected me much.

So I could not come, but in a few daysI will come; and in the meantime, I havehad the sound of your voice to thinkof, more than I could think of the deepmelodious bells, though they made theright and solemn impression. How Ifelt, to be under your roof again!

May God bless you, my very dearfriend. These words in the greatest

haste.

From your ever affectionate ELIBET

CHAPTER V

1846-1849

It is now time to tell the story of theromance which, during the last eighteenmonths, had entered into ElizabethBarrett's life, and was destined to divertits course into new and happierchannels. It is a story which fills one ofthe brightest pages in English literaryhistory.

The foregoing letters have shownsomething of Miss Barrett's admirationfor the poetry of Robert Browning,and contain allusions to the beginningof their personal acquaintance. Herknowledge of his poetry dates back tothe appearance of 'Paracelsus,' not to'Pauline,' of which there is no mentionin her letters, and which had beenpractically withdrawn from circulationby the author. Her personalacquaintance with him was of muchlater date, and was directly due to thepublication of the 'Poems' in 1844.Chancing to express his admiration ofthem to Mr. Kenyon, who had been hisfriend since 1839 and his father's

school-fellow in years long distant, Mr.Browning was urged by him to write toMiss Barrett himself, and tell her of hispleasure in her work. Possibly theallusion to him in 'Lady Geraldine'sCourtship' may have been felt asfurnishing an excuse for addressing her;however that may be, he took Mr.Kenyon's advice, and in January 1845we find Miss Barrett in 'ecstasies' over aletter (evidently the first) from'Browning the poet, Browning theauthor of "Paracelsus" and king of themystics' (see p. 236, above).

The correspondence, once begun,continued to flourish, and in the courseof the same month Miss Barrett tells

Mrs. Martin that she is 'getting deeperand deeper into correspondence withRobert Browning, poet and mystic; andwe are growing to be the truest offriends.' At the end of May, when thereturn of summer brought her arenewal of strength, they met face toface for the first time; and from thattime Robert Browning was included inthe small list of privileged friends whowere admitted to visit her in person.

How this friendship ripened into love,and love into courtship, it is not for usto inquire too closely. Something hasbeen told already in Mrs. Orr's 'Life ofRobert Browning;' something more istold in the long and most interesting

letter which stands first in the presentchapter. More precious than either isthe record of her fluctuating feelingswhich Mrs. Browning has enshrined forever in her 'Sonnets from thePortuguese,' and in the handful ofother poems 'Life and Love,' 'A Denial,''Proof and Disproof,' 'Inclusions,''Insufficiency,'[142] which likewisebelong to this period and describe itshesitations, its sorrows and itsoverwhelming joys. In the difficultcircumstances under which they wereplaced, the conduct of both waswithout reproach. Mr. Browning knewthat he was asking to be allowed to takecharge of an invalid's life believedindeed that she was even worse than

was really the case, and that she washopelessly incapacitated from everstanding on her feet but was sureenough of his love to regard that as noobstacle. Miss Barrett, for her part,shrank from burdening the life of theman she loved with a responsibility sotrying and perhaps so painful, andrefused his unchanging devotion forhis sake, not for her own.

[Footnote 142: Poetical Works, iv. 20-32.]

The situation was complicated by thecharacter of Mr. Barrett, and by thecertainty for such it was to his daughterthat he would refuse to entertain theidea of her marriage, or, indeed, that of

any of his children. The truth of thisview was absolutely vindicated not onlyin the case of Elizabeth, but also inthose of two others of the family inlater years. The reasons for his feeling itis probable he could not have explainedto himself. He was fond of his familyafter his own fashion proud, too, of hisdaughter's genius; but he could not, itwould seem, regard them in any otherlight than as belonging to himself. Thewish to leave his roof and to enter intonew relations was looked upon asunfilial treachery; and no argument orpersuasion could shake him from hisfixed idea. So long as this dispositioncould be regarded as the result of adevoted love of his children, it could

be accepted with respect, if not withfull acquiescence; but circumstancesbrought the proof that this was not thecase, and thereby ultimately paved theway to Elizabeth's marriage.

These circumstances are stated inseveral of her letters, and alluded to inseveral others, but it may help to theunderstanding of them if a briefsummary be given here. In the autumnof 1845, as described above, MissBarrett's doctors advised her to winterabroad. The advice was stronglypressed, as offering a good prospect ofa real improvement of health, and asthe only way of avoiding the annualrelapse brought on by the English

winter. One or more of her brotherscould have gone with her, and she waswilling and able to try the experiment;but in face of this express medicaltestimony, Mr. Barrett interposed arefusal. This indifference to her healthnaturally wounded Miss Barrett verydeeply; but it also gave her the right oftaking her fate into her own hands.Convinced at last that no refusal on herpart could alter Mr. Browning'sdevotion to her, and that marriage withhim, so far from being an increase ofrisk to her health, offered the onlymeans by which she might hope for animprovement in it, she gave him theconditional promise that if she camesafely through the then impending

winter, she would consent to a definiteengagement.

The winter of 1845-6 was anexceptionally mild one, and shesuffered less than usual; and in thespring of 1846 her lover claimed herpromise. Throughout the summer shecontinued to gain strength, being able,not only to drive out, but even to walkshort distances, and to visit a few ofher special friends such as Mr. Kenyonand Mr. Boyd. Accordingly it wasagreed that at the end of the summerthey should be married, and leaveEngland for Italy before the coldweather should return. The uselessnessof asking her father's consent was so

evident, and the certainty that it wouldonly result in the exclusion of Mr.Browning from the house so clear, thatno attempt was made to obtain it. Onlyher two sisters were aware of what wasgoing on; but even they were notinformed of the final arrangements forthe marriage, in order that they mightnot be involved in their father's angerwhen it should become known. For thesame reason the secret was kept fromso close a friend of both parties as Mr.Kenyon; though both he and Mr. Boyd,and possibly also Mrs. Jameson, hadsuspicions amounting to differentdegrees of certainty as to the real stateof affairs. It had been intended thatthey should wait until the end of

September, but a project for atemporary removal of the family intothe country precipitated matters; andon September 12, accompanied only byher maid, Wilson, Miss Barrett slippedfrom the house and was married toRobert Browning in MaryleboneChurch.[143] The associations whichthat ponderous edifice has gained fromthis act for all lovers of English poetrytempt one to forgive its unromanticappearance, and to remember rather thepilgrimages which Robert Browning onhis subsequent visits to England neverfailed to pay to its threshold.

[Footnote 143: Mrs. Sutherland Orrsays that the marriage took place in St.

Pancras Church; but this is a mistake, asthe parish register of St. Maryleboneproves.]

For a week after the marriage Mrs.Browning by which more familiar namewe now have the right to call herremained in her father's house; herhusband refraining from seeing her,since he could not now ask for her byher proper name without betrayingtheir secret. Then, on September 19,accompanied once more by her maidand the ever-beloved Flushie, she lefther home, to which she was never toreturn, crossed the Channel with herhusband to Havre, and so travelled onto Paris. Her father's anger, if not loud,

was deep and unforgiving. From thatmoment he cast her off and disownedher. He would not read or open herletters; he would not see her when shereturned to England. Even the birth ofher child brought no relenting; heexpressed no sympathy or anxiety, hewould not look upon its face. He diedas he lived, unrelenting, cut off by hisown unbending anger from a daughterwho could with difficulty bring herselfto speak a harsh word of him, even toher most intimate friends.

It was a more unexpected andconsequently an even more bitter blowto find that her brothers at firstdisapproved of her action; the more so,

since they had sympathised with her inthe struggle of the previous autumn.This disapprobation was, however, lessdeep-seated, resting partly upon doubtsas to the practical prudence of thematch, partly, no doubt, upon a naturalannoyance at having been kept in thedark. Such an estrangement could onlybe temporary, and as time went on wasreplaced by a full renewal of the oldaffection towards herself and a friendlyacceptance of her husband. With hersisters, on the other hand, there wasnever a shadow of difference orestrangement. That love remainedunaffected; and almost the onlycircumstance that caused Mrs.Browning to regret her enforced

absence from England was theseparation which it entailed from hertwo sisters.

In Paris the fugitives found a friendwho proved a friend indeed. A fewweeks earlier Mrs. Jameson, knowing ofthe needs of Miss Barrett's health, hadoffered to take her to Italy; but heroffer had been refused. Herastonishment may be imagined when,after this short interval of time, shefound her invalid friend in Paris as thewife of Robert Browning. The prospectfilled her with almost as much dismayas pleasure. 'I have here,' she wrote to afriend from Paris, 'a poet and a poetesstwo celebrities who have run away and

married under circumstances peculiarlyinteresting, and such as to renderimprudence the height of prudence.Both excellent; but God help them! forI know not how the two poet headsand poet hearts will get on through thisprosaic world.'[144] Mrs. Jameson, whowas travelling with her young niece,Miss Geraldine Bate,[145] lent her aidto smooth the path of her poet friends,and it was in her company that, after aweek's rest in Paris, the Browningsproceeded on their journey to Italy. It iseasy to imagine what a comfort herpresence must have been to the invalidwife and her naturally anxioushusband; and this journey sealed afriendship of no ordinary depth and

warmth. Mrs. Browning bore thejourney wonderfully, though sufferingmuch from fatigue. During a rest oftwo days at Avignon, a pilgrimage wasmade to Vaucluse, in honour ofPetrarch and his Laura; and there, asMrs. Macpherson has recorded in anoften quoted passage of her biographyof her aunt, 'there, at the very source ofthe "chiare, fresche e dolci acque," Mr.Browning took his wife up in his arms,and carrying her across the shallow,curling water, seated her on a rock thatrose throne-like in the middle of thestream. Thus love and poetry took anew possession of the spotimmortalised by Petrarch's lovingfancy.'[146]

[Footnote 144: Memoirs of AnnaJameson, 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 theparty reached Pisa; and there the newlywedded pair settled for the winter. Herefirst since the departure from Londonwas there leisure to renew theintercourse with friends at home, toanswer congratulations and goodwishes, to explain what might seem

strange and unaccountable. From thispoint Mrs. Browning's correspondencecontains nearly a full record of her life,and can be left to tell its own story inbetter language than the biographer's.The first letter to Mrs. Martin is an'apologia pro connubio suo' in fullestdetail; the others carry on the storyfrom the point at which that leaves it.

With regard to this first letter, full as itis of the most intimate personal andfamily revelations, it has seemed right togive it entire. The marriage of Robertand Elizabeth Browning has passedinto literary history, and it is only fairthat it should be set, once for all, in itstrue light. Those who might be pained

by any expressions in it have passedaway; and those in whose character andreputation the lovers of Englishliterature are interested have nothing tofear from the fullest revelation. Ifanything 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 youbelieve that I began a letter to youbefore I took this step, to give you thewhole story of the impulses towards it,feeling strongly that I owed what I

considered my justification to such dearfriends as yourself and Mr. Martin, thatyou might not hastily conclude that youhad thrown away upon one who wasquite unworthy the regard of years Ihad begun such a letter when, by theplan of going to Little Bookham, myplans were all hurried forward changeddriven prematurely into action, and thelast hours of agitation and deepanguish for it was the deepest of itskind, to leave Wimpole Street and thosewhom I tenderly loved so would notadmit of my writing or thinking: only Iwas able to think that my belovedsisters would send you some accountof me when I was gone. And now Ihear from them that your generosity has

not waited for a letter from me to do itsbest for me, and that instead of beingvexed, as you might well be, at myleaving England without a word sent toyou, you have used kind offices in mybehalf, you have been more than thegenerous and affectionate friend Ialways considered you. So my firstwords must be that I am deeply gratefulto you, my very dear friend, and that tothe last moment of my life I shallremember the claim you have on mygratitude. Generous people are inclinedto acquit generously; but it has beenvery painful to me to observe that withall my mere friends I have found moresympathy and trust, than in those whoare of my own household and who

have been daily witnesses of my life. Ido not say this for papa, who ispeculiar and in a peculiar position; butit pained me that , who knew all thatpassed last year for instance, about Pisawho knew that the alternative ofmaking a single effort to secure myhealth during the winter was the severedispleasure I have incurred now, andthat the fruit of yielding myself aprisoner was the sense of being of nouse nor comfort to any soul; papahaving given up coming to see meexcept for five minutes, a day; == , whosaid to me with his own lips, 'He doesnot love you do not think it' (said andrepeated it two months ago) thatshould now turn round and reproach

me for want of affection towards myfamily, for not letting myself drop like adead weight into the abyss, a sacrificewithout an object and expiation thisdid surprise me and pain me pained memore than all papa's dreadful words.But the personal feeling is nearer withmost of us than the tenderest feelingfor another; and my family had been soaccustomed to the idea of my living onand on in that room, that while myheart was eating itself, their love for mewas consoled, and at last the evil grewscarcely perceptible. It was no want oflove in them, and quite natural in itself:we all get used to the thought of atomb; and I was buried, that was thewhole. It was a little thing even for

myself a short time ago, and really itwould be a pneumatological curiosity ifI could describe and let you see howperfectly for years together, after whatbroke my heart at Torquay, I lived onthe outside of my own life, blindly anddarkly from day to day, as completelydead to hope of any kind as if I hadmy face against a grave, never feeling apersonal instinct, taking trains ofthought to carry out as an occupationabsolutely indifferent to the me which isin every human being. Nobody quiteunderstood this of me, because I amnot morally a coward, and have a hatredof all the forms of audible groaning.But God knows what is within, andhow utterly I had abdicated myself and

thought it not worth while to put outmy finger to touch my share of life.Even my poetry, which suddenly grewan interest, was a thing on the outsideof me, a thing to be done, and thendone! What people said of it did nottouch me. A thoroughly morbid anddesolate state it was, which I look backnow to with the sort of horror withwhich one would look to one'sgraveclothes, if one had been clothedin them by mistake during a trance.

[Footnote 147: The date at the head ofthe letter is October 2, but that iscertainly a slip of the pen, since at thatdate, as the following letter to MissMitford shows, they had not reached

Pisa. See also the reference to 'six weeksof marriage' on p. 295. The Pisapostmark appears to be October 20 (orlater), and the English postmark isNovember 5.]

And now I will tell you. It is nearly twoyears ago since I have known Mr.Browning. Mr. Kenyon wished to bringhim to see me five years ago, as one ofthe lions of London who roared thegentlest and was best worth myknowing; but I refused then, in myblind dislike to seeing strangers.Immediately, however, after thepublication of my last volumes, hewrote to me, and we had acorrespondence which ended in my

agreeing to receive him as I never hadreceived any other man. I did not knowwhy, but it was utterly impossible forme to refuse to receive him, though Iconsented against my will. He writesthe most exquisite letters possible, andhas a way of putting things which Ihave not, a way of putting aside so hecame. He came, and with our personalacquaintance began his attachment forme, a sort of infatuation call it, whichresisted the various denials which weremy plain duty at the beginning, and haspersisted past them all. I began with agrave assurance that I was in anexceptional position and saw him justin consequence of it, and that if everhe recurred to that subject again I never

could see him again while I lived; andhe believed me and was silent. To mymind, indeed, it was a bare impulse agenerous man of quick sympathiestaking up a sudden interest with bothhands! So I thought; but in themeantime the letters and the visitsrained down more and more, and inevery one there was something whichwas too slight to analyse and notice, buttoo decided not to be understood; sothat at last, when the 'proposed respect'of the silence gave way, it was ratherless dangerous. So then I showed himhow he was throwing into the ashes hisbest affections how the common giftsof youth and cheerfulness were behindme how I had not strength, even of

heart, for the ordinary duties of lifeeverything I told him and showed him.'Look at this and this,' throwing downall my disadvantages. To which he didnot answer by a single compliment, butsimply that he had not then to choose,and that I might be right or he might beright, he was not there to decide; butthat he loved me and should to his lasthour. He said that the freshness ofyouth had passed with him also, andthat he had studied the world out ofbooks and seen many women, yet hadnever loved one until he had seen me.That he knew himself, and knew that,if ever so repulsed, he should love meto his last hour it should be first andlast. At the same time, he would not

tease me, he would wait twenty years ifI pleased, and then, if life lasted solong for both of us, then when it wasending perhaps, I might understandhim and feel that I might have trustedhim. For my health, he had believedwhen he first spoke that I was sufferingfrom an incurable injury of the spine,and that he never could hope to see mestand up before his face, and heappealed to my womanly sense of whata pure attachment should be whethersuch a circumstance, if it had been true,was inconsistent with it. He preferred,he said, of free and deliberate choice,to be allowed to sit only an hour a dayby my side, to the fulfilment of thebrightest dream which should exclude

me, in any possible world.

I tell you so much, my ever dear friend,that you may see the manner of man Ihave had to do with, and the sort ofattachment which for nearly two yearshas been drawing and winning me. Iknow better than any in the world,indeed, what Mr. Kenyon onceunconsciously said before me that'Robert Browning is great ineverything.' Then, when you think howthis element of an affection so pureand persistent, cast into my dreary life,must have acted on it how little by littleI was drawn into the persuasion thatsomething was left, and that still Icould do something to the happiness

of another and he what he was, for Ihave deprived myself of the privilegeof praising him then it seemed worthwhile to take up with that unusualenergy (for me!), expended in vain lastyear, the advice of the physicians that Ishould go to a warm climate for thewinter. Then came the Pisa conflict oflast year. For years I had looked with asort of indifferent expectation towardsItaly, knowing and feeling that I shouldescape there the annual relapse, yet,with that laisser aller manner which hadbecome a habit to me, unable to form adefinite wish about it. But last year,when all this happened to me, and Iwas better than usual in the summer, Iwished to make the experiment to live

the experiment out, and see whetherthere was hope for me or not hope.Then came Dr. Chambers, with hisencouraging opinion. 'I wanted simplya warm climate and air,' he said; 'Imight be well if I pleased.' Followedwhat you know or do not preciselyknow the pain of it was acutely felt byme; for I never had doubted but thatpapa would catch at any human chanceof restoring my health. I was under thedelusion always that the difficulty ofmaking such trials lay in me, and not inhim. His manner of acting towards melast summer was one of the mostpainful griefs of my life, because itinvolved a disappointment in theaffections. My dear father is a very

peculiar person. He is naturally stern,and has exaggerated notions ofauthority, but these things go with highand noble qualities; and as for feeling,the water is under the rock, and I hadfaith. Yes, and have it. I admire suchqualities as he has fortitude, integrity. Iloved him for his courage in adversecircumstances which were yet felt byhim more literally than I could feelthem. Always he has had the greatestpower over my heart, because I am ofthose weak women who reverencestrong men. By a word he might havebound me to him hand and foot. Neverhas he spoken a gentle word to me orlooked a kind look which has not madein me large results of gratitude, and

throughout my illness the sound of hisstep on the stairs has had the power ofquickening my pulse I have loved himso and love him. Now if he had saidlast summer that he was reluctant forme to leave him if he had even allowedme to think by mistake that his affectionfor me was the motive of suchreluctance I was ready to give up Pisa ina moment, and I told him as much.Whatever my new impulses towards lifewere, my love for him (taken so) wouldhave resisted all I loved him so dearly.But his course was otherwise, quiteotherwise, and I was wounded to thebottom of my heart cast off when Iwas ready to cling to him. In themeanwhile, at my side was another; I

was driven and I was drawn. Then atlast I said, 'If you like to let this winterdecide it, you may. I will allow of nopromises nor engagement. I cannot goto Italy, and I know, as nearly as ahuman creature can know any fact, thatI shall be ill again through theinfluence of this English winter. If Iam, you will see plainer the foolishnessof this persistence; if I am not, I willdo what you please.' And his answerwas, 'If you are ill and keep yourresolution of not marrying me underthose circumstances, I will keep mineand love you till God shall take usboth.' This was in last autumn, and thewinter came with its miraculousmildness, as you know, and I was saved

as I dared not hope; my word thereforewas claimed in the spring. Now do youunderstand, and will you feel for meAn application to my father wascertainly the obvious course, if it hadnot been for his peculiar nature and mypeculiar position. But there is nospeculation in the case; it is a matter ofknowledge that if Robert had applied tohim in the first instance he would havebeen forbidden the house without amoment's scruple; and if in the last (asmy sisters thought best as a respectableform), I should have been incapacitatedfrom any after-exertion by the horriblescenes to which, as a thing of course, Ishould have been exposed. Papa willnot bear some subjects, it is a thing

known; his peculiarity takes that groundto the largest. Not one of his childrenwill ever marry without a breach, whichwe all know, though he probably doesnot deceiving himself in a setting up ofobstacles, whereas the real obstacle is inhis own mind. In my case there was, orwould have been, a great deal ofapparent reason to hold by; my healthwould have been motive enoughostensible motive. I see that precisely asothers may see it. Indeed, if I werecharged now with want of generosityfor casting myself so, a dead burden,on the man I love, nothing of the sortcould surprise me. It was whatoccurred to myself, that thought was,and what occasioned a long struggle

and months of agitation, and whichnothing could have overcome but thevery uncommon affection of a veryuncommon person, reasoning out tome the great fact of love making itsown level. As to vanity and selfishnessblinding me, certainly I may have madea mistake, and the future may prove it,but still more certainly I was notblinded so. On the contrary, never haveI been more humbled, and never less indanger of considering any personalpitiful advantage, than throughout thisaffair. You, who are generous and awoman, will believe this of me, even ifyou do not comprehend the habit I hadfallen into of casting aside theconsideration of possible happiness of

my own. But I was speaking of papa.Obvious it was that the application tohim was a mere form. I knew the resultof it. I had made up my mind to actupon my full right of taking my ownway. I had long believed such an act(the most strictly personal act of one'slife) to be within the rights of everyperson of mature age, man or woman,and I had resolved to exercise that rightin my own case by a resolution whichhad slowly ripened. All the other doorsof life were shut to me, and shut me inas in a prison, and only before thisdoor stood one whom I loved best andwho loved me best, and who invitedme out through it for the good's sakewhich he thought I could do him. Now

if for the sake of the mere form I hadapplied to my father, and if, as hewould have done directly, he had set uphis 'curse' against the step I proposedto take, would it have been doingotherwise than placing a knife in hishand A few years ago, merely throughthe reverberation of what he said toanother on a subject like this, I fell onthe floor in a fainting fit, and wasalmost delirious afterwards. I cannotbear some words. I would much ratherhave blows without them. In my actualstate of nerves and physical weakness,it would have been the sacrifice of mywhole life of my convictions, of myaffections, and, above all, of what theperson dearest to me persisted in calling

his life, and the good of it if I hadobserved that 'form.' Therefore, wrongor right, I determined not to observe it,and, wrong or right, I did and doconsider that in not doing so I sinnedagainst no duty. That I was constrained toact clandestinely, and did not choose todo so, God is witness, and will set itdown as my heavy misfortune and notmy fault. Also, up to the very last act westood in the light of day for the wholeworld, if it pleased, to judge us. I neversaw him out of the Wimpole Streethouse; he came twice a week to see meor rather, three times in the fortnight,openly in the sight of all, and this fornearly two years, and neither more norless. Some jests used to be passed upon

us by my brothers, and I allowed themwithout a word, but it would have beeninfamous in me to have taken any intomy confidence who would havesuffered, as a direct consequence, ablighting of his own prospects. Mysecrecy towards them all was my simpleduty towards them all, and what theycall want of affection was anaffectionate consideration for them. Mysisters did indeed know the truth to acertain point. They knew of theattachment and engagement I could nothelp that but the whole of the event Ikept from them with a strength andresolution which really I did not knowto be in me, and of which nothing buta sense of the injury to be done to

them by a fuller confidence, and mytender gratitude and attachment tothem for all their love and goodness,could have rendered me capable. Theirfaith in me, and undeviating affectionfor me, I shall be grateful for to the endof my existence, and to the extent ofmy power of feeling gratitude. Mydearest sisters! especially, let me say, myown beloved Arabel, who, with noconsolation except the exercise of amost generous tenderness, has lookedonly to what she considered my goodnever doubting me, never swerving forone instant in her love for me. MayGod reward her as I cannot. DearestHenrietta loves me too, but loses less inme, and has reasons for not misjudging

me. But both my sisters have beenfaultless in their bearing towards me,and never did I love them so tenderly asI love them now.

The only time I met R.B. clandestinelywas in the parish church, where wewere married before two witnesses itwas the first and only time. I looked, hesays, more dead than alive, and can wellbelieve it, for I all but fainted on theway, and had to stop for sal volatile at achemist's shop. The support through itall was my trust in him, for no womanwho ever committed a like act of trusthas had stronger motives to hold by.Now may I not tell you that his genius,and all but miraculous attainments, are

the least things in him, the moral naturebeing of the very noblest, as all whoever knew him admit Then he has hadthat wide experience of men whichends by throwing the mind back onitself and God; there is nothingincomplete in him, except as allhumanity is incompleteness. The onlywonder is how such a man, whom anywoman could have loved, should haveloved me; but men of genius, you know,are apt to love with their imagination.Then there is something in thesympathy, the strange, straight sympathywhich unites us on all subjects. If itwere not that I look up to him, weshould be too alike to be togetherperhaps, but I know my place better

than he does, who is too humble. Oh,you cannot think how well we get onafter six weeks of marriage. If I sufferagain it will not be through him. Someday, dearest Mrs. Martin, I will showyou and dear Mr. Martin how hisprophecy was fulfilled, saving somepicturesque particulars. I did not knowbefore that Saul was among theprophets.

My poor husband suffered very muchfrom the constraint imposed on him bymy position, and did, for the first timein his life, for my sake do that in secretwhich he could not speak upon thehousetops. Mea culpa all of it! If one ofus two is to be blamed, it is I, at whose

representation of circumstances hesubmitted to do violence to his ownself-respect. I would not suffer him totell even our dear common friend Mr.Kenyon. I felt that it would bethrowing on dear Mr. Kenyon a painfulresponsibility, and involve him in theblame ready to fall. And dear dear Mr.Kenyon, like the noble, generous friendI love so deservedly, comprehends all ata word, sends us not his forgiveness, buthis sympathy, his affection, the kindestwords which can be written! I cannottell you all his inexpressible kindness tous both. He justifies us to theuttermost, and, in that, all the gratefulattachment we had, each on our side, solong professed towards him. Indeed, in

a note I had from him yesterday, heuses this strong expression after gladlyspeaking of our successful journey: 'Iconsidered that you had perilled your lifeupon this undertaking, and, reflectingupon your last position, I thought thatyou had done well.' But my life was notperilled in the journey. The agitationand fatigue were evils, to be sure, andMrs. Jameson, who met us in Paris by ahappy accident, thought me 'lookinghorribly ill' at first, and persuaded us torest there for a week on the promise ofaccompanying us herself to Pisa tohelp Robert to take care of me. He,who was in a fit of terror about me,agreed at once, and so she came withus, she and her young niece, and her

kindness leaves us both very grateful.So kind she was, and is for still she is inPisa opening her arms to us and callingus 'children of light' instead of uglynames, and declaring that she shouldhave been 'proud' to have had anythingto do with our marriage. Indeed, wehear 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 friends ofmy husband's, but who only know meby my books, and I want the love andsympathy of those who love me andwhom I love. I was talking of theinfluence of the journey. The changeof air has done me wonderful good

notwithstanding the fatigue, and I amrenewed to the point of being able tothrow off most of my invalid habits;and of walking quite like a woman.Mrs. Jameson said the other day, 'Youare not improved, you are transformed.' Wehave most comfortable rooms here atPisa and have taken them for sixmonths, in the best situation for health,and close to the Duomo and LeaningTower. It is a beautiful, solemn city, andwe have made acquaintance withProfessor Ferucci, who is about toadmit us to [a sight][148] of the[University Lib]rary. We shall certainly[spend] next summer in Italy somewhere,and [talk] of Rome for the next winter,but, of course, this is all in air. Let me

hear

from you, dearest Mrs. Martin, anddirect, 'M. Browning, Poste Restante,Pisa' it is best. Just before we left Paris Iwrote to my aunt Jane, and fromMarseilles to Bummy, but from neitherhave I heard yet.

With best love to dearest Mr. Martin,ever both my dear kind friends,

Your affectionate and grateful BA.

[Footnote 148: The original is tornhere.]

To Miss Mitford[149] Moulins: October

2, 1846.

I began to write to you, my belovedfriend, earlier, that I might follow yourkindest wishes literally, and also tothank you at once for your goodness tome, for which may God bless you. Butthe fatigue and agitation have been verygreat, and I was forced to break off asnow I dare not revert to what is behind.I will tell you more another day. AtOrleans, with your kindest letter, I hadone from my dearest, gracious friendMr. Kenyon, who, in his goodness,does more than exculpate even approveshe wrote a joint letter to both of us.But oh, the anguish I have gonethrough! You are good, you are kind. I

thank you from the bottom of myheart for saying to me that you wouldhave gone to the church with me. Yes, Iknow you would. And for that very reasonI forbore involving you in such aresponsibility and drawing you intosuch a net. I took Wilson with me. Ihad courage to keep the secret to mysisters for their sakes, though I will tellyou in strict confidence that it wasknown to them potentially, that is, theattachment and engagement wereknown, the necessity remaining that, forstringent reasons affecting their owntranquillity, they should be able to say atlast, 'We were not instructed in this andthis.' The dearest, fondest, mostaffectionate of sisters they are to me,

and if the sacrifice of a life, or of allprospect of happiness, would haveworked any lasting good to them, itshould have been made even in thehour I left them. I knew that by theanguish I suffered in it. But a sacrifice,without good to anyone I shrank fromit. And also, it was the sacrifice of two.And he, as you say, had done everythingfor me, had loved me for reasons whichhad helped to weary me of myself,loved me heart to heart persistently inspite of my own will drawn me back tolife and hope again when I had donewith both. My life seemed to belong tohim and to none other at last, and I hadno power to speak a word. Have faithin me, my dearest friend, till you can

know him. The intellect is so little incomparison to all the rest, to thewomanly tenderness, the inexhaustiblegoodness, the high and nobleaspiration of every hour. Temper,spirits, manners: there is not a flawanywhere. I shut my eyes sometimesand fancy it all a dream of my guardianangel. Only, if it had been a dream, thepain of some parts of it would haveawakened me before now; it is not adream. I have borne all the emotion offatigue miraculously well, though, ofcourse, a good deal exhausted at times.We had intended to hurry on to theSouth at once, but at Paris we met Mrs.Jameson, who opened her arms to uswith the most literal affectionateness,

kissed us both, and took us by surprise bycalling us 'wise people, wild poets ornot.' Moreover, she fixed us in anapartment above her own in the Hotelde la Ville de Paris, that I might rest fora week, and crowned the rest of hergoodnesses by agreeing to accompanyus to Pisa, where she was about totravel with her young niece. Thereforewe are five travelling, Wilson being withme. Oh, yes, Wilson came; herattachment to me never shrank for amoment. And Flush came and I assureyou that nearly as much attention hasbeen paid to Flush as to me from thebeginning, so that he is perfectlyreconciled, and would be happy if thepeople at the railroads were not

barbarians, and immovable in their evildesigns of shutting him up in a boxwhen we travel that way.

You understand now, ever dearest MissMitford, how the pause has comeabout writing. The week at Paris! Such astrange week it was, altogether like avision. Whether in the body or out ofthe body I cannot tell scarcely. OurBalzac should be flattered beyondmeasure by 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. And toour hotel, if at all. Once we were at theLouvre, but we kept very still ofcourse, and were satisfied with the idea

of Paris. I could have borne to live onthere, it was all so strange and full ofcontrast....

Now you will write I feel my way onthe paper to write this. Nothing ischanged between us, nothing can everinterfere with sacred confidences,remember. I do not show letters, youneed not fear my turning traitress....Pray for me, dearest friend, that thebitterness of old affections may not betoo bitter with me, and that God mayturn those salt waters sweet again.

Pray for your grateful and loving E.B.B.

[Footnote 149: This letter is of earlier

date than the last, having been writtenen route between Orleans and Lyons; butit has seemed better to place the moredetailed narrative first.]

To Mrs. Martin [Pisa:] November 5,[1846].

It was pleasant to me, my dearestfriend, to think while I was readingyour letter yesterday, that almost by thattime you had received mine, and couldnot even seem to doubt a momentlonger whether I admitted your claimof hearing and of speaking to theuttermost. I recognised you too entirelyas my friend. Because you had put faithin me, so much 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 awoman. Always I have felt that youhave believed in me and loved me; and,for the sake of the past and of thepresent, your affection and your esteemare more to me than I could afford tolose, even in these changed and happycircumstances. So I thank you oncemore, my dear kind friends, I thank youboth I never shall forget your goodness.I feel it, of course, the more deeply, inproportion to the painfuldisappointment in other quarters.... AmI, bitter The feeling, however, passeswhile I write it out, and my own

affection for everybody will waitpatiently to be 'forgiven' in the properform, when everybody shall be atleisure properly. Assuredly, in themeanwhile, however, my case is not tobe classed with other cases whathappened to me could not havehappened, perhaps, with any otherfamily in England.... I hate and loatheeverything too which is clandestine weboth do, Robert and I; and the mannerthe whole business was carried on inmight have instructed the least acute ofthe bystanders. The flowers standingperpetually on my table for the last twoyears were brought there by one hand,as everybody knew; and really it wouldhave argued an excess of benevolence

in an unmarried man with quiteenough resources in London, to paythe continued visits he paid to mewithout some strong motive indeed.Was it his fault that he did not associatewith everybody in the house as well aswith me He desired it; but no that wasnot to be. The endurance of the painof the position was not the least proofof his attachment to me. How I thankyou for believing in him how grateful itmakes me! He will justify to theuttermost that faith. We have beenmarried two months, and every hourhas bound me to him more and more;if the beginning was well, still better itis now that is what he says to me, and Isay back again day by day. Then it is an

'advantage,' to have an inexhaustiblecompanion who talks wisdom of allthings in heaven and earth, and showsbesides as perpetual a good humourand gaiety as if he were a fool, shall Isay or a considerable quantity more,perhaps. As to our domestic affairs, it isnot to my honour and glory that the'bills' are made up every week and paidmore regularly 'than hard beseems,'while dear Mrs. Jameson laughsoutright at our miraculous prudenceand economy, and declares that it ispast belief and precedent that weshould not burn the candles at bothends, and the next moment will have itthat we remind her of the children in apoem of Heine's who set up

housekeeping in a tub, and inquiredgravely the price of coffee. Ah, but shehas left Pisa at last left it yesterday. Itwas a painful parting to everybody.Seven weeks spent in such closeneighbourhood a month of it underthe same roof and in the same carriageswill fasten people together, and thentravelling shakes them together. A moreaffectionate, generous woman neverlived than Mrs. Jameson, and it ispleasant to be sure that she loves usboth from her heart, and not only dubout des levres. Think of her makingRobert promise (as he has told mesince) that in the case of my beingunwell he would write to her instantly,and she would come at once if

anywhere in Italy. So kind, so like her.She spends the winter in Rome, but anintermediate month at Florence, and weare to keep tryst with her somewhere inthe spring, perhaps at Venice. If not,she says that she will come back here,for that certainly she will see us. Shewould have stayed altogether perhaps,if it had not been for her book uponart which she is engaged to bring outnext year, and the materials for whichare to be sought. As to Pisa, she liked itjust as we like it. Oh, it is so beautifuland so full of repose, yet not desolate: itis rather the repose of sleep than ofdeath. Then after the first ten days ofrain, which seemed to refer us fatally toAlfieri's 'piove e ripiove,' came as

perpetual a divine sunshine, suchcloudless, exquisite weather that we askwhether it may not be June instead ofNovember. Every day I am out walkingwhile the golden oranges look at meover the walls, and when I am tiredRobert and I sit down on a stone towatch the lizards. We have been to yourseashore, too, and seen your island,only he insists on it (Robert does) thatit is not Corsica but Gorgona, and thatCorsica is not in sight. Beautiful andblue the island was, however, in anycase. It might have been Romero'sinstead of either. Also we have drivenup to the foot of mountains, and seenthem reflected down in the little purelake of Ascuno, and we have seen the

pine woods, and met the camels ladenwith faggots all in a line. So now askme again if I enjoy my liberty as youexpect. My head goes round sometimes,that is all. I never was happy before inmy life. Ah, but, of course, the painfulthoughts recur!

There are some whom I love tootenderly to be easy under theirdispleasure, or even under theirinjustice. Only it, seems to me that withtime and patience my poor dearest papawill be melted into opening his arms tous will be melted into a clearerunderstanding of motives andintentions; I cannot believe that he willforget me, as he says he will, and go on

thinking me to be dead rather than aliveand happy. So I manage to hope for thebest, and all that remains, all my lifehere, is best already, could not be betteror happier. And willingly tell dear Mr.Martin I would take him and you forwitnesses of it, and in the meanwhilehe is not to send me tantalisingmessages; no, indeed, unless you really,really, should let yourselves be waftedour way, and could you do so muchbetter at Pau particularly if FannyHanford should come here. Will shereally The climate is described by theinhabitants as a 'pleasant springthroughout the winter,' and if you wereto see Robert and me threading ourpath along the shady side everywhere to

avoid the 'excessive heat of the sun' inthis November (!) it would appear agood beginning. We are not in thewarm orthodox position by the Arnobecause we heard with our ears one ofthe best physicians of the place adviseagainst it. 'Better,' he said, 'to have coolrooms to live in and warm walks to goout along.' The rooms we have arerather over-cool perhaps; we areobliged to have a little fire in the sitting-room, in the mornings and eveningsthat is; but I do not fear for the winter,there is too much difference to myfeelings between this November andany English November I ever knew. Wehave our dinner from the Trattoria attwo o'clock, and can dine our favorite

way on thrushes and chianti with amiraculous cheapness, and no trouble,no cook, no kitchen; the prophet Elijahor the lilies of the field took as littlethought for their dining, which exactlysuits us. It is a continental fashionwhich we never cease commending.Then at six we have coffee, and rolls ofmilk, made of milk, I mean, and at nineour supper (call it supper, if you please)of roast chestnuts and grapes. So yousee how primitive we are, and how Iforget to praise the eggs at breakfast.The worst of Pisa is, or would be tosome persons, that, socially speaking, ithas its dullnesses; it is not lively likeFlorence, not in that way. But we donot want society, we shun it rather. We

like the Duomo and the Campo Santoinstead. Then we know a little ofProfessor Ferucci, who gives us accessto the University library, and wesubscribe to a modern one, and wehave plenty of writing to do of ourown. If we can do anything for FannyHanford, let us know. It would be toohappy, I suppose, to have to do it foryourselves. Think, however, I am quitewell, quite well. I can thank God, too,for being alive and well. Make dear Mr.Martin keep well, and not forgethimself in the Herefordshire cold drawhim into the sun somewhere. Nowwrite and tell me everything of yourplans and of you both, dearest friends.My husband bids me say that he desires

to have my friends for his own friends,and that he is grateful to you for notcrossing that feeling. Let him send hisregards to you. And let me bethroughout all changes,

Your ever faithful and most affectionateBA.

I am expecting every day to hear frommy dearest sisters. Write to them andlove them for me.

This letter has been kept for severaldays from different causes. Will youinclose the little note to Miss Mitford Ido not hear from home, and am uneasy.

May God bless you!

November 9.

I am so vexed about those poemsappearing just now in'Blackwood.'[150] Papa must think itimpudent of me. It is unfortunate.

[Footnote 150: Blackwood's Magazine forOctober 1846 contained the followingpoems by Mrs. Browning, some phrasesin which might certainly be open tocomment if they were supposed tohave been deliberately chosen forpublication at this particular time: 'AWoman's Shortcomings,' 'A Man'sRequirements,' 'Maude's Spinning,' 'A

Dead Rose,' 'Change on Change,' 'AReed,' and 'Hector in the Garden.']

To Miss Mitford [Pisa]: November 5,1846.

I have your letter, ever dearest MissMitford, and it is welcome even morethan your letters have been used to beto me the last charm was to come, yousee, by this distance. For all youraffection and solicitude, may you trustmy gratitude; and if you love me a little,I love you indeed, and never shall cease.The only difference shall be that twomay love you where one did, and formy part I will answer for it that if youcould love the poor one you will not

refuse any love to the other when youcome to know him. I never could bearto speak to you of him since quite thebeginning, or rather I never could dare.But when you know him andunderstand how the mental gifts arescarcely half of him, you will notwonder at your friend, and, indeed, twoyears of steadfast affection from such aman would have, overcome anywoman's heart. I have been neithermuch wiser nor much foolisher than allthe shes in the world, only muchhappier the difference is in thehappiness. Certainly I am not likely torepent of having given myself to him. Icannot, for all the pain received fromanother quarter, the comfort for which

is that my conscience is pure of thesense of having broken the leastknown duty, and that the sameconsequence would follow anymarriage of any member of my familywith any possible man or woman. Ilook to time, and reason, and naturallove and pity, and to the justification ofthe events acting through all; I look onso and hope, and in the meanwhile ithas been a great comfort to have hadnot merely the indulgence but theapprobation and sympathy of most ofmy old personal friends oh, such kindletters; for instance, yesterday one camefrom dear Mrs. Martin, who has knownme, she and her husband, since the verybeginning of my womanhood, and

both of them are acute, thinkingpeople, with heads as strong as theirhearts. I in my haste left Englandwithout a word to them, for which theymight naturally have reproached me;instead of which they write to say thatnever for a moment have they doubtedmy having acted for the best andhappiest, and to assure me that, havingsympathised with me in every sorrowand trial, they delightedly feel with mein the new joy; nothing could be morecordially kind. See how I write to youas if I could speak all these little thingswhich are great things when seen in thelight. Also R, and I are not in the leasttired of one another notwithstandingthe very perpetual tete-a-tete into which

we have fallen, and which (past the firstfortnight) would be rather a trial inmany cases. Then our housekeepingmay end perhaps in being a proverbamong the nations, for at the beginningit makes Mrs. Jameson laugh heartily. Itdisappoints her theories, she admitsfinding that, albeit poets, we abstainfrom burning candles at both ends atonce, just as if we did statistics andhistorical abstracts by nature instead.And do not think that the trouble fallson me. Even the pouring out of thecoffee is a divided labour, and theordering of the dinner is quite out ofmy hands. As for me, when I am sogood as to let myself be carriedupstairs, and so angelical as to sit still

on the sofa, and so considerate,moreover, as not to put my foot into apuddle, why my duty is considered doneto a perfection which is worthy of alladoration; it really is not very hard workto please this taskmaster. For Pisa, weboth like it extremely. The city is full ofbeauty and repose, and the purplemountains gloriously seem to beckonus on deeper into the vineland. Wehave rooms close to the Duomo andLeaning Tower, in the great Collegiobuilt by Vasari, three excellentbedrooms and a sitting-room, mattedand carpeted, looking comfortable evenfor England. For the last fortnight,except the very last few sunny days, wehave had rain; but the climate is as mild

as possible, no cold, with all the damp.Delightful weather we had for thetravelling. Ah, you, with your terrors oftravelling, how you amuse me! Why, theconstant change of air in the continuedfine weather made me better and betterinstead of worse. It did me infinitegood. Mrs. Jameson says she 'won't callme improved, but transformed rather.' I likethe new sights and the movement; myspirits rise; I live I can adapt myself. Ifyou really tried it and got as far as Parisyou would be drawn on, I fancy, andon on to the East perhaps with H.Martineau, or at least as near it as weare 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 it had beenotherwise. Then I had a letter from oneof my Leeds readers the other day toexpostulate about the inappropriatenessof certain of them! The fact is that Isent a heap of verses swept from mydesk and belonging to old feelings andimpressions, and not imagining thatthey were to be used in that quick way.There can't be very much to like, I fear,apart from your goodness for whatcalls itself mine. Love me, dearest dearMiss Mitford, my dear kind friend loveme, I beg of you, still and ever, onlyceasing when I cease to think of you; Iwill allow of that clause. Mrs. Jamesonand Gerardine are staying at the hotelhere in Pisa still, and we manage to see

them every day; so good and true andaffectionate she is, and so much weshall miss her when she goes, whichwill be in a day or two now. She goes toFlorence, to Siena, to Rome tocomplete her work upon art, which isthe object of her Italian journey. I readyour vivid and glowing description ofthe picture to her, or rather I showedyour picture to her, and she quitebelieves with you that it is mostprobably a Velasquez. Much to becongratulated the owner must be. Imean to know something aboutpictures some day. Robert does, and Ishall get him to open my eyes for mewith a little instruction. You know thatin this place are to be seen the first

steps of art, and it will be interesting totrace them from it as we go fartherourselves. Our present residence wehave taken for six months; but we havedreams, dreams, and we discuss themlike soothsayers over the evening'sroasted chestnuts and grapes. Flushhighly approves of Pisa (and theroasted chestnuts), because here hegoes out every day and speaks Italian tothe little dogs. Oh, Mr. Chorley, such akind, feeling note he wrote to Robertfrom Germany, when he read of ourmarriage in 'Galignani;' we were bothtouched by it. And Monckton Milnesand others very kind all. But in aparticular manner I remember thekindness of my valued friend Mr.

Horne, who never failed me nor couldfail. Will you explain to him, or ratherask him to understand, why I did notanswer his last note I forget even Balzachere; tell me what he writes, and helpme to love that dear, generous Mr.Kenyon, whom I can 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 answer it with

my feet on your stool, so that my feetare full of you even if my head is not,always. Now, I shall not go a sentencefarther without thanking you for thatcomfort; you scarcely guessed perhapswhat a comfort it would be, that stoolof yours. I am even apt to sit on it forhours together, leaning against the sofa,till I get to be scolded for puttingmyself so into the fire, and prophesiedof in respect to the probability of a'general conflagration' of stools andBas; on which the prophet is to leapfrom the Leaning Tower, and Flush tobe left to make the funeral oration ofthe establishment. In the meantime, itreally is quite a comfort that ourhousekeeping should be your 'example'

at Florence; we have edifyingcountenances whenever we think of it.And Robert will not by any meansbelieve that you passed us on our ownground, though the eleven pauls a weekfor breakfast, and my humility, seemedto suggest something of the sort. I amso glad, we are both so glad, that youare enjoying yourself at the fullest andhighest among the wonders of art, andcannot be chilled in the soul by any ofthose fatal winds you speak of. For me,I am certainly better here at Pisa,though the penalty is to see FrateAngelico's picture with theremembrance of you rather than thepresence. Here, indeed, we have had alittle too much cold for two days; there

was a feeling of frost in the air, and amost undeniable east wind whichprevented my going out, and made mefeel less comfortable than usual athome. But, after all, one felt ashamed tocall it cold, and Robert found the heaton the Arno insupportable; which setus both mourning over our 'situation'at the Collegio, where one of us couldnot get out on such days without ablow on the chest from the 'wind at thecorner.' Well, experience teaches, andwe shall be taught, and the cost of it isnot so very much after all. We have seenyour professor once since you left us(oh, the leaving!), or spoken to him once,I should say, when he came in oneevening and caught us reading, sighing,

yawning over 'Nicolo de' Lapi,' aromance by the son-in law of Manzoni.Before we could speak, he called it'excellent, tres beau,' one of their verybest romances, upon which, of course,dear Robert could not bear to offendhis literary and national susceptibilitiesby a doubt even. I, not being sohumane, thought that any sufferingreader would be justified (under therack-wheel) in crying out against such abook, as the dullest, heaviest, stupidest,lengthiest. Did you ever read it If not,don't. When a father-in-law imitatesScott, and a son-in-law imitates hisfather-in-law, think of theconsequences! Robert, in his zeal forItaly and against Eugene Sue, tried to

persuade me at first (this was before thescene with your professor) that 'really,Ba, it wasn't so bad,' 'really you are toohard to be pleased,' and so on; but aftertwo or three chapters, the dullness grewtoo strong for even his benevolence,and the yawning catastrophe (supposedto be peculiar to the 'Guida') overthrewhim as completely as it ever did me,though we both resolved to hold on bythe stirrup to the end of the twovolumes. The catalogue of the library(for observe that we subscribe now theobject is attained!) offers a mostmelancholy insight into the actualliterature of Italy. Translations,translations, translations from third andfourth and fifth rate French and

English writers, chiefly French; theroots of thought, here in Italy, seemdead in the ground. It is well that theyhave great memories nothing else lives.

We have had the kindest of letters fromdear noble Mr. Kenyon; who, by theway, speaks of you as we like to hearhim. Dickens is going to Paris for thewinter, and Mrs. Butler[151] (he adds)is expected in London. Dear Mr.Kenyon calls me 'crotchety,' but Robert'an incarnation of the good and thetrue,' so that I have everything to thankhim for. There are noble people whotake the world's side and make it seem'for the nonce' almost respectable; but hegives up all the talk and fine schemes

about money-making, and allows us towait to see whether we want it or notthe money, I mean.

It is Monday, and I am only finishingthis note. In the midst came letters frommy sisters, making me feel so glad that Icould not write. Everybody is well andhappy, and dear papa in high spirits andhaving people to dine with him every day, sothat I have not really done anyone harmin doing myself all this good. It doesnot indeed bring us a step nearer to theforgiveness, but to hear of his being ingood spirits makes me inclined tojump, with Gerardine.[152] DearGeddie! How pleased I am to hear ofher being happy, particularly (perhaps)

as she is not too happy to forget me. Isall that glory of art making her veryambitious to work and enter into thecourt of the Temple ...

Robert's love to you both. We oftentalk of our prospect of meeting youagain. And for the past, dearest AuntNina, believe of me that I feel to youmore gratefully than ever I can say, andremain, while I live,

Your faithful and affectionate BA.

[Footnote 151: Better known as FannyKemble.]

[Footnote 152: Miss Gerardine Bate,

Mrs. Jameson's niece.]

To Miss Mitford Pisa: December 19,[1846].

Ever dearest Miss Mitford, your kindestletter is three times welcome as usual.On the day you wrote it in the frost, Iwas sitting out of doors, just in mysummer mantilla, and complaining 'ofthe heat this December!' But woe comesto the discontented. Within these threeor four days we too have had frost yes,and a little snow, for the first time, saythe Pisans, during five years. Robertsays that the mountains are powderedtoward Lucca, and I, who cannot seethe mountains, can see the cathedral the

Duomo how it glitters whitely at thesummit, between the blue sky and itsown walls of yellow marble. Of courseI do not stir an inch from the fire, yethave to struggle a little against my oldlanguor. Only, you see, this can't last! itis exceptional weather, and, up to thelast few days, has been divine. Andthen, after all we talk of frost, mybedroom, which has no fireplace,shows not an English sign on thewindow, and the air is not metallic as inEngland. The sun, too, is so hot thatthe women are seen walking with furcapes and parasols, a curiouscombination.

I hope you had your visit from Mr.

Chorley, and that you both had theusual pleasure from it. Indeed I amtouched by what you tell me, and wastouched by his note to my husband,written in the first surprise; and becauseRobert has the greatest regard for him,besides my own personal reasons, I docount him in the forward rank of ourfriends. You will hear that he hasobliged us by accepting a trusteeship toa settlement, forced upon me in spiteof certain professions or indispositionsof mine; but as my husband's gifts, Ihad no right, it appeared, by refusing itto place him in a false position for thesake of what dear Mr. Kenyon calls my'crotchets.' Oh, dear Mr. Kenyon! Hiskindness and goodness to us have been

past thinking of, past thanking for; wecan only fall into silence. He has thrusthis hand into the fire for us by writingto papa himself, by taking up themanagement of my small money-matters when nearer hands let themdrop, by justifying us with the wholeweight of his personal influence; allthis in the very face of his own habitsand susceptibilities. He has resolvedthat I shall not miss the offices offather, brother, friend, nor thetenderness and sympathy of them all.And this man is called a mere man ofthe world, and would be called sorightly if the world were a place forangels. I shall love him dearly andgratefully to my last breath; we both

shall....

Robert and I are deep in the fourthmonth of wedlock; there has not beena shadow between us, nor a word (and Ihave observed that all married peopleconfess to words), and that the onlychange I can lay my finger on in him issimply and clearly an increase ofaffection. Now I need not say it if I didnot please, and I should not please, youknow, to tell a story. The truth is, that Iwho always did certainly believe in love,yet was as great a sceptic as you aboutthe evidences thereof, and having heldtwenty times that Jacob's servingfourteen years for Rachel was not toolong by fourteen days, I was not a likely

person (with my loathing dread ofmarriage as a loveless state, andabsolute contentment with single life asthe alternative to the great majorities ofmarriages), I was not likely to accept afeeling not genuine, though from thehand of Apollo himself, crowned withhis various godships. Especially too, inmy position, I could not, would not,should not have done it. Then, genuinefeelings are genuine feelings, and donot pass like a cloud. We are as happyas people can be, I do believe, yet areliving in a way to try this newrelationship of ours in the utmostseclusion and perpetual tete-a-tete noamusement nor distraction fromwithout, except some of the very

dullest Italian romances which throwus back on the memory of Balzac withreiterated groans. The Italians seem tohang on translations from the Frenchas we find from the library not merelyof Balzac, but Dumas, your Dumas,and reaching lower long past De Kockto the third and fourth rate novelists.What is purely Italian is, as far as wehave read, purely dull and conventional.There is no breath nor pulse in theItalian genius. Mrs. Jameson writes tous from Florence that in politics andphilosophy the people are getting alivewhich may be, for aught we know tothe contrary, the poetry andimagination leave them room enoughby immense vacancies.

Yet we delight in Italy, and dream of'pleasures new' for the summer pasturesnew, I should have said but it comes tothe same thing. The padrone in thishouse sent us in as a gift (in graciousrecognition, perhaps, of our lawfulpaying of bills) an immense dish oforanges two hanging on a stalk with thegreen leaves still moist with themorning's dew every great orange oftwelve or thirteen with its own stalkand leaves. Such a pretty sight! Andbetter oranges, I beg to say, never wereeaten, when we are barbarous enoughto eat them day by day after our twoo'clock dinner, softening, with thevision of them, the winter which has

just shown itself. Almost I have been aspleased with the oranges as I was atAvignon by the pomegranate given to memuch in the same way. Think of mybeing singled out of all our caravan oftravellers Mrs. Jameson and GerardineJameson[153] both there for thatsignificant gift of the pomegranates! Ihad never seen one before, and, ofcourse, proceeded instantly to cut one'deep down the middle'[154] acceptingthe omen. Yet, in shame and confusionof face, I confess to not being able toappreciate it properly. Olives andpomegranates I set on the same shelf,to be just looked at and called by theirnames, but by no means eaten bodily.

But you mistake me, dearest friend,about the 'Blackwood' verses. I neverthought of writing applicative poems theheavens forfend! Only that just then, [in]the midst of all the talk, any verses ofmine should come into print and someof them to that particular effect lookedunlucky. I dare say poor papa (forinstance) thought me turned suddenlyto brass itself. Well, it is perhaps moremy fancy than anything else, and wasonly an impression, even there. Mr.Chorley will tell you of a play of his,which I hope will make its way, thoughI do wonder how people can bear towrite for the theatres in the presentstate of things. Robert is busypreparing a new edition of his collected

poems which are to be so clear thateveryone who has understood themhitherto will lose all distinction. Weboth mean to be as little idle aspossible.... We shall meet one day in joy,I do hope, and then you will love myhusband for his own sake, as for mineyou do not hate him now.

Your ever affectionate E.B.B.

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

[Footnote 154: See Lady Geraldine'sCourtship, stanza xli.]

To H.S. Boyd [Pisa:] December 21[1846].

You must let me tell you, my dearestMr. Boyd, that I dreamed of you lastnight, and that you were looking verywell in my dream, and that you told meto break a crust from a loaf of breadwhich lay by you on the table; which Iaccept on recollection as a sacramentalsign between us, of peace andaffection. Wasn't it strange that I shoulddream so of you Yet no; thinkingawake of you, the sleeping thoughtscome naturally. Believe of me thisChristmas time, as indeed at every time,that I do not forget you, and that all thedistance and change of country can

make no difference. Understand, too(for that will give pleasure to yourgoodness), that I am very happy, andnot unwell, though it is almostChristmas....

Dearest friend, are you well and ingood spirits Think of me over theCyprus, between the cup and the lip,though bad things are said to fall outso. We have, instead of Cyprus,Montepulciano, the famous 'King ofWine,' crowned king, you remember, bythe grace of a poet! Your Cyprus,however, keeps supremacy over me, andwill not abdicate the divine right ofbeing associated with you. I speak ofwine, but we live here the most

secluded, quiet life possible reading andwriting, and talking of all things inheaven and earth, and a little besides;and sometimes even laughing as if wehad twenty people to laugh with us, orrather hadn't. We know not a creature, Iam happy to say, except an Italianprofessor (of the university here) whocalled on us the other evening andpraised aloud the scholars of England.'English Latin was best,' he said, 'andEnglish Greek foremost.' Do you clapyour hands

The new pope is more liberal thanpopes in general, and people write odesto him in consequence.

Robert is going to bring out a newedition of his collected poems, and youare not to read any more, if you please,till this is done. I heard of Carlyle'ssaying the other day 'that he hopedmore from Robert Browning, for thepeople of England, than from anyliving English writer,' which pleasedme, of course. I am just sending off ananti-slavery poem for America,[155]too ferocious, perhaps, for theAmericans to publish: but they askedfor a poem and shall have it.

If I ask for a letter, shall I have it, Iwonder Remember me and love me alittle, and pray for me, dearest friend,and believe how gratefully and ever

affectionately

I am your

ELIBET,

though Robert always calls me Ba, andthinks it the prettiest name in the world!which is a proof, you will say, not onlyof blind love but of deaf love.

[Footnote 155: 'The Runaway Slave atPilgrim's Point' (Poetical Works, ii. 192).It was first printed in a collection calledThe Liberty Bell, for sale at the BostonNational Anti-slavery Bazaar of 1848.It was separately printed in England in1849 as a small pamphlet, which is now

a rare bibliographical curiosity.]

It was during the stay at Pisa, and earlyin the year 1847, that Mr. Browningfirst became acquainted with his wife's'Sonnets from the Portuguese.' Writtenduring the course of their courtshipand engagement, they were not showneven to him until some months aftertheir marriage. The story of it was toldby Mr. Browning in later life to Mr.Edmund Gosse, with leave to make itknown to the world in general; andfrom Mr. Gosse's publication it is herequoted in his own words.[156]

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

'Their custom was, Mr. Browning said,to write alone, and not to show eachother what they had written. This was arule which he sometimes brokethrough, but she never. He had thehabit of working in a downstairs room,where their meals were spread, whileMrs. Browning studied in a room onthe floor above. One day, early in 1847,their breakfast being over, Mrs.Browning went upstairs, while herhusband stood at the window watchingthe street till the table should becleared. He was presently aware ofsome one behind him, although theservant was gone. It was Mrs.Browning, who held him by the

shoulder to prevent his turning to lookat her, and at the same time pushed apacket of papers into the pocket of hiscoat. She told him to read that, and totear it up if he did not like it; and thenshe fled again to her own room.'

The sonnets were intended for herhusband's eye alone; in the firstinstance, not even for his. No poemscan ever have been composed with lessthought of the public; perhaps for thatvery reason they are unmatched forsimplicity and sincerity in all Mrs.Browning's work. Her genius in themhas full mastery over its material, as ithas in few of her other poems. Allimpurities of style or rhythm are

purged away by the fire of love; andthey stand, not only highest among thewritings of their authoress, but also inthe very forefront of English love-poems. With the single exception ofRossetti, no modern English poet haswritten of love with such genius, suchbeauty, and such sincerity, as the twowho gave the most beautiful exampleof it in their own lives.

Fortunately for all those who love truepoetry, Mr. Browning judged rightly ofthe obligation laid upon him by thepossession of these poems. 'I darednot,' he said, 'reserve to myself thefinest sonnets written in any languagesince Shakespeare's.' Accordingly he

persuaded his wife to commit theprinting of them to her friend, MissMitford; and in the course of the yearthey appeared in a slender volume,entitled 'Sonnets, by E.B.B.,' with theimprint 'Reading, 1847,' and marked'Not for publication.' It was not untilthree years later that they were offeredto the general public, in the volumes of1850. Here first they appeared underthe title of 'Sonnets from thePortuguese' a title suggested by Mr.Browning (in preference to his wife'sproposal, 'Sonnets translated from theBosnian') for the sake of its half-allusion to her other poem, 'Catarina toCamoens,' which was one of his chieffavourites among her works.

To these sonnets there is, however, noallusion in the letters here published,which say little for some time of herown work.

To Miss Mitford February 8, 1847.

But, my dearest Miss Mitford, yourscheme about Leghorn is drawn out inthe clouds. Now just see howimpossible. Leghorn is fifteen miles off,and though there is a railroad there isno liberty for French books to wanderbackwards and forwards withoutinspection and seizure. Why, doremember that we are in Italy after all!Nevertheless, I will tell you what we

have done: transplanted oursubscription from the Italian library,which was wearing us away into amisanthropy, or at least despair of thewits of all Southerns, into a librarywhich has a tolerable supply of Frenchbooks, and gives us the privilegebesides of having a French newspaper,the 'Siecle,' left with us every evening.Also, this library admits (is allowed toadmit on certain conditions) somebooks forbidden generally by thecensureship, which is of the strictest;and though Balzac appears veryimperfectly, I am delighted to find himat all, and shall dun the bookseller forthe 'Instruction criminelle,' which Ihope discharges your Lucien as a

'forcat' neither man nor woman andtrue poet, least of all....

The 'Siecle' has for a feuilleton a newromance of Soulie's, called 'SaturninFichet,' which is really not good, andtiresome to boot. Robert and I beganby each of us reading it, but after a littlewhile he left me alone, being certainthat no good could come of such awork. So, of course, ever since, I havebeen exclaiming and exclaiming as tothe wonderful improvement andincreasing beauty and glory of it, just tojustify myself, and to make him sorryfor not having persevered! The truth is,however, that but for obstinacy Ishould give up too. Deplorably dull the

story is, and there is a crowd of peopleeach more indifferent than each, to you;the pith of the plot being (verycharacteristically) that the hero hassomebody exactly like him. To thereader, it's all one in every sense who'swho, and what's what. Robert is a warmadmirer of Balzac and has read mostof his books, but certainly oh certainlyhe does not in a general way appreciateour French people quite with ourwarmth; he takes too high a standard, Itell him, and won't listen to a story for astory's sake. I can bear to be amused,you know without a strong pull on myadmiration. So we have great warssometimes, and I put up Dumas' flag,or Soulie's, or Eugene Sue's (yet he was

properly possessed by the 'Mysteres deParis') and carry it till my arms ache.The plays and vaudevilles he knows farmore of than I do, and alwaysmaintains they are the happiest growthof the French school setting aside themasters, observe for Balzac and GeorgeSand hold all their honours; and,before your letter came, he had told meabout the 'Kean' and the other dramas.Then we read together the other day the'Rouge et Noir,' that powerful book ofStendhal's (Beyle), and he thought itvery striking, and observed what I hadthought from the first and again andagain that it was exactly like Balzac inthe raw, in the material and undevelopedconception. What a book it is really,

and so full of pain and bitterness, andthe gall of iniquity! The new Dumas Ishall see in time, perhaps, and it iscurious that Robert had just beentelling me the very story you speak ofin your letter, from the 'CausesCelebres.' I never read it the moreshame! Dearest friend, all this talk ofFrench books and no talk about you themost shame! You don't tell me enoughof yourself, and I want to hear, because(besides the usual course of reasons)Mr. Chorley spoke of you as if youwere not as cheerful as usual; do tellme. Ah! if you fancy that I do not loveyou as near, through being so far, youare unjust to me as you never werebefore. For myself, the brightness

round me has had a cloud on it latelyby an illness of poor Wilson's.... Shewould not go to Dr. Cook till I wasterrified one night, while she wasundressing me, by her sinking down onthe sofa in a shivering fit. Oh, sofrightened I was, and Robert ran outfor a physician; and I could haveshivered too, with the fright. But she isconvalescent now, thank God! and inthe meanwhile I have acquired a heapof practical philosophy, and have learnthow it is possible (in certain conditionsof the human frame) to comb out andtwist up one's own hair, and lace one'svery own stays, and cause hooks andeyes to meet behind one's very ownback, besides making toast and water

for Wilson which last miracle, it is onlyjust to say, was considerably assisted byRobert's counsels 'not quite to set fireto the bread' while one was toasting it.He was the best and kindest all thattime, as even he could be, and carriedthe kettle when it was too heavy for me,and helped me with heart and head. Mr.Chorley could not have praised him toomuch, be very sure. I, who always ratherappreciated 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 hada kind note myself from him a few dayssince, and do you know that we have asort of hope of seeing him in Italy thisyear, with dearest Mr. Kenyon, who has

the goodness to crown his goodness bya 'dream' of coming to see us We leavePisa in April (did I tell you that ) andpass through Florence towards thenorth of Italy to Venice, for instance. Inthe way of writing, I have not donemuch yet just finished my rough sketchof an anti-slavery ballad and sent it offto America, where nobody will print it,I am certain, because I could not helpmaking it bitter. If they do print it, Ishall thank them more boldly in earnestthan I fancy now. Tell me of MaryHowitt's new collection of ballads arethey good I warmly wish that Mr.Chorley may succeed with his play; buthow can Miss Cushman promise ahundred nights for an untried work ...

Perhaps you may find the two lastnumbers of the 'Bells andPomegranates' less obscure it seems soto me. Flush has grown an absolutemonarch and barks one distractedwhen he wants a door opened. Robertspoils him, I think. Do think of me asyour ever affectionate and grateful

BA.

Have you seen 'Agnes de Misanie,' thenew play by the author of 'Lucretia' Awitty feuilletoniste says of it that,besides all the unities of Aristotle, itcomprises, from beginning to end, unityof situation. Not bad, is it MadameAncelot has just succeeded with a

comedy, called 'Une Annee a Paris.' Bythe way, shall you go to Paris this spring[157]

[Footnote 157: A list of the workscomposing Balzac's Comedie Humaine isattached to this letter for Miss Mitford'sbenefit.]

From Mr. Browning's family, thoughshe had as yet had no opportunity ofmaking acquaintance with them face toface, Mrs. Browning from the first metwith an affectionate reception. Thefollowing is the first now extant of aseries of letters written by her to MissBrowning, the poet's sister. The abruptand private nature of the marriage

never seems to have caused the slightestcoldness of feeling in this quarter,though it must have caused anxiety; andthe tone of the early letters, in which sonew and unfamiliar a relation had to betaken up, does equal honour to thewriter and to the recipient.

To Miss Browning [Pisa: about February1847.]

I must begin by thanking dearestSarianna again for her note, and byassuring her that the affectionate toneof it quite made me happy and gratefultogether that I am grateful to all of you:do feel that I am. For the rest, when I see(afar off) Robert's minute manuscripts,

a certain distrust steals over me ofanything I can possibly tell you of ourway of living, lest it should be thevainest of repetitions, and by no meansworth repeating, both at once. Such aquiet silent life it is going to hear theFriar preach in the Duomo, a grandevent in it, and the wind laying flat allour schemes about Volterra and Lucca!I have had to give up even the Friar forthese three days past; there is nothingfor me when I have driven out Robertto take his necessary walk but to sit andwatch the pinewood blaze. He isgrieved about the illness of his cousin,only I do hope that your next letter willconfirm the happy change which stopsthe further anxiety, and come soon for

that purpose, besides others. Yourletters never can come too often,remember, even when they have not tospeak of illness, and I for my part mustalways have a thankful interest in yourcousin for the kind part he took in thehappiest event of my life. You have totell us too of your dear mother Robertis so anxious about her always. Howdeeply and tenderly he loves her and allof you, never could have been moremanifest than now when he is awayfrom you and has to talk of you insteadof to you. By the way (or rather out ofthe way) I quite took your view of thepurposed ingratitude to poor MissHaworth[158] it would have beenworse in him than the sins of

'Examiner' and 'Athenaeum.' If authorswon't feel for one another, there's anend of the world of writing! Oh, Ithink he proposed it in a moment ofhardheartedness we all put ontortoiseshell now and then, andpresently come out into the sun assensitively as ever. Besides MissHaworth has written to us very kindly;and kindness doesn't spring upeverywhere, like the violets in yourgravel walks. See how I understandHatcham. Do try to love me a little,dearest Sarianna, and (with my gratefullove always to your father and mother)let me be your 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 RobertBrowning's, and published a volume ofverse in 1847, to which this passageseems to allude.]

The correspondence with Mr.Westwood, which had lapsed for aconsiderable time, was resumed withthe 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 briefnote, it was a most flattering ill temper,and I thank you just as I have hadreason to do for the good nature whichhas caused you to bear with me sooften and so long. You have beenmisled on some points. I did not go toItaly last year, or rather the year beforelast! I was disappointed and forced tostay in Wimpole Street after all; but thewinter being so mild, so miraculouslymild for England you may remember, Iwas spared my winter relapse and leftliberty for new plans such as I neverused to think were in my destiny! Sucha change it is to me, such a strangehappiness and freedom, and you mustnot in your kindness wish me back

again, but rather be contented, like afriend as you are, to hear that I am veryhappy and very well, and still doubtfulwhether all the brightness can be meantfor me! It is just as if the sun rose againat 7 o'clock P.M. The strangeness seemsso great....

I am now very well, and so happy asnot to think much of it, except for thesake of another. And do you fancyhow I feel, carried; into the visions ofnature from my gloomy room. Evennow I walk as in a dream. We made apilgrimage from Avignon to Vauclusein right poetical duty, and I and myhusband sate upon two stones in themidst of the fountain which in its dark

prison of rocks flashes and roars andtestifies to the memory of Petrarch. Itwas louder and fuller than usual whenwe were there, on account of the rains;and Flush, though by no means bornto be a hero, considered my position sooutrageous that he dashed through thewater to me, splashing me all over, sohe is baptised in Petrarch's name. Thescenery is full of grandeur, the rockssheathe themselves into the sky, andnothing grows there except a littlecypress here and there, and a stragglingolive tree; and the fountain works outits soul in its stony prison, and runsaway in a green rapid stream. Such astriking sight it is. I sate upon deck, too,in our passage from Marseilles to

Genoa, and had a vision of mountains,six or seven deep, one behind another.As to Pisa, call it a beautiful town, youcannot do less with Arno and itspalaces, and above all the wonderfulDuomo and Campo Santo, andLeaning Tower and Baptistery, all ofwhich are a stone's throw from ourwindows. We have rooms in a greatcollege-house built by Vasari, and falleninto desuetude from collegiatepurposes; and here we live the quietestand most tete-a-tete of lives, knowingnobody, hearing nothing, and for nearlythree months together never catching aglimpse of a paper. Oh, how wrongyou were about the 'Times'! Now,however, we subscribe to a French and

Italian library, and have a Frenchnewspaper every evening, the 'Siecle,'and so look through a loophole at theworld. Yet, not too proud are we, evennow, for all the news you will please tosend us in charity: 'da obolumBelisario!'

What do you mean about poorTennyson I heard of him last on hisreturn from a visit to the Swissmountains, which 'disappointed him,'he was said to say. Very wrong, either ofmountains or poet!

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

Mrs. Jameson is engaged in a work onart which will be very interesting....

Flush's love to your Flopsy. Flush hasgrown very overbearing in this Italy, Ithink because my husband spoils him(if not for the glory at Vaucluse);Robert declares that the said Flushconsiders him, my husband, to becreated for the especial purpose ofdoing him service, and really it looksrather like it.

Never do I see the 'Athenaeum' now,but before I left England some puregushes between the rocks reminded meof you. Tell me all you can; it will all belike rain upon dry ground. My husband

bids me offer his regards to you if youwill accept them; and that you may do itask your heart. I will assure you (aside)that his poetry is as the prose of hisnature: he himself is so much betterand higher than his own works.

In the middle of April the Browningsleft Pisa and journeyed to Florence,arriving there on April 20. There,however, the programme was arrested,and, save for an abortive excursion toVallombrosa, whence they wererepulsed by the misogynist principlesof the monks, they continued to residein Florence for the remainder of theyear. Their first abode was in the Viadelle Belle Donne; but after the return

from Vallombrosa, in August, theymoved across the river, and tookfurnished rooms in the Palazzo Guidi,the building which, under the name of'Casa Guidi,' is for ever associated withtheir memory.

To Mrs. Martin Florence: April 24, 1847.

I received your letter, my dearest friend,by this day's post, and wrote a littlenote directly to the office as a trap forthe feet of your travellers. If theyescape us after all, therefore, they maypraise their stars for it rather than myintentions our intentions, I should say,for Robert will gladly do everything hecan in the way of expounding a text or

two of the glories of Florence, and weboth shall be much pleased andcordially pleased to learn more ofFanny and her brother than the glanceat Pisa could teach us. As for me, shewill let me have a little talking for myshare: I can't walk about or seeanything. I lie here flat on the sofa inorder to be wise; I rest and take portwine by wineglasses; and a few moredays of it will prepare me, I hope andtrust, for an interview with the Venusde' Medici. Think of my having been inFlorence since Tuesday, this beingSaturday, and not a step taken into thegalleries. It seems a disgrace, a sort ofinvoluntary disgraceful act, or ratherno-act, which to complain of relieves

one to some degree. And how kind ofyou to wish to hear from me of myself!There is nothing really much the matterwith me; I am just weak, sleeping andeating dreadfully well considering thatFlorence isn't seen yet, and 'lookingwell,' too, says Mrs. Jameson, who, withher niece, is our guest just now. Itwould have been wise if I had restedlonger at Pisa, but, you see, there was along engagement to meet Mrs. Jamesonhere, and she expressed a very kindunwillingness to leave Italy withoutkeeping it: also she had resolved tocome out of her way on purpose forthis, and, as I had the consent of myphysician, we determined to performour part of the compact; and in order

to prepare for the longer journey I wentout in the carriage a little too soon,perhaps, and a little too long. At least,if I had kept quite still I should havebeen strong by this time not that I havedone myself harm in the serious sense,observe and now the affair isaccomplished, I shall be wonderfullydiscreet and self-denying, and resistVenuses and Apollos like some onewiser than the gods themselves. Mychest is very well; there has been nosymptom of evil in that quarter.... Wetook the whole coupe of the diligencebut regretted our first plan of thevettura nevertheless and now are settledin very comfortable rooms in the 'Viadelle Belle Donne' just out of the

Piazza Santa Maria Novella, verysuperior rooms to our apartment inPisa, in which we were cheated to theuttermost with all the subtlety of Italyand to the full extent of our ignorance;think what that must have been! Ourpresent apartment, with the hire of agrand piano and music, does not costus so much within ever so manyfrancisconi. Oh, and you don't frightenme though we are on the north side ofthe Arno! We have taken our rooms fortwo months, and may be here longer,and the fear of the heat was strongerwith me than the fear of the cold, orwe might have been in the Pitti and'arrostiti' by this time. We expected dearMrs. Jameson on Saturday, but she

came on Friday evening, havingsuddenly remembered that it wasShakespeare's birthday, and bringingwith her from Arezzo a bottle of wineto 'drink to his memory with two otherpoets,' so there was a great deal ofmerriment, as you may fancy, andRobert played Shakespeare's favorite air,'The Light of Love,' and everybody wasdelighted to meet everybody, andRoman news and Pisan dullness wereproperly discussed on every side. Shesaw a good deal of Cobden in Rome,and went with him to the SistineChapel. He has no feeling for art, and,being very true and earnest, could onlydo his best to try to admire MichaelAngelo; but here and there, where he

understood, the pleasure was expressedwith a blunt characteristic simplicity.Standing before the statue ofDemosthenes, he said: 'That man ispersuaded himself of what he speaks,and will therefore persuade others.' Sheliked him exceedingly. For my part, Ishould join in more admiration if itwere not for his having accepted money,but paid patriots are no heroes of mine.'Verily they have their reward.'O'Connell had arrived in Rome, and itwas considered that he came only todie. Among the artists, Gibson andWyatt were doing great things; shewishes us to know Gibson particularly.As to the Pope he lives in anatmosphere of love and admiration,

and 'he is doing what he can,' Mrs.Jameson believes. Robert says: 'Adreadful situation, after all, for a manof understanding and honesty! I pityhim from my soul, for he can, at best,only temporise with truth.' But humannature is doomed to pay a high pricefor its opportunities. Delighted I am tohave your good account of dear Mr.Martin, though you are naughty peopleto persist in going to England so soon.Do write to me and tell me all aboutboth of you. I will do what I can likethe Pope but what can I do Yes, indeed,I mean to enjoy art and nature too; oneshall not exclude the other. ThisFlorence seems divine as we pass thebridges, and my husband, who knows

everything, is to teach and show me allthe great wonders, so that I amreasonably impatient to try myadvantages. His kind regards to youboth, and my best love, dearestfriends....

Your very affectionate BA.

To Mrs. Jameson Florence: May 12,[1847].

I was afraid, we both were afraid foryou, dearest friend, when we saw theclouds gather and heard the rain fall asit did that day at Florence. It seemedimpossible that you should be beyondthe evil influence, should you have

travelled ever so fast; but, after all, astorm in the Apennines, like many amoral storm, will be better perhapsthan a calm to look back upon. Wetalked of you and thought of you, andmissed you at coffee time, and regrettedthat so pleasant a week (for us) shouldhave gone so fast, as fast as a dull week,or, rather, a good deal faster. Dearestfriend, do believe that we felt yourgoodness in Coming to us in makingus an object before you left Italy; it fillsup the measure of goodness andkindness for which we shall thank andlove you all our lives. Never fancy thatwe can forget you or be less touched bythe memory of what you have been tous in affection and sympathy never.

And don't you lose sight of us; do writeoften, and do, do make haste and comeback to Italy, and then make use of usin any and every possible way as house-takers or house-mates, for we are readyto accept the lowest place or thehighest. The week you gave us wouldbe altogether bright and glad if it hadnot been for the depression and anxietyon your part. May God turn it all togain and satisfaction in someunlooked-for way. To be a road-maker isweary work, even across the Apenninesof life. We have not science enough forit if we have strength, which we haven'teither. Do you remember how Sindbadshut his eyes and let himself be carriedover the hills by an eagle That was

better than to set about breaking stones.Also what you could do you havedone; you have finished your part, andthe sense of a fulfilled duty is in itselfsatisfying is and must be. Mysympathies go with you entirely, while Iwish your dear Gerardine to be happy;I wish it from my heart.... Just after youleft us arrived our box with theprecious deeds, which are thrown intothe cabinet for want of witnesses. Andthen Robert has had a letter from Mr.Forster with the date of Shakespeare'sbirthday, and overflowing with kindnessreally both to himself and me. It quitetouched me, that letter. Also we havehad a visitation from an American, buton the point of leaving Florence and

very tame and inoffensive, and we boreit very well considering. He sent us anew literary periodical of the oldworld, in which, among otherinteresting matter, I had the pleasure ofreading an account of my own'blindness,' taken from a French paper(the 'Presse'), and mentioned withhumane regret. Well! and what morenews is there to tell you I have been outonce, only once, and only for aninglorious glorious drive round thePiazza Gran Duca, past the Duomo,outside the walls, and in again at theCascine. It was like the trail of a visionin the evening sun. I saw the Perseus ina sort of flash. The Duomo is moreafter the likeness of a Duomo than Pisa

can show; I like those masses inecclesiastical architecture. Now we areplotting how to, engage a carriage for amonth's service without ruiningourselves, for we must see, and I can'twalk and see, though much strongerthan when we parted, and lookingmuch better, as Robert and the lookingglass both do testify. I have seemed atlast 'to leap to a conclusion' ofconvalescence. But the heat oh, so hotit is. If it is half as hot with you, youmust be calling on the name of St.Lawrence by this time, and require no'turning.' I should not like to travelunder such a sun. It would be too likeplaying at snapdragon. Yes, 'brightlyhappy.' Women generally lose by

marriage, but I have gained the worldby mine. If it were not for some griefs,which are and must be griefs, I shouldbe too happy perhaps, which is goodfor nobody. May God bless you, mydear, dearest friend! Robert must becontent with sending his love to-day,and shall write another day. We bothlove you every day. My love and a kissto dearest Gerardine, who is toremember to write to me.

Your ever affectionate BA.

To H.S. Boyd Florence: May 26, 1847.

I should have answered your letter, mydearest friend, more quickly, but whenit came I was ill, as you may have heard,and afterwards I wished to wait until Icould send you information about theLeaning Tower and the bells[159]. Thebook you required, about the cathedral,Robert has tried in vain to procure foryou. Plenty of such books, but not inEnglish. In London such things are tobe found, I should think, withoutdifficulty, for instance, 'Murray'sHandbook to Northern Italy,' thoughrather dear (12s.), would give yousufficiently full information upon theecclesiastical glories both of Pisa andof this beautiful Florence, fromwhence I write to you.... I will answer

for the harmony of the bells, as welived within a stone's throw of them,and they began at four o'clock everymorning and rang my dreams apart.The Pasquareccia (the fourth) especiallyhas a profound note in it, which maywell have thrilled horror to thecriminal's heart.[160] It was ghastly inits effects; dropped into the deep ofnight like a thought of death. Oftenhave I said, 'Oh, how ghastly!' and thenturned on my pillow and dreamed abad dream. But if the bell founders atPisa have a merited reputation, let noone say as much for the bellringers. Themanner in which all the bells of all thechurches in the city are shaken togethersometimes would certainly make you

groan in despair of your ears. Thediscord is fortunately indescribable.Well but here we are at Florence, themost beautiful of the cities devised byman....

In the meanwhile I have seen theVenus, I have seen the divine Raphaels.I have stood by Michael Angelo's tombin Santa Croce. I have looked at thewonderful Duomo. This cathedral!After all, the elaborate grace of thePisan cathedral is one thing, and themassive grandeur of this of Florence isanother and better thing; it struck mewith a sense of the sublime inarchitecture. At Pisa we say, 'Howbeautiful!' here we say nothing; it is

enough if we can breathe. Themountainous marble masses overcomeas we look up we feel the weight ofthem on the soul. Tesselated marbles(the green treading its elaborate patterninto the dim yellow, which seems thegeneral hue of the structure) climbagainst the sky, self-crowned with thatprodigy of marble domes. It struck meas a wonder in architecture. I hadneither seen nor imagined the like of itin any way. It seemed to carry itstheology out with it; it signified morethan a mere building. Tell meeverything you want to know. I shalllike to answer a thousand questions.Florence is beautiful, as I have saidbefore, and must say again and again,

most beautiful. The river rushesthrough the midst of its palaces like acrystal arrow, and it is hard to tell, whenyou see all by the clear sunset, whetherthose churches, and houses, andwindows, and bridges, and peoplewalking, in the water or out of thewater, are the real walls, and windows,and bridges, and people, and churches.The only difference is that, downbelow, there is a double movement; themovement of the stream besides themovement of life. For the rest, thedistinctness of the eye is as great in oneas in the other.... Remember me to suchof my friends as remember me kindlywhen unreminded by me. I am veryhappy happier and happier.

ELIBET.

Robert's best regards to you always.

[Footnote 159: It will be rememberedthat Mr. Boyd took a great interest inbells and bell ringing. The passageomitted below contains an extract fromMurray's Handbook with reference tothe bells of Pisa.]

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

To Mrs. Jameson Palazzo Guidi, ViaMaggio, Florence: August 7, 1847[postmark].

You will be surprised perhaps, andperhaps not, dearest friend, to find thatwe are still at Florence. Florence 'holdsus with a glittering eye;' there's a charmcast round us, and we can't get away. Inthe first place, your news of Recoarocame so late that, as you said yourself,we ought to have been there beforeyour letter reached us. Nobody wouldencourage us to go north on anygrounds, indeed, and if anybody speaksa word now in favour of Venice,straight comes somebody else speakingthe direct contrary. Altogether, we tookto making a plan of our own a great,wild, delightful plan of plunging intothe mountains and spending two or

three months at the monastery ofVallombrosa, until the heat was passed,and dear Mr. Kenyon decided, and wecould either settle for the winter atFlorence or pass on to Rome. Couldanything look more delightful than thatWell, we got a letter ofrecommendation to the abbot, and leftour apartment, Via delle Belle Donne, aweek before our three months weredone, thoroughly burned out by thesun; set out at four in the morning,reached Pelago, and from thencetravelled five miles along a 'via nonrotabile' through the most romanticscenery. Oh, such mountains! as if thewhole world were alive with mountainssuch ravines black in spite of flashing

waters in them such woods and rockstravelled in basket sledges drawn byfour white oxen Wilson and I and theluggage and Robert riding step by step.We were four hours doing the fivemiles, so you may fancy what roughwork it was. Whether I was most tiredor charmed was a tug between body andsoul. The worst was that, there being anew abbot at the monastery an austereman jealous of his sanctity and theapproach of women our letter, andRobert's eloquence to boot, didnothing for us, and we wereingloriously and ignominiouslyexpelled at the end of five days. Forthree days we were welcome; for twomore we kept our ground; but after

that, out we were thrust, with baggageand expectations. Nothing could bemuch more provoking. And yet wecame back very merrily fordisappointed people to Florence,getting up at three in the morning, androlling or sliding (as it might happen)down the precipitous path, and seeinground us a morning glory ofmountains, clouds, and rising sun, suchas we never can forget back to Florenceand our old lodgings, and an eatablebreakfast of coffee and bread, and aconfession one to another that if wehad won the day instead of losing it,and spent our summer with the monks,we should have grown considerablythinner by the victory. They make their

bread, I rather imagine, with thesawdust of their fir trees, and, exceptoil and wine yes, and plenty of beef(of fleisch, as your Germans say, of allkinds, indeed), which isn't precisely thefare to suit us we were thrown fornourishment on the great sightsaround. Oh, but so beautiful weremountains and forests and waterfallsthat I could have kept my groundhappily for the two months eventhough the only book I saw there wasthe chronicle of their San Gualberto. Ishe not among your saints Being routedfairly, and having breakfasted fully atour old apartment, Robert went out tofind cool rooms, if possible, and makethe best of our position, and now we

are settled magnificently in this PalazzoGuidi on a first floor in an apartmentwhich looks quite beyond our means,and would be except in the dead part ofthe season a suite of spacious roomsopening on a little terrace andfurnished elegantly rather to suit ourpredecessor the Russian prince thanourselves but cool and in a delightfulsituation, six paces from the PiazzaPitti, and with right of daily admissionto the Boboli gardens. We pay what wepaid in the Via Belle Donne. Isn't thisprosperous You would be surprised tosee me, I think, I am so very well (andlook so) dispensed from being carriedupstairs, and inclined to take a run, fora walk, every now and then. I scarcely

recognise myself or my ways, or myown spirits, all is so different....

We have made the acquaintance of Mr.Powers,[161] who is delightful of amost charming simplicity, with thosegreat burning eyes of his. Tell me whatyou 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 fallback regularly. Write of your book andyourself, and write soon; and let me be,as always, your affectionate BA.

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

Dear Aunt Nina, Ba has said somethingfor me, I hope. In any case, my lovegoes with hers, I trust you are well andhappy, as we are, and as we would makeyou if we could. Love to Geddie. Everyours, [R.B.]

[Footnote 161: The American sculptor.]

To Mrs. Martin Florence: August 7,1847.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, How I havebeen longing to get this letter, whichcomes at last, and justifies the longingby the pleasure it gives!... How kind,how affectionate you are to me, andhow strong your claim is that I should

thrust on you, in defiance of goodtaste and conventions, every evidenceand assurance of my happiness, so asto justify your faith to yourselves andothers. Indeed, indeed, dearest Mrs.Martin, you may 'exult' for me and thisthough it should all end here and now.The uncertainties of life and deathseem nothing to me. A year (nearly) issaved from the darkness, and if thatone year has compensated for thosethat preceded it which it has,abundantly why, let it for those thatshall follow, if it so please God. Comewhat may, I feel as if I never could havea right to murmur. I have been happyenough. Brought about too it was,indeed, by a sort of miracle which to

this moment, when I look back,bewilders me to think of; and if youknew the details, counted the littlesteps, and could; compare my moralposition three years and a half ago withthis, you would come to despise SanGualberto's miraculous tree atVallombrosa, which, being dead, gaveout green leaves in recognition of hisapproach, as testified by the inscriptiondo you remember But you can't stopto-day to read mine, so rather I shall tellyou of our exploit in the mountains.Only one thing I must say first, onething which you must forgive me forthe 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 youmay, because, horrible to relate, it is inthe shop windows), will you have thekindness, for my sake, not to fancy likeRobert it being, as he says himself, thevery image of 'a young man at WaterlooHouse, in a moment of inspiration "Alovely blue, ma'am."' It is as like Robertas Flush. And now I am going to tellyou of Vallombrosa. You heard howwe meant to stay two months there, andyou are to imagine how we got up atthree in the morning to escape the heat(imagine me!) and with all ourpossessions and a 'dozen of port'(which my husband doses me withtwice a day because once it wasnecessary) proceeded to Pelago by

vettura, and from thence in two sledges,drawn each by two white bullocks upto the top of the holy mountain.(Robert was on horseback.) Precisely itmust be as you left it. Who can make aroad up a house We were four hoursgoing five miles, and I with all mygoodwill was dreadfully tired, andscarcely in appetite for the beef and oilwith which we were entertained at theHouse of Strangers. We are simplepeople about diet, and had said overand over that we would live on eggsand milk and bread and butter duringthese two months. We might as wellhave said that we would live on mannafrom heaven. The things we had fixedon were just the impossible things. Oh,

that bread, with the fetid smell, whichstuck in the throat like Macbeth's amen!I am not surprised, you recollect it! Thehens had 'got them to a nunnery,' andobjected to lay eggs, and the milk andthe holy water stood confounded. Butof course we spread the tablecloth, justas you did, over all drawbacks of thesort; and the beef and oil, as I said, andthe wine too, were liberal and excellent,and we made our gratitude apparent inRobert's best Tuscan in spite of whichwe were turned out ignominiously atthe end of five days, having beenpermitted to overstay the usual threedays by only two. No, nothing couldmove the lord abbot. He is a newabbot, and; given to sanctity, and has set

his face against women. 'While he isabbot,' he said to our mediating monk,'he will be abbot. So he is abbot, and wehad to come back to Florence.' As Iread in the 'Life of San Gualberto,' laidon the table for the edification ofstrangers, the brothers attain tosanctification, among other means, bycleaning out pigsties with their barehands, without spade or shovel; but thatis uncleanliness enough they wouldn'ttouch the little finger of a woman.Angry I was, I do assure you. I shouldhave liked to stay there, in spite of thebread. We should have been only a littlethinner at the end. And the scenery oh,how magnificent! How we enjoyed thatgreat, silent, ink-black pine wood! And

do you remember the sea of mountainsto the left How grand it is! We were upat three in the morning again to returnto Florence, and the glory of thatmorning sun breaking the clouds topieces among the hills is somethingineffaceable from my remembrance. Wecame back ignominiously to our oldrooms, but found it impossible to stayon account of the suffocating heat, yetwe scarcely could go far from Florence,because of Mr. Kenyon and our hopeof seeing him here (since lost). Aperplexity ended by Robert's discoveryof our present apartments, on the Pittiside of the river (indeed, close to theGrand Duke's palace), consisting of asuite of spacious and delightful rooms,

which come within our means onlyfrom the deadness of the summerseason, comparatively quite cool, andwith a terrace which I enjoy to theuttermost through being able to walkthere without a bonnet, by just steppingout of the window. The church of SanFelice is opposite, so we haven't aneighbour to look through the sunlightor moonlight and take observations.Isn't that pleasant altogether Weordered back the piano and the booksubscription, and settled for twomonths, and forgave the Vallombrosamonks for the wrong they did us, likesecular Christians. What is to comeafter, I can't tell you. But probably weshall creep slowly along toward Rome,

and spend some hot time of it atPerugia, which is said to be coolenough. I think more of other things,wishing that my dearest, kindest sistershad a present as bright as mine to thinknothing at all of the future. DearestHenrietta's position has long made meuneasy, and, since she frees me intoconfidence by her confidence to you, Iwill tell you so. Most undesirable it isthat this should be continued, and yetwhere is there a door open to escape[162] ... My dear brothers have theillusion that nobody should marry onless than two thousand a year. Goodheavens! how preposterous it doesseem to me! We scarcely spend threehundred, and I have every luxury, I ever

had, and which it would be so easy togive up, at need; and Robert wouldn'tsleep, I think, if an unpaid bill draggeditself by any chance into another week.He says that when people get into'pecuniary difficulties,' his 'sympathiesalways go with the butchers andbakers.' So we keep out of scrapes yet,you see....

Your grateful and most affectionate BA.

We have had the most delightful letterfrom Carlyle, who has the goodness tosay that not for years has a marriageoccurred in his private circle in whichhe so heartily rejoiced as in ours. He isa personal friend of Robert's, so that I

have reason to be very proud and glad.

Robert's best regards to you bothalways, and he is no believer inmagnetism (only I am). Do mention Mr.C. Hanford's health. How strange thathe should come to witness my marriagesettlement! Did you hear

[Footnote 162: Miss Henrietta Barrettwas engaged to Captain Surtees Cook,an engagement of which her brothers,as well as her father, disapproved, partlyon the ground of insufficiency ofincome. Ultimately the difficulty wassolved in the same way as in the case ofMrs. Browning.]

To Miss Mitford Florence: August 20,[1847],

I have received your letter at last, myever dearest Miss Mitford, not themissing letter, but the one which comesto make up for it and to catch up mythoughts, which were grumbling athigh tide, I do assure you.... As youobserved last year (not without reason),these are the days of marrying andgiving in marriage. Mr. Horne, yousee[163] ... With all my heart I hope hemay be very happy. Men risk a gooddeal in marriage, though not as much aswomen do; and on the other hand, thesingleness of a man when his youth isover is a sadder thing than the saddest

which an unmarried woman can suffer.Nearly all my friends of both sexeshave been draining off into marriagethese two years, scarcely one will be leftin the sieve, and I may end by sayingthat I have happiness enough for myown share to be divided among themall and leave everyone, contented. Forme, I take it for pure magic, this life ofmine. Surely nobody was ever so happybefore. I shall wake some morning withmy hair all dripping out of theenchanted bucket, or if not we shallboth claim the 'Flitch' next September,if you can find one for us in the landof Cockaigne, drying in expectancy ofthe revolution in Tennyson's'Commonwealth.' Well, I don't agree

with Mr. Harness in admiring the ladyof 'Locksley Hall.' I must either pity ordespise a woman who could havemarried Tennyson and chose acommon man. If happy in her choice, Idespise her. That's matter of opinion,of course. You may call it matter offoolishness when I add that Ipersonally would rather be teased alittle and smoked over a good deal by aman whom I could look up to and beproud of, than have my feet kissed allday by a Mr. Smith in boots and awaistcoat, and thereby chieflydistinguished. Neither I nor another,perhaps, had quite a right to expect acombination of qualities, such as meet,though, in my husband, who is as

faultless and pure in his private life asany Mr. Smith of them all, who wouldnot owe five shillings, who lives like awoman in abstemiousness on apennyworth of wine a day, nevertouches a cigar even.... Do you hear, aswe do, from Mr. Forster, that his[164]new poem is his best work As soon asyou read it, let me have your opinion.The subject seems almost identical withone of Chaucer's. Is it not so We havespent here the most delightful ofsummers, notwithstanding the heat, andI begin to comprehend the possibilityof St. Lawrence's ecstasies on thegridiron. Very hot it certainly has beenand is, yet there have been coolintermissions; and as we have spacious

and airy rooms, and as Robert lets mesit all day in my white dressing gownwithout a single masculine criticism,and as we can step out of the windowon a sort of balcony terrace which isquite private and swims over withmoonlight in the evenings, and as welive upon water melons and iced waterand figs and all manner of fruit, webear the heat with an angelic patienceand felicity which really are edifying. Wetried to make the monks ofVallombrosa let us stay with them fortwo months, but their new abbot saidor implied that Wilson and I stank inhis nostrils, being women, and SanGualberto, the establishes of theirorder, had enjoined on them only the

mortification of cleaning out pigstieswithout fork or shovel. So here acouple of women besides was (asDickens's American said) 'a piling it uprayther too mountainious.' So we weresent away at the end of five days. Soprovoking! Such scenery, such hills,such a sea of hills looking alive amongthe clouds. Which rolled, it was difficultto discern. Such pine woods,supernaturally silent, with the groundblack as ink, such chestnut and beechforests hanging from the mountains,such rocks and torrents, such chasmsand ravines. There were eagles there,too, [and] there was no road. Robertwent on horseback, and Flush, Wilson,and I were drawn in a sledge (i.e. an old

hamper, a basket wine hamper withouta wheel) by two white bullocks up theprecipitous mountains. Think of mytravelling in that fashion in those wildplaces at four o'clock in the morning, alittle frightened, dreadfully tired, but inan ecstasy of admiration above all! Itwas a sight to see before one died andwent away to another world. Well, butbeing expelled ignominiously at the endof five days, we had to come back toFlorence, and find a new apartmentcooler than the old, and wait for dearMr. Kenyon. And dear Mr. Kenyondoes not come (not this autumn, but hemay perhaps at the first dawn ofspring), and on September 20 we takeup our knapsacks and turn our faces

towards Rome, I think, creeping slowlyalong, with a pause at Arezzo, and alonger pause at Perugia, and anotherperhaps at Terni. Then we plan to takean apartment we have heard of, overthe Tarpeian Rock, and enjoy Rome aswe have enjoyed Florence. More canscarcely be. This Florence isunspeakably beautiful, by grace both ofnature and art, and the wheels of lifeslide on upon the grass (according tocontinental ways) with little trouble andless expense. Dinner, 'unordered,'comes through the streets and spreadsitself on our table, as hot as if we hadsmelt cutlets hours before. The scienceof material life is understood here andin France. Now tell me, what right has

England to be the dearest country inthe world But I love dearly dearEngland, and we hope to spend many agreen summer in her yet. The wintersyou will excuse us, will you not Peoplewho are, like us, neither rich nor strong,claim such excuses. I am wonderfullywell, and far better and stronger thanbefore what you call the Pisan 'crisis.'Robert declares that nobody wouldknow me, I look so much better. Andyou heard from dearest Henrietta. Ah,both of my dearest sisters have beenperfect to me. No words can express myfeelings towards their goodness.Otherwise, I have good accounts fromhome of my father's excellent healthand spirits, which is better even than to

hear of his loving and missing me. Ihad a few kind lines yesterday fromMiss Martineau, who invites us fromFlorence to Westmoreland. She wantsto talk to me, she says, of 'her belovedJordan.' She is looking forward to awinter of work by the lakes, and to asummer of gardening. The kindest ofletters Robert has had from Carlyle,who makes us very happy by what hesays of our marriage. Shakespeare'sfavorite air of the 'Light of Love,' withthe full evidence of its beingShakespeare's favorite air, is given inCharles Knight's edition. Seek for itthere. Now do write to me and atlength, and tell me everything ofyourself. Flush hated Vallombrosa, and

was frightened out of his wits by thepine forests. Flush likes civilised life,and the society of little dogs withturned-up tails, such as Florenceabounds with. Unhappily it aboundsalso with fleas, which afflict poor Flushto the verge sometimes of despair.Fancy Robert and me down on ourknees combing him, with a basin ofwater on one side! He suffers to such adegree from fleas that I cannot bear towitness it. He tears off his pretty curlsthrough the irritation. Do you know ofa remedy Direct to me, Poste Restante,Florence. Put via France. Let me hear,do; and everything of yourself, mind. IsMrs. Partridge in better spirits Do youread any new French books Dearest

friend, let me offer you my husband'scordial regards, with the love of yourown affectionate

E.B.B., BA.

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

[Footnote 164: Tennyson's Princess hadjust been published.]

To Mr. Westwood Florence: September1847.

Yes, indeed, my dear Mr. Westwood, Ihave seen 'friars.' We have been on apilgrimage to Vallombrosa, and while

my husband rode up and down theprecipitous mountain paths, I and mymaid and Flush were dragged in ahamper by two white bullocks and suchscenery; such hilly peaks, such blackravines and gurgling waters, and rocksand forests above and below, and at lastsuch a monastery and such friars, whowouldn't let us stay with them beyondfive days for fear of corrupting thefraternity. The monks had a new abbot,a St. Sejanus of a holy man, and apetticoat stank in his nostrils, said he,and all the I beseeching which wecould offer him with joined hands wasclassed with the temptations of St.Anthony. So we had to come away aswe went, and get the better as we could

of our disappointment, and really itwas a disappointment not to be able tostay our two months out in thewilderness as we had planned it, to saynothing of the heat of Florence, towhich at the moment it was notpleasant to return. But we got newlodgings in the shade and comfortedourselves as well as we could.'Comforted' there's a word for Florencethat ingratitude was a slip of the pen,believe me. Only we had set our heartsupon a two months' seclusion in thedeep of the pine forests (which havesuch a strange dialect in the silence theyspeak with), and the mountains weredivine, and it was provoking to becrossed in our ambitions by that little

holy abbot with the red face, and to bedriven out of Eden, even to Florence.It is said, observe, that Milton took hisdescription of Paradise fromVallombrosa so driven out of Eden wewere, literally. To Florence, though! andwhat Florence is, the tongue of man orpoet may easily fail to describe. Themost beautiful of cities, with thegolden Arno shot through the breastof her like an arrow, and 'non dolet' allthe same. For what helps to charm hereis the innocent gaiety of the people,who, for ever at feast day and holidaycelebrations, come and go along thestreets, the women in elegant dressesand with glittering fans, shining awayevery thought of Northern cares and

taxes, such as make people grave inEngland. No little orphan on a housestep but seems to inherit, naturally hisslice of water-melon and bunch ofpurple grapes, and the rich fraternisewith the poor as we are unaccustomedto see them, listening to the same musicand walking in the same gardens, andlooking at the same Raphaels even!Also we were glad to be here just now,when there is new animation andenergy given to Italy by this newwonderful Pope, who is a great manand doing greatly. I hope you give himyour sympathies. Think how seldomthe liberation of a people begins fromthe throne, a fortiori from a papalthrone, which is so high and straight.

[165] And the spark spreads! here iseven our Grand Duke conceding thecivic guard,[166] and forgetting hisAustrian prejudices. The world learns, itis pleasant to observe....

So well I am, dear Mr. Westwood, andso happy after a year's trial of the stuffof marriage, happier than ever, perhaps,and the revolution is so complete thatone has to learn to stand up straightand steadily (like a landsman in a sailingship) before one can do any work withone's hand and brain.

We have had a delightful letter fromCarlyle, who loves my husband, I amproud to say.

[Footnote 165:'This country saving is aglorious thing: And if a common manachieved it well. Say, a rich man didexcellent. A king That grows sublime. Apriest Improbable. A pope Ah, there westop, and cannot bring Our faith up tothe leap, with history's bell

So heavy round the neck of it albeit Wefain would grant the possibility For thysake, Pio Nono!'

Casa Guidi Windows, part i.]

[Footnote 166: The grant of a NationalGuard was made by the Grand Dukeof Tuscany on September 4, 1847, in

defiance of the threat of Austria tooccupy any Italian state in which such aconcession was made to popularaspirations.]

To Miss Mitford [Florence:] October I,1847 [postmark].

Ever dearest Miss Mitford, I amdelighted to have your letter, and loselittle time in replying to it. The lostletter meanwhile does not appear. Themoon has it, to make more shine onthese summer nights; if still one maysay 'summer' now that September isdeep and that we are cool as peoplehoped to be when at hottest.... Do tellme your full thought of the

commonwealth of women.[168] Ibegin by agreeing with you as to hisimplied under-estimate of women; hiswomen are too voluptuous; however,of the most refined voluptuousness.His gardener's daughter, for instance, isjust a rose: and 'a Rose,' one might begall poets to observe, is as preciselysensual as fricasseed chicken, or evenboiled beef and carrots. Did you readMrs. Butler's 'Year of Consolation,' andhow did you think of it in the main Asto Mr. Home's illustrations of nationalmusic, I don't know; I feel a littlejealous of his doing well what manyinferior men have done well men whocouldn't write 'Orion' and the 'Death ofMarlowe.' Now, dearest dear Miss

Mitford, you shall call him 'tiresome' ifyou like, because I never heard himtalk, and he may be tiresome for aught Iknow, of course; but you sha'n't say thathe has not done some fine things inpoetry. Now, you know what the firstbook of 'Orion' is, and 'Marlowe,' and'Cosmo;' and you sha'n't say that youdon't know it, and that when youforgot it for a moment, I did notremind you.... It was our plan to leaveFlorence on the 21st. We stay, however,one month longer, half throughtemptation, half through reason.Which is strongest, who knows Wequite love Florence, and have delightfulrooms; and then, though I am quitewell now as to my general health, it is

thought better for me to travel a monthhence. So I suppose we shall stay. In themeanwhile our Florentines kept theanniversary of our wedding day (andthe establishment of the civic guard)most gloriously a day or two or threeago, forty thousand persons flockingout of the neighbourhood to help theexpression of public sympathy andoverflowing the city. The processionpassed under our eyes into the PiazzaPitti, where the Grand Duke and all hisfamily stood at the palace windowmelting into tears, to receive the thanksof his people. The joy and exultationon all sides were most affecting to lookupon. Grave men kissed one another,and grateful young women lifted up

their children to the level of their ownsmiles, and the children themselvesmixed their shrill little vivas with theshouts of the people. At once, a morefrenetic gladness and a more innocentmanifestation of gladness were neverwitnessed. During three hours and ahalf the procession wound on past ourwindows, and every inch of everyhouse seemed alive with gazers all thattime, the white handkerchiefs flutteringlike doves, and clouds of flowers andlaurel leaves floating down on theheads of those who passed. Banners,too, with inscriptions to suit thepopular feeling 'Liberty' the 'Union ofItaly' the 'Memory of the Martyrs' 'VivaPio Nono' 'Viva Leopoldo Secondo'

were quite stirred with the breath ofthe shouters. I am glad to have seenthat sight, and to be in Italy at thismoment, when such sights are to beseen.[167] My wrist aches a little evennow with the waving I gave to myhandkerchief, I assure you, for Robertand I and Flush sate the whole sightout at the window, and would not bereserved with the tribute of oursympathy. Flush had his two front pawsover the window sill, with his earshanging down, but he confessed at lastthat he thought they were rather longabout it, particularly as it had nothingto do with dinner and chicken bonesand subjects of consequence. He is lesstormented and looks better; in excellent

spirits and appetite always and thinner,like your Flush and very fond ofRobert, as indeed he ought to be. Onthe famous evening of that famous dayI have been speaking of, we lost him heran away and stayed away all nightwhich was too bad, considering that itwas our anniversary besides, and thathe had no right to spoil it. But Iimagine he was bewildered with thecrowd and the illumination, only as hedid look so very guilty and conscious ofevil on his return, there's room forsuspecting him of having been verymuch amused, 'motu proprio,' as ourGrand Duke says in the edict. He wasfound at nine o'clock in the morning atthe door of our apartment, waiting to

be let in mind, I don't mean the GrandDuke. Very few acquaintances have wemade at Florence, and very quietly livedout our days. Mr. Powers the sculptor isour chief friend and favorite, a mostcharming, simple, straight-forward,genial American, as simple as the manof genius he has proved himself needsbe. He sometimes comes to talk andtake coffee with us, and we like himmuch. His wife is an amiable woman,and they have heaps of children fromthirteen downwards, all, except theeldest boy, Florentines, and the sculptorhas eyes like a wild Indian's, so blackand full of light. You would scarcelywonder if they clave the marblewithout the help of his hands. We have

seen besides the Hoppners, LordByron's friends at Venice, you willremember. And Miss Boyle, the nieceof the Earl of Cork, and authoress andpoetess on her own account, havingbeen introduced once to Robert inLondon at Lady Morgan's, has huntedus out and paid us a visit. A veryvivacious little person, with sparklingtalk enough. Lord Holland has lent hermother and herself the famous CareggiVilla, where Lorenzo the Magnificentdied, and they have been living thereamong the vines these four months.These and a few American visitors areall we have seen at Florence. We live afar more solitary life than you do, inyour village and with the 'prestige' of

the country wrapping you round. Praygive your sympathies to our Pope, andcall him a great man. For liberty tospring from a throne is wonderful, butfrom a papal throne is miraculous.That's my doxy. I suppose dear Mr.Kenyon and Mr. Chorley are stillabroad. French books I get at, but atscarcely a new one, which is veryprovoking. At Rome it may be better. Ihave not read 'Martin' even, since thefirst volume in England, nor G. Sand's'Lucretia.'

May God bless you. Think sometimesof your ever affectionate

E.B.B.

[Footnote 167: In Tennyson's Princess.]

[Footnote 168: A picture of the samescene in verse will be found in CasaGuidi Windows, part i.:

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

The 'month' lengthened itself out, andDecember found the Brownings still inFlorence, and definitely establishedthere for the winter. During this time,although there is no allusion to it in theletters, Mrs. Browning must have beenengaged in writing the first part of

'Casa Guidi Windows' with its hopefulaspirations for Italian liberty. It was,indeed, a time when hope seemedjustifiable. Pius IX. had ascended thepapal throne then a temporal as well asa spiritual sovereignty in June 1846,with the reputation of being anxious tointroduce liberal reforms, and even topromote the formation of a unitedItaly. The English Government wasdiplomatically advocating reform, inspite of the opposition of Austria; andits representative, Lord Minto, who wassent on a special mission to Italy tobring this influence to bear on therulers of the various Italian States, wasreceived with enthusiastic joy by thezealots for Italian liberty. The Grand

Duke of Tuscany, as was noticedabove, had taken the first step in thedirection of popular government bythe institution of a National Guard;and Charles Albert of Piedmont wasalways supposed to have the cause ofItaly at heart in spite of the vacillationsof his policy. The catastrophe of 1848was still in the distance; and for themoment a friend of freedom and ofItaly might be permitted to hope much.

Yet a difference will be noticed betweenthe tone of Mrs. Browning's letters atthis time and that which marks herlanguage in 1859. In 1847 she was stillcomparatively new to the country. Sheis interested in the experiment which

she sees enacted before her; she feels, asany poet must feel, the attraction of theidea of a free and united Italy. But herheart is not thrown into the struggle asit was at a later time. She can write, anddoes, for the most part, write, of othermatters. The disappointment of Milanand Novara could not break her heart,as the disappointment of Villafrancawent near to doing. They are not,indeed, so much as mentioned in detailin the letters that follow. It is in 'CasaGuidi Windows' the first part written in1847-8, the second in 1851 that herreflections upon Italian politics, alike intheir hopes and in their failures, mustbe sought.

To Miss Mitford Florence: December 8,1847.

Have you thought me long, my dearestMiss Mitford, in writing When yourletter came we were distracted byvarious uncertainties, torn by wildhorses of sundry speculations, andthen, when one begins by delay inanswering a letter, you are aware how asilence grows and grows. Also I heardof 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 aheart for a heart, if you please; and younever can have reason to reproach minefor not loving you. Think what we have

done since I wrote last to you. Takentwo houses, that is, two apartments,each for six months, presigning thecontract. You will set it down asexcellent poet's work in the way ofdomestic economy; but the fault wasaltogether mine as usual, and myhusband, to please me, took roomswhich I could not be pleased by threedays, through the absence of sunshineand warmth. The consequence was thatwe had to pay heaps of guineas awayfor leave to go away ourselves, anyalternative being preferable to a returnof illness, and I am sure I should havebeen ill if we had persisted in stayingthere. You can scarcely fancy thewonderful difference which the sun

makes in Italy. Oh, he isn't a mere'round O' in the air in this Italy, I assureyou! He makes us feel that he rules theday to all intents and purposes. So awaywe came into the blaze of him here inthe Piazza Pitti, precisely opposite theGrand Duke's palace, I with myremorse, and poor Robert without asingle reproach. Any other man, a littlelower than the angels, would havestamped and sworn a little for the mererelief of the thing, but as to his beingangry with me for any cause, except noteating enough dinner, the said sunwould turn the wrong way first. So herewe are on the Pitti till April, in smallrooms yellow with sunshine frommorning to evening; and most days I

am able to get out into the piazza, andwalk up and down for some twentyminutes without feeling a shadow ofbreath from the actual winter. Also it ispleasant to be close to the Raffaels, tosay nothing of the immense advantageof the festa days, when, day after day,the civic guard comes to show thewhole population of Florence, theirGrand Duke inclusive, the new helmetsand epaulettes and the glory thereof.They have swords, too, I believe,somewhere. The crowds come andcome, like children to see rows of dolls,only the children would tire soonerthan the Tuscans. Robert said musinglythe other morning as we stood at thewindow, 'Surely, after all this, they

would use those muskets.' It's aproblem, a 'grand peut-etre.' I wasrather amused by hearing lately that ourcivic heroes had the gallantry topropose to the ancient military thatthese last should do the night work, i.e.when nobody was looking on and therewas no credit, as they found it dull andfatiguing. Ah, one laughs, you see; onecan't help it now and then. But at thereal and rising feeling of the people bynight and day one doesn't laugh indeed.I hear and see with the deepestsympathy of soul, on the contrary. Ilove the Italians, too, and none the lessthat something of the triviality andinnocent vanity of children abounds inthem. A delightful and most welcome

letter was the last you sent me, mydearest friend. Your bridal visit musthave charmed you, and I am glad youhad the gladness of witnessing someof the happiness of your friend, Mrs.Acton Tyndal, you who have such quicksympathies, and to whom the happinessof a friend is a gain counted in yourown. The swan's shadow is somethingin a clear water. For poor Mrs. , if she isreally, as you say Mrs. Tyndal thinks,pining in an access of literarydespondency, why that only proves tome that she is not happy otherwise, thather life and soul are not sufficientlyfilled for her woman's need. I cannotbelieve of any woman that she canthink of fame first. A woman of genius

may be absorbed, indeed, in the exerciseof an active power, engrossed in thecharges of the course and the combat;but this is altogether different to a vainand bitter longing for prizes, and whatprizes, oh, gracious heavens! The emptycup of cold metal! so cold, so empty to awoman with a heart. So, if your friend'sbelief is true, still more deeply do I pitythat other friend, who is supposed tobe unhappy from such a cause. A fewdays ago I saw a bride of my ownfamily, Mrs. Reynolds, Arlette Butler,who married Captain Reynolds somefive months since.... Many were herexclamations at seeing me. She declaredthat such a change was never seen, Iwas so transfigured with my betterness:

'Oh, Ba, it is quite wonderful indeed!'We had been calculated on, during herthree months in Rome, as a 'piece ofresistance,' and it was a disappointmentto find us here in a corner with the salt.Just as I was praised was poor Flushcriticised. Flush has not recovered fromthe effects yet of the summer plague offleas, and his curls, though growing, arenot grown. I never saw him in suchspirits nor so ugly; and though Robertand I flatter ourselves upon 'thesensible improvement,' Arlette couldonly see him with reference to the past,when in his Wimpole Street days hewas sleek and over fat, and she criedaloud at the loss of his beauty. Then wehave had [another] visitor, Mr. Hillard,

an American critic, who reviewed me in[the old] world, and so came to view mein the new, a very intelligent man, of agood, noble spirit. And Miss Boyle,ever and anon, comes at night, at nineo'clock, to catch us at our hot chestnutsand mulled wine, and warm her feet atour fire; and a kinder, more cordial littlecreature, full of talent andaccomplishment, never had the world'spolish on it. Very amusing, too, she is,and original, and a good deal oflaughing she and Robert make betweenthem. Did I tell you of her before, andhow she is the niece of Lord Cork, andpoetess by grace of certain Irish MusesNeither of us know her writings in anyway, but we like her, and for the best

reasons. And this is nearly all, I think,we see of the 'face divine,' masculineand feminine, and I can't make Robertgo out a single evening, not even to aconcert, nor to hear a play of Alfieri's,yet we fill up our days with books andmusic (and a little writing has its share),and wonder at the clock for galloping.It's twenty-four o'clock with us almostas soon as we begin to count. Do tellme of Tennyson's book, and of MissMartineau's. I was grieved to hear adistant murmur of a rumour of anapprehension of a return of hercomplaint: somebody said that shecould not bear the pressure of dress, andthat the exhaustion resulting from thefits of absorption in work and

enthusiasm on the new subject ofEgypt was painfully great, and that herfriends feared for her. I should thinkthat the bodily excitement and fatigueof her late travels must have beenhighly hazardous, and that indeed,throughout her convalescence, sheshould have more spared herself inclimbing hills and walking and ridingdistances. A strain obviously mightundo everything. Still, I do hope thatthe bitter cup may not be filled for heragain. What a wonderful discovery thissubstitute for ether inhalations[169]seems to be. Do you hear anything ofits operation in your neighbourhoodWe have had a letter from Mr. Horne,who appears happy, and speaks of his

success in lecturing on Ireland, and ofa new novel which he is about topublish in a separate form after havingprinted it in a magazine. We have notset up the types even of our plans abouta book, very distinctly, but we shall dosomething some day, and you shall hearof it the evening before. Being toohappy doesn't agree with literaryactivity quite as well as I should havethought; and then, dear Mr. Kenyoncan't persuade us that we are not richenough, so as to bring into force alower order of motives. He talks ofRome still. Now write, dear, dearestMiss Mitford, and tell me of yourselfand your health, and do, do love me asyou used to do. As to French books,

one may swear, but you can't get a newpublication, except by accident, at thisexcellent celebrated library ofVieusseux, and I am reduced to readsome of my favorites over again, I andRobert together. You ought to hearhow we go to single combat, ever andanon, with shield and lance. Thegreatest quarrel we have had since ourmarriage, by the way (always exceptingmy crying conjugal wrong of not eatingenough!), was brought up by Masson'spamphlet on the Iron Mask andFouquet. I wouldn't be persuaded thatFouquet was 'in it,' and so 'the anger ofmy lord waxed hot.' To this day he sayssometimes: 'Don't be cross, Ba! Fouquetwasn't the Iron Mask after all.'

God bless you, dearest Miss Mitford.Your ever affectionate E.B.B.

We are here till April.

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

To Mrs. Jameson Florence: December1847.

Indeed, my dear friend, you have a rightto complain of me, whether or not wehad any in thinking ourselves deeplyinjured creatures by your last silence.Yet when in your letter which came atlast, you said, 'Write directly,' I meant to

write directly; I did not take out myvengeance in a foregone malice, be verysure. Just at the time we were in a hardknot of uncertainties about Rome andVenice and Florence, and a cold houseand a warm house; for instance wemanaged (that is I did, for altogether itwas my fault) to take two apartments inthe course of ten days, each for a termof six months, getting out of one ofthem by leaving the skirts of ourgarments, rent, literally, in the hand ofthe proprietor. You have heard most ofthis, I dare say, from Mr. Kenyon or mysisters. Now, too, you are aware of ourbeing in Piazza Pitti, in a charmed circleof sun blaze. Our rooms are small, butof course as cheerful as being under

the very eyelids of the sun must makeeverything; and we have a cook in thehouse who takes the office of traiteuron him and gives us English muttonchops at Florentine prices, both of usquite well and in spirits, and (thoughyou never will believe this) happier thanever. For my own part, you know Ineed not say a word if it were not true,and I must say to you, who saw thebeginning with us, that this end offifteen months is just fifteen timesbetter and brighter; the mystical 'moon'growing larger and larger till scarcelyroom is left for any stars at all: the onlydifferences which have touched mebeing the more and more happiness. Itwould have been worse than

unreasonable if in marrying I hadexpected one quarter of suchhappiness, and indeed I did not, to domyself justice, and every now and thenI look round in astonishment andthankfulness together, yet with a sortof horror, seeing that this is not heavenafter all. We live just as we did whenyou knew us, just as shut-up a life.Robert never goes anywhere except totake a walk with Flush, which isn't myfault, as you may imagine: he has notbeen out one evening of the fifteenmonths; but what with music andbooks and writing and talking, wescarcely know how the days go, it'ssuch a gallop on the grass. We are goingthrough some of old Sacchetti's

novelets now: characteristic work forFlorence, if somewhat dull elsewhere.Boccaccios can't be expected to springup with the vines in rows, even in thisclimate. We got a newly printedaddition to Savonarola's poems theother day, very flat and cold, they didnot catch fire when he was burnt. Themost poetic thing in the book is hisface on the first page, with that eager,devouring soul in the eyes of it. Youmay suppose that I am able sometimesto go over to the gallery and adore theRaphaels, and Robert will tell you ofthe divine Apollino which you missedseeing in Poggio Imperiale, and which Ishall be set face to face before, someday soon, I hope....

Father Prout was in Florence for sometwo hours in passing to Rome, and ofcourse, according to contract of spiritsof the air, Robert met him, and heard agreat deal of you and Geddie (sawGeddie's picture, by the way, andthought it very like), was told much tothe advantage of Mr. Macpherson,[170]and at the end of all, kissed in the openstreet as the speaker was about todisappear in the diligence. When youwrite, tell me of the book. Surely it willbe out anon, and then you will be free,shall you not Have you seen Tennyson'snew poem, and what of it MissMartineau is to discourse about Egypt,I suppose; but in the meanwhile do you

hear that she forswears mesmerism, asMr. Spenser Hall does, according to thereport Robert brings me home fromthe newspaper reading. Now I shallleave him room to stand on and speak aword to you. Give my love toGerardine, and don't forget to mentionher letter. I hope you are happy aboutyour friends, and that, in particular,Lady Byron's health is strengtheningand to strengthen. Always my dearfriend's

Most affectionate E.B.B.

Dear Aunt Nina, A corner is just theplace for eating Christmas pies in, butfor venting Christmas wishes, hardly!

What has Ba told you and wished youin the way of love I wish you the sameand love you the same, but Geddie,being part of you, gets her due part. Weare as happy as two owls in a hole, twotoads under a tree stump; or any otherqueer two poking creatures that we letlive, after the fashion of their blackhearts, only Ba is fat and rosy; yes,indeed! Florence is empty and pleasant.Goodbye, therefore, till next year shallit not be then we meet God bless you.R.B.

[Footnote 170: Miss Bate's fiance.]

To Miss Mitford Florence: February 22,[1848].

Your letter, my dearest friend, whichwas written, a part at least, beforeChristmas, came lingering in long afterthe new year had seen out its matins.Oh, I had wondered so, and wished soover the long silence. My fault, perhapsin a measure, for I know how silent Iwas before. Yes, and you tell me ofyour having been unwell (bad news),and of your dear Flush's death, whichmade me sorrowful for you, as I mightreasonably be. And now tell me more.Have you a successor to him Once youtold me that one of the race was intraining, but as you say nothing now Iam all in a doubt. Let me heareverything. If I had been you, I think I

should have preferred some quite otherkind of dog, as the unlikeness of alikeness would be apt to bring a pain tome; but people can't reason aboutfeelings, and feelings are like the colourof eyes, not the same in different faces,however general may be the proximityof noses.... The great subject witheverybody just now is the new hope ofItaly, and the liberal constitution, givennobly by our good, excellent GrandDuke, whose praise is in all the houses,streets, and piazzas. The other evening,the evening after the gift, he wentprivately to the opera, was recognised,and in a burst of triumph and a gloryof waxen torches was brought back tothe Pitti by the people. I was undressing

to go to bed, had my hair down overmy shoulders under Wilson's ministry,when Robert called me to look out ofthe window and see. Through the darknight a great flock of stars seemedsweeping up the piazza, but not insilence, nor with very heavenly noises.The 'Evvivas' were deafening. So glad Iwas. I, too, stood at the window andclapped 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 is underthe cloud, and God knows how all mayend as the thunder ripens. Now Imustn't, I suppose, write politics. Ourplans about England are afloat.

Impossible to know what we shall do,but if not this summer, the summerafter must help us to the sight of somebeloved faces. It will be a midsummerdream, and we shall return to winter inItaly. My Flush is as well as ever, andperhaps gayer than ever I knew him. Heruns out in the piazza whenever hepleases, and plays with the dogs whenthey are pretty enough, and wags his tailat the sentinels and civic guard, andtakes the Grand Duke as a sort ofneighbour of his, whom it is properenough to patronise, but who hasconsiderably less inherent merit anddignity than the spotted spaniel in thealley to the left. We have been readingover again 'Andre' and 'Leone

Leoni,'[171] and Robert is in anenthusiasm about the first. Happyperson, you are, to get so at new books.Blessed is the man who reads Balzac, oreven Dumas. I have got to admireDumas doubly since that fight andscramble for his brains in Paris. Nowdo think of me and love me, and let mebe as ever your affectionate

BA.

Robert's regards always. Say particularlyhow you are, and may God bless you,dearest Miss Mitford, and make youhappy.

[Footnote 171: Novels by George

Sand.]

To Miss Mitford Florence: April 15,[1848].

... My Flush has recovered his beauty,and is in more vivacious spirits than Iremember to have seen him. Still, thedays come when he will have nopleasure and plenty of fleas, poor dog,for Savonarola's martyrdom here inFlorence is scarcely worse than Flush'sin the summer. Which doesn't preventhis enjoying the spring, though, andjust now, when, by medical command, Idrive out two hours every day, hisdelight is to occupy the seat in thecarriage opposite to Robert and me,

and look disdainfully on all the littledogs who walk afoot. We drive day byday through the lovely Cascine (wherethe trees have finished and spread theirwebs of full greenery, undimmed bythe sun yet), first sweeping through thecity, past such a window where BiancaCapello looked out to see the Duke goby,[172] and past such a door whereLapo stood, and past the famous stonewhere Dante drew his chair out to sit.[173] Strange, to have all that old-worldlife about us, and the blue sky so brightbesides, and ever so much talk on ourlips about the new French revolution,and the King of Prussia's cunning, andthe fuss in Germany and elsewhere.Not to speak of our own particular

troubles and triumphs in Lombardyclose by. The English are flying fromFlorence, by the way, in a helter skelter,just as they always do fly, except (to dothem justice) on a field of battle. Thefamily Englishman is a dreadfulcoward, be it admitted frankly. See howthey run from France, even to my dearexcellent Uncle Hedley, who has toomany little girls in his household to staylonger at Tours. Oh, I don't blame himexactly. I only wish that he had waited alittle longer, the time necessary forbeing quite reassured. He has greatstakes in the country a house at Toursand in Paris, and twenty thousandpounds in the Rouen railway. ButFlorence will fall upon her feet we may

all be certain, let the worst happen thatcan. Meanwhile, republicans as I andmy, husband are by profession, we veryanxiously, anxiously even to pain, lookon the work being attempted and donejust now by the theorists in Paris; farfrom half approving of it we are, andfar from being absolutely confident ofthe durability of the other half. Tell mewhat you think, and if you are notanxious too. As to communism, surelythe practical part of that, the only notdangerous part, is attainable simply bythe consent of individuals who may trythe experiment of associating theirfamilies in order to the cheaperemployment of the means of life, andsuccessfully in many cases. But make a

government scheme of even so much, andyou seem to trench on the individualliberty. All such patriarchal planning ina government issues naturally intoabsolutism, and is adapted to states ofsociety more or less barbaric. Libertyand civilisation when married togetherlawfully rather evolve individuality thantend to generalisation. Is this not true Ifear, I fear that mad theories promisingthe impossible may, in turn, make thepeople mad. I Louis Blanc knows notwhat he says. Have I not mentioned toyou a very gifted woman, a sculptress,Mademoiselle de Fauveau, who lives inFlorence with her mother practising herprofession, an exile from France, inconsequence of their royalist opinions

and participation in the Vendeestruggle, some sixteen or fifteen yearsOn that occasion she was mistaken forand allowed herself to be arrested asMadame de la Roche Jacquelin;therefore she has justified, by sufferingin the cause, her passionate attachmentto it. A most interesting person she is;she called upon us a short time ago andinterested us much. And Mrs. Jamesonwould tell you that her celebrity in herart is not comparative 'for a woman,'but that, since Benvenuto Cellini, morebeautiful works of the kind have notbeen accomplished. An exquisitefountain she has lately done for theEmperor of Russia. She has workmenunder her, and is as 'professional' in

every respect as if neither woman nornoble. At the first throb of thisrevolution of course she dreamt theimpossible about that dear 'Henri Cinq,'who is as much out of the question asHenri Quatre himself; and now it endswith the 'French Legation' coming tosettle in the house precisely opposite tohers, with a hideous sign-paintingappended O the Gallic cock on one legand at full crow inscribed, 'Liberte,Egalite, Fraternite.' This, and the deathof her favorite dog, whom, afterseventeen years' affection, she wasforced to have destroyed on account ofa combination of diseases, has quitesaddened the sculptress. When shecame to see us I observed that after so

long a residence at Florence she mustregard it as a second 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 the book. I maylong, I fancy. It is dismal to have todisappoint my dearest sisters, whohoped for me in England this summer,but our English visit must be for nextsummer instead; there seems too muchagainst it just now. The drawback ofItaly is the distance from England. If itwere but as near as Paris, for instance,why in that case we should settle here atonce, I do think, the conveniences andluxuries of life are of such incrediblecheapness, the climate so divine, andthe way of things altogether so serene

and suited to our tastes and instincts.But to give up England and the English,the dear, dearest treasure of Englishlove, is impossible, so we just lingerand linger. The Boyles go to Englandfrom the press of panic, Lady Boylebeing old and infirm. Ah, but yourtalking friend would interest you, andyou might accept the talk ininfinitesimal doses, you know.Lamartine has surely acted down thefallacy of the impractical tendencies ofimaginative men. I am full of Francejust now. Are you all prepared for anoutbreak in Ireland I hope so. Myhusband has the second edition of hiscollected poems[174] in the press bythis time, by grace of Chapman and

Hall, who accept all risks. You speak ofTennyson's vexation about thereception of the 'Princess.' Why did Mr.Harness and others, who 'never couldunderstand' his former divine works,praise this in manuscript till the poet'shope grew to the height of hisambition Strangely unfortunate. Wehave not read it yet. I hear thatTennyson had the other day everythingpacked for Italy, then turned his facetoward Ireland, and went there. Oh, fora talk with you. But this is a sort oftalk, isn't it Accept my husband'sregards. As to my love, I throw it to youover the [sea] with both hands. Godbless you.

Your ever affectionate BA.

[Footnote 172: See Browning's TheStatue and the Bust.]

[Footnote 173: 'the stone CalledDante's a plain flat stone scarcediscerned From others in the pavementwhereupon He used to bring his quietchair out, turned To Brunelleschi'schurch, and pour alone The lava of hisspirit when it burned.' Casa GuidiWindows, part i.]

[Footnote 174: This edition, publishedin 1849 in two volumes contained onlyParacelsus and the plays and poems ofthe Bells and Pomegranates series.]

To John Kenyan [Florence:] May I, [1848].

My dearest Mr. Kenyon, Surely it isquite wrong that we three, Robert, you,and I, should be satisfied with writinglittle dry notes, as short as so manyproclamations, and those of the orderof your anti-Chartist magistracy,'Whereas certain evil disposed persons&c. &c.,' instead of our anti-AustrianGrand duchy's 'O figli amati' (howcharacteristic of the north and thesouth, to be sure, is this contrast! Yet,after all, they might have managed itrather better in England!) little drynotes brief and business-like as an anti-Chartist proclamation! And, indeed,

two of us are by no means satisfied,whatever the third may be. The otherday we were looking over some of thedear delightful letters you used to writeto us. Real letters those were, and notlittle dry notes at all. Robert said, 'WhenI write to dear Mr. Kenyon I really dofeel overcome by the sense of what Iowe to him, and so, as it is beyondwords to say, why generally I say as littleas possible of anything, keeping myselfto matters of business.' An alternativevery objectionable, I told him; for tohave 'a dumb devil' from ever suchgrateful and sentimental reasons, whenthe Alps stand betwixt friend, isdamnatory in the extreme. Then, as youare not 'too grateful' to us, why don't you

write Pray do, my dear friend. Let us allwrite as we used to do. And to makesure of it, I begin.

Since I ended last the world has turnedover on its other side, in order, onemust hope, to some happy change inthe dream. Our friend, Miss Bayley, inthat very kind letter which has justreached me and shall be answereddirectly (will you tell her with mythankful love ), asks if Robert and I arecommunists, and then half draws backher question into a discreet reflectionthat I, at least, was never muchcelebrated for acumen on politicaleconomy. Most true indeed! Andtherefore, and on that very ground, is it

not the more creditable to me that Idon't set up for a communistimmediately In proportion to theignorance might be the stringency ofthe embrace of 'la verite sociale:' so Iclaim a little credit that it isn't. For reallywe are not communists, farther than toadmit the wisdom of voluntaryassociation in matters of material lifeamong the poorer classes. And tolegislate even on such points seems asobjectionable as possible; allintermeddlings of government withdomesticities, from Lacedaemon toPeru, were and must be objectionable;and of the growth of absolutism, letus, theorise as we choose. I would havethe government educate the people

absolutely, and then give room for theindividual to develop himself into lifefreely. Nothing can be more hateful tome than this communist idea ofquenching individualities in the mass.As if the hope of the world did notalways consist in the eliciting of theindividual man from the backgroundof the masses, in the evolvement ofindividual genius, virtue, magnanimity.Do you know how I love France andthe French Robert laughs at me for themania of it, or used to laugh longbefore this revolution. When I was aprisoner, my other mania forimaginative literature used to beministered to through the prison barsby Balzac, George Sand, and the like

immortal improprieties. They kept thecolour in my life to some degree anddid good service in their time to me, Ican assure you, though in dear discreetEngland women oughtn't to confess tosuch reading, I believe, or you told meso yourself one day. Well, but throughreading the books I grew to loveFrance, in a mania too; and the interest,which all must feel in the lateoccurrences there, has been with me,and is, quite painful. I read thenewspapers as I never did in my life,and hope and fear in paroxysms, yes,and am guilty of thinking far more ofParis than of Lombardy itself, and tryto understand financial difficulties andsocial theories with the best will in the

world; much as Flush tries tounderstand me when I tell him thatbarking and jumping may beunseasonable things. Both of us openour eyes a good deal, but thecomprehension is questionable after all.What, however, I do seem least of all tocomprehend, is your hymn of triumphin England, just because you have alower ideal of liberty than the Frenchpeople have. See if in Louis Philippe'stime France was not in many respectsmore advanced than England is now,property better divided, hereditaryprivilege abolished! Are we to blowwith the trumpet because we respectthe 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 havenot more of them. That's their fault.Mine, you will say, is being pert aboutpolitics when you would rather haveanything else in a letter from Italy. Youhave heard of my illness, and will havebeen sorry for me, I am certain; butwith blessings edging me round, I neednot catch at a thistle in the hedge tomake a 'sorrowful complaignte' of. Ourplans have floated round and round, inand out of all the bays and creeks ofthe Happy Islands....

Meanwhile here we are and when doyou mean to come to see us, pray Mind,I hold by the skirts of the vision for

next winter. Why, surely you won't talkof 'disturbances' and 'revolutions,' andthe like disloyal reasons which send ourbrave countrymen flying on all sides, asif every separate individual expected tobe bombarded per se. Now, mind youcome; dear dear Mr. Kenyon, howdelighted past expression we should beto see you! Ah, do you fancy that I haveno regret for our delightful gossips If Ihave the feeling I told you of forBalzac and George Sand, what must Ihave for you Now come, and let us seeyou! And still sooner, if you please,write to us and write of yourself and indetail and tell us particularly, first if thewinter has left no sign of a cough withyou, and next, what you mean by

something which suggests to my fancythat you have a book in the course ofprinting. Is that true Tell me all about itall! Who can be interested, pray, if I amnot For your and Mr. Chorley's and Mr.Forster's kind dealings with Robert'spoems I thank you gratefully; and as athird volume can bring up the rearquickly in the case of success, I makeno wailing for my 'Luria,' however dearit may be.[175]

You are not to fancy that I am unwellnow. On the contrary, I am nearly asstrong as ever, and go out in thecarriage for two hours every day,

besides a little walk sometimes. Not aword more to-day. Write do and youshall hear from us at length. Robertsends his own love, I suppose. We bothlove you from our hearts.

Your ever affectionate and grateful BA.(who can't read over, and writes in sucha hurry!)

It was about this time, as appears fromthe following letter, that the Browningsfinally anchored themselves in Florenceby taking an unfurnished suite ofrooms in the Palazzo Guidi, andmaking there a home for themselves,Here, in the Via Maggio, almostopposite the Pitti Palace, and within

easy distance of the Ponte Vecchio, isthe dwelling known to all lovers ofEnglish poetry as Casa Guidi, andbearing now upon its walls the nameof the English poetess whose life andwritings formed, in the graceful wordsof the Italian poet, 'a golden ringbetween Italy and England.' Whatevermight be their migrations and they weremany, especially in later years CasaGuidi was henceforth their home.[176]

[Footnote 175: Apparently it had beenproposed to omit Luria from the newedition; but, if so, the intention was notcarried out.]

[Footnote 176: It will interest many

readers to know that Casa Guidi is nowthe property of Mr. R. BarrettBrowning.]

To Miss Mitford May 28, 1848.

... And now I must tell you what wehave done since I wrote last, littlethinking of doing so. You see ourproblem was to get to England as muchin our summers as possible, theexpense of the intermediate journeysmaking it difficult of solution. Onexamination of the whole case, itappeared manifest that we werethrowing money into the like to hearyou talk of poor France; how I hopethat you are able to hope for her. Oh,

this absurdity of communism andmythological fete-ism! where can it endThey had better have kept LouisPhilippe after all, if they are no morepractical. Your Madame must beinsufferable indeed, seeing that herknowledge of these subjects and mendid not make her sufferable to you. Mycuriosity never is exhausted. What Ihold is that the French have a higherideal than we, and that all thisclambering, leaping, struggling ofindefinite awkwardness simply provesit. But success in the republic is differentstill. I fear for them. My uncle and hisfamily are safe at Tunbridge Wells, myaunt longing to be able to get backagain. For those who are still nearer to

me, I have no heart to speak of them,loving them as I do and must to theend, whatever that end may be; but mydearest sisters write often to me neverlet me miss their affection. I am quitewell again, and strong, and Robert andI go out after tea in a wandering walkto sit in the Loggia and look at thePerseus, or, better still, at the divinesunsets on the Arno, turning it to puregold under the bridges. After more thantwenty months of marriage, we arehappier than ever I may say we. Italy willregenerate herself in all senses, I hopeand believe. In Florence we are veryquiet, and the English fly inproportion. N.B. Always first fly themajors and gallant captains, unless

there's a general. How I should like tosee dear Mr. Horne's poem! He's bold,at least yes, and has a great heart to bebold with. A cloud has fallen on mesome few weeks ago, in the illness anddeath of my dear friend Mr. Boyd,[177]but he did not suffer, and is not to bemourned by those without hope [sic].Still, it has been a cloud. May God blessyou, my beloved friend. Write soon,and of yourself, to your everaffectionate

BA.

My husband's regards go to you, ofcourse.

[Footnote 177: Mr. Boyd died on May10, 1848.]

To Miss Browning [Florence: about June1848.]

My dearest Sarianna, At last, you see, Igive sign of life. The love, I hope youbelieved in without sign or symbol; andeven for the rest, Robert promised toanswer for me like godfather orgodmother, and bear the consequenceof my sins....

We are a little uneasy just now as towhether you will be overjoyed or underjoyed by our new scheme of taking anunfurnished apartment. It would spoil

all, for instance, if your dear motherseemed disappointed vexed in the leastdegree. And I can understand how, topersons at a distance and of courseunable to understand the wholecircumstances of the case, the fact ofan apartment taken and furnished mayseem to involve some dreadful givingup for ever and ever of country andfamily which would be as dreadful tous as to you! How could we give youup, do you think, when we love youmore and more Oh no. If Robert hassucceeded in making clear the subjectto you, you will all perceive, just as weknow, that we have simply thus solvedthe problem of making our smallincome carry us to England, not only

next summer, but many a summer after.We should like to give every summer todear England, and hide away from thecold only when it comes. By ourscheme we shall have saved money evenat the end of the present year; while forafterward, here's a residence that is, apieda terre in Italy, all but free when we wishto use it; and when we care to let it,producing eight or ten pounds a monthin help of travelling expenses. It's thebest investment for Mr. Moxon's moneywe could have looked the world overfor. So the learned tell us; and after all,you know, we only pay in theproportion of your working classes inthe Pancras building contrived for themby the philanthropy of your

Southwood Smiths. I do wish youcould see what rooms we have, whatceilings, what height and breadth, whata double terrace for orange trees; howcool, how likely to be warm, howperfect every way! Robert leaned onceto a ground floor in the FrescobaldiPalace, being bewitched by a garden fullof camellias, and a little pond of goldand silver fish; but while he saw thefish I saw the mosquitos in clouds,such an apocalypse of them as has notyet been visible to me in all Florence,and I dread mosquitos more thanAustrians; and he, in his unspeakablegoodness, deferred to my fear in amoment and gave up the camelliaswithout one look behind. A heavy

conscience I should have if it were notthat the camellia garden was certainlyless private than our terrace here, wherewe can have camellias also if we please.How pretty and pleasant your cottage atWindsor must be! We had a long museover your father's sketch of it, and setfaces at the windows. That the dearinvalid is better for the change musthave brightened it, too, to hercompanions, and the very sound of a'forest' is something peculiarlydelightful and untried to me. I knowhills well, and of the sea too much; butnow I want forests, or quite, quitemountains, such as you have not inEngland.

Robert says that if 'Blackwood' likes toprint a poem of mine and send you theproofs, you will be so very good as tolike to correct them. To me it seems toomuch to ask, when you have work forhim to do beside. Will it be too much,or is nothing so to your kindness Iwould ask my other sisters, who wouldgladly, dear things, do it for me; but Ihave misgivings through their being soentirely unaccustomed to occupationsof the sort, or any critical reading ofpoetry of any sort. Robert is quite welland in the best spirits, and has theheadache now only very occasionally. Iam as well as he, having quite recoveredmy strength and power of walking. Sowe wander to the bridge of Trinita

every evening after tea to see the sunseton the Arno. May God bless you all!Give my true love to your father andmother, and my loving thanks toyourself for that last stitch in the stool.How good you are, Sarianna, to yourever affectionate sister

BA.

Always remind your dear mother thatwe are no more bound here than whenin furnished lodgings. It is a merename.

To Mrs. Martin Palazzo Guidi: June 20,[1848].

My dearest Mrs. Martin, Now I amgoing to answer your letter, which I allbut lost, and got ever so many daysbeyond the right day, because youdirected it to Mrs. William Browning.Pray remember Robert Browning for thefuture, in right descent from RobertBrunnyng,[178] the first English poet.Mrs. Jameson says, 'It's ominous of theactual Robert's being the last Englishpoet;' a saying which I give you toremember us by, rejecting the omen....We have grown to be Florentinecitizens, as perhaps you have heard.Health and means both forbade oursettlement in England; and the journeybackwards and forwards being anothersort of expense, and very necessary

with our ties and affections, we had tothink how to live here, when we werehere, at the cheapest. The differencebetween taking a furnished apartmentand an unfurnished one is somethingimmense. For our furnished rooms wehave had always to pay some fourguineas a month; and unfurnishedrooms of equal pretension we couldhave for twelve a year, and the furniture(out and out) for fifty pounds. Thiscalculation, together with theconsideration that we could let ourapartment whenever we travelled andreceive back the whole cost, could notchoose, of course, but determine us.On coming to the point, however, wegrew ambitious, and preferred giving

five-and-twenty guineas for a noblesuite of rooms in the Palazzo Guidi, astone's throw from the Pitti, andfurnishing them after our own tasterather than after our economy, theeconomy having a legitimate share ofrespect notwithstanding; and thesatisfactory thing being that the wholeexpense of this furnishing rococochairs, spring sofas, carved bookcases,satin from cardinals' beds, and the restis covered by the proceeds of ourbooks during the last two winters. Thisis satisfying, isn't it We shall stand safewithin the borders of our narrowincome even this year, and next yearcomes the harvest! We shall go toEngland in the spring, and return home

to Italy. Do you understand Mr.Kenyon, our friend and counsellor,writes to applaud such prudence wasnever known before among poets.Then we have a plan, that when thesummer (this summer) grows too hot,we shall just take up our carpet-bag andWilson and plunge into the mountainsin search of the monasteries beyondVallombrosa, from Arezzo go to St.Sepolchro in the Apennines, and thenceto Fano on the seashore, making around back perhaps (after seeing thegreat fair at Sinigaglia) to Ravenna andBologna home. As to Rome, our plan isto give up Rome next winter, seeingthat we must go to England in thespring. I must see my dearest sisters and

whoever else dear will see me, andRobert must see his family beside; andgoing to Rome will take us too far fromthe route and cost too much; and thenwe are not inclined to give the first-fruits of our new apartment tostrangers if we could let it ever so easilythis year. You can't think how well therooms look already; you must comeand see them, you and dear Mr. Martin.Three immense rooms we have, and afourth small one for a book room andwinter room windows opening on alittle terrace, eight windows to thesouth; two good bedrooms behind,with a smaller terrace, and kitchen, &c.,all on a first floor and Count Guidi'sfavorite suite. The Guidi were

connected by marriage with theUgolino of Pisa, Dante's Ugolino, onlywe shun all traditions of the Tower ofFamine, and promise to give youexcellent coffee whenever you willcome to give us the opportunity. Weshall have vines and myrtles and orangetrees on the terrace, and I shall have awatering-pot and garden just as you do,though it must be on the bricks insteadof the ground. For temperature, thestoves are said to be very effective inthe winter, and in the summer we arecool and airy; the advantage of thesethick-walled palazzos is coolness insummer and warmth in winter. I amvery well and quite strong again, orrather, stronger than ever, and able to

walk as far as Cellini's Perseus in themoonlight evenings, on the other sideof the Arno. Oh, that Arno in thesunset, with the moon and evening starstanding by, how divine it is!...

Think of me as ever your mostaffectionate BA.

[Footnote 178: Otherwise known asRobert Mannyng, or Robert de Brunne,author of the Handlyng Synne and aChronicle of England. He flourishedabout 1288-1338.]

To Miss Mitford Florence: July 4, [1848].

It does grieve me, my ever dearest Miss

Mitford, to hear of the suffering whichhas fallen upon you! Oh, rheumatismor not, whatever the name may be, dotake care, do consider, and turn yourdear face toward the seaside;somewhere where you can have warmsea bathing and sea air, and be able toassociate the word 'a drive' not withmad ponies, but the mildest ofdonkeys, on a flat sand. The good itwould do you is incalculable, I amcertain; it is precisely a case for changeof air, with quiet....

As for when you come to Florence, wewon't have 'a pony carriage between us,'if you please, because we may have acarriage and a pair of horses and a

coachman, and pay as little as for thepony-chair in England. For threehundred a year one may live much likethe Grand Duchess, and go to theopera in the evening at fivepence-halfpenny inclusive. Indeed, poorpeople should have their patriotismtenderly dealt with, when, after certainexperiments, they decide on living uponthe whole on the Continent. Thedifferences are past belief, beyondexpectation, and when the sunshine isthrown in, the head turns at once, andyou fall straight into absenteeism. Ah,for the 'long chats' and the 'havingEngland at one another's fireside!' Youtalk of delightful things indeed. We arevery quiet, politically speaking, and

though we hear now and then ofmelancholy mothers who have to partwith their sons for Lombardy,[179] andthough there are processions for theblessing of flags and an occasionalfiring of guns for a victory, or a cry inthe streets, 'Notizie della guerra leggete,signori;' this is all we know of Radetskyin Florence; while, for civil politics, themeeting of the senate took place a fewdays since to the satisfaction ofeverybody, and the Grand Duke'sspeech was generally admired. Theelections have returned moderate men,and many land-proprietors, and Robert,who went out to see the procession ofmembers, was struck by the gravethoughtful faces and the dignity of

expression. We are going some day tohear the debates, but it has pleased theirsignoria to fix upon twelve (noon) formeeting, and really I do not dare to goout in the sun. The hour is sufficientlyconclusive against dangerousenthusiasm. Poor France, poor France!News of the dreadful massacre at Parisjust reaches us, and the letters andnewspapers not arriving to-day,everybody fears a continuation of thecrisis. How is it to end Who 'despairsof the republic ' Why, I do! I fear, I fear,that it cannot stand in France, and youseem to have not much more hope. Myhusband has a little, with melancholyintermediate prospects; but my ownbelief that the people have had enough

of democratic institutions and will beimpatient for a kingship anew. Whomwill they have How did you feel whenthe cry was raised, 'Vive l'Empereur'Only Prince Napoleon is a Napoleoncut out in paper after all. The Prince deJoinville is said to be very popular. Itmakes me giddy to think of the awfulprecipices which surround France tothink, too, that the great danger is onthe question of property, which isperhaps divided there more justly thanin any other country of Europe.Lamartine has comprehended nothing,that is clear, even if his amount ofenergy had been effectual.... Yes, dosend me the list of Balzac, after 'LesMiseres de la Vie Conjugale,' I mean. I

left him in the midst of 'La Femme deSoixante Ans,' who seemed on thepoint of turning the heads of all 'lajeunesse' around her; and, after all, shedid not strike me as so charming. ButBalzac charms me, let him write whathe will; he's an inspired man. Tell me,too, exactly what Sue has done after'Martin.' I read only one volume of'Martin.' And did poor Soulie finish his'Dramas' And after 'Lucretia' what didGeorge Sand write When Robert and Iare ambitious, we talk of buying Balzacin full some day, to put him up in ourbookcase from the convent, if thecarved-wood angels, infants andserpents, should not finish moulderingaway in horror at the touch of him. But

I fear it will rather be an expensivepurchase, even here. Would that he gaveup the drama, for which, as youobserve, he has no faculty whatever. Infact, the faculty he has is the veryreverse of the dramatic, ordinarilyunderstood.... Dearest Mr. Kenyon iscalled quite well and delightful by thewhole world, though he suffered fromcough in the winter; and he is bringingout a new book of poems, a 'Day atTivoli,' and others; and he talksenergetically of coming to Florence thisautumn. Also, we have hopes of Mr.Chorley. I congratulate you on thegoing away of Madame. Coming andgoing bring very various associations inthis life of ours. Why, if you were to

come we should appreciate ourfortune, and you should have myparticular chair, which Robert callsmine because I like sitting in a cloud;it's so sybaritically soft a chair. Now Ilove you for the kind words you say ofhim, who deserves the best words ofthe best women and men, whereverspoken! Yes, indeed, I am happy.Otherwise, I should have a stone wherethe heart is, and sink by the weight ofit. You must have faith in me, for Inever can make you thoroughly tounderstand what he is, of himself, andto me the noblest and perfectest ofhuman beings. After a year and tenmonths' absolute soul-to-soulintercourse and union, I have to look

higher still for my first ideal. You won'tblame me for bad taste that I say thesethings, for can I help it, when I amwriting my heart to you It is a heartwhich runs over very often with agrateful joy for a most peculiar destiny,even in the midst of some bitterdrawbacks which I need not allude tofarther....

May God bless you continually, even asI am

Your affectionate BA.

[Footnote 179: The insurrection ofLombardy against Austrian rule hadtaken place in March, and was

immediately followed by war betweenSardinia and Austria, in which theItalians gained some initial successes.Fighting continued through thesummer, and was temporarily closed byan armistice in August.]

To Mrs. Jameson Palazzo Guidi: July 15,[1848].

Now at last, my very dear friend, I amwriting to you, and the reproach yousent to me in your letter shall not bedriven inwardly any more by my self-reproaches. Wasn't it your fault after all,a little, that we did not hear oneanother's voice oftener You are so long inwriting. Then I have been putting off

and putting off my letter to you, justbecause I wanted to make a full letterof it; and Robert always says that it'sthe bane of a correspondence to makea full letter a condition of writing at all.But so much I had to tell you! while themere outline of facts you had fromothers, I knew. Which is just said thatyou may forgive us both, and believethat we think of you and love you, yes,and talk of you, even when we don'twrite to you, and that we shall write toyou for the future more regularly,indeed. Your letter, notwithstanding itsreproach, was very welcome and verykind, only you must be fagged with thebook, and saddened by Lady Byron'sstate of health, and anxious about

Gerardine perhaps. The best of all wasthe prospect you hold out to us ofcoming to Italy this year. Do, do come.Delighted we shall be to see you inFlorence, and wise it will be in you tocast behind your back both the fear ofRadetsky and as much English care asmay be. Now, would it not do infinitegood to Lady Byron if you could carryher with you into the sun Surely itwould do her great good; the change,the calm, the atmosphere of beauty andbrightness, which harmonises sowonderfully with every shade ofhuman feeling. Florence just now, andthanks to the panic, is tolerably clean ofthe English you scarcely see an Englishface anywhere and perhaps this was a

circumstance that helped to give Robertcourage to take our apartment here and'settle down.' You were surprised at sodecided a step I dare say, and, I believe,though too considerate to say it in yourletter, you have wondered in yourthoughts at our fixing at Florenceinstead of Rome, and without seeingmore of Italy before the finality ofmaking a choice. But observe, Florenceis wonderfully cheap, one lives here forjust nothing; and the convenience inrespect to England, letters, and thefacility of letting our house in ourabsence, is incomparable altogether. AtRome a house would be habitable onlyhalf the year, and the distance and theexpense are objections at the first sight

of the subject.... Altogether, if I couldbut get a supply of French books,turning the cock easily, it would beperfect; but as to anything new in thebook way, Vieusseux seems to havemade a vow against it, and poor Robertcomes and goes in a state ofdesperation between me and thebookseller ('But what can I do, Ba '),and only brings news of some pitifulrevolution or other which promises afull flush of republican virtues andfalls off into the fleur de lis as usual.Think of our not having read 'Lucretia'yet George Sand's. And Balzac is six orseven works deep from us; but these areevils to be borne. We live on just in thesame way, having very few visitors, and

receiving them in the quietest ofhospitalities. Mr. Ware, the American,who wrote the 'Letters from Palmyra,'and is a delightful, earnest, simpleperson, comes to have coffee with usonce or twice a week, and very muchwe like him. Mr. Hillard, anothercultivated American friend of ours, youhave in London, and we should gladlyhave kept longer. Mr. Powers does notspend himself much upon visiting,which is quite right, but we do hope tosee a good deal of Mademoiselle deFauveau. Robert exceedingly admiresher. As to Italian society, one may aswell take to longing for the evening star,for it seems quite as inaccessible; andindeed, of society of any sort, we have

not much, nor wish for it, nor miss it.Dearest friend, if I could open myheart to you in all seriousness, youwould see nothing there but a sort ofenduring wonder of happiness yes, andsome gratitude, I do hope, besides.Could everything be well in England, Ishould only have to melt out of thebody at once in the joy and the glow ofit. Happier and happier I have been,month after month; and when I hearhim talk of being happy too, my verysoul seems to swim round with feelingswhich cannot be spoken. But I tell youa little, because I owe the telling to you,and also that you may set down in yourphilosophy the possibility of book-making creatures living happily

together. I admit, though, to begin (orend), that my husband is an exceptionalhuman being, and that it wouldn't bejust to measure another by him. We areplanning a great deal of enjoyment inthis 'going to the fair' at Sinigaglia,meaning to go by Arezzo and SanSepolchro, and Urbino, to Fano, wherewe shall pitch our tent for the benefit,as Robert says, of the sea air and theoysters. Fano is very habitable, and wemay get to Pesaro and the footsteps ofCastiglione's 'courtier,' to say nothingof Bernardo Tasso; and Anconabeckons from the other side ofSinigaglia, and Loreto beside, only weshall have to restrain our flights a little.The passage of the Apennine is said to

be magnificent, and, altogether, surely itmust be delightful; and we take onlytwo carpet bags not to be weigheddown by 'impedimenta,' and have ourown home, left in charge of the porter,to return to at last, I am very well andshall be better for the change, thoughRobert is dreadfully afraid, as usual,that I shall fall to pieces at the firstmotion....

May God bless you! Ever I am youraffectionate BA.

Write to Florence as usual PosteRestante. You will hear how we are ingreat hopes of dear Mr. Kenyon.

Dear Aunt Nina, Only a word in all thehurry of setting off. We love you as youlove us, and are pretty nearly as happyas you would have us. All love andprosperity to dear Geddie, too; what doyou say of 'Landor,' and my notsending it to Forster or somebody Cheche (as the Tuscans exclaim), who was itpromised to call at my people's, whowould have tendered it forthwith I willsee about it as it is. Goodbye, dearestaunt, and let no revolution disturb yourgood will to Ba and

R.B.

To Miss Mitford Florence: August 24,1848.

Ever dearest Miss Mitford, It's greatcomfort to have your letter; for as itcame more lingeringly than usual, I hadtime to be a little anxious, and even myhusband has confessed since that hethought what he would not say aloudfor fear of paining me, as to theprobability of your being less well thanusual. Your letters come so regularly tothe hour, you see, that when it strikeswithout them, we ask why. Thank God,you are better after all, and reviving inspirits, as I saw at the first glance beforethe words said it clearly....

As for ourselves, we have scarcely doneso well, yet well; having enjoyed a great

deal in spite of drawbacks. Murray, thetraitor, sent us to Fano as a 'delightfulsummer residence for an Englishfamily,' and we found it uninhabitablefrom the heat, vegetation scorched withpaleness, the very air swooning in thesun, and the gloomy looks of theinhabitants sufficiently corroborativeof their words, that no drop of rain ordew ever falls there during the summer.A 'circulating library' 'which doesn'tgive out books,' and 'a refined andintellectual Italian society' (I quoteMurray for that phrase) which 'neverreads a book through' (I quote Mrs.Wiseman, Dr. Wiseman's mother, whohas lived in Fano seven years), completethe advantages of the place, yet the

churches are beautiful, and a divinepicture of Guercino's is worth going allthat way to see.[180] By a happyaccident we fell in with Mrs. Wiseman,who, having married her daughter toCount Gabrielli with ancestralpossessions in Fano, has lived on therefrom year to year, in a state ofpermanent moaning as far as I couldapprehend. She is a very intelligent andvivacious person, and having been usedto the best French society, bears but illthis exile from the common civilities oflife. I wish Dr. Wiseman, of whosechildhood and manhood she spokewith touching pride, would ask her tominister to the domestic rites of hisbishop's palace in Westminster; there

would be no hesitation, I fancy, in heracceptance of the invitation. Agreeableas she and her daughter were, however,we fled from Fano after three days, and,finding ourselves cheated out of ourdream of summer coolness, resolvedon substituting for it what the Italianscall 'un bel giro.' So we went toAncona, a striking sea city, holding upagainst the brown rocks and elbowingout the purple tides, beautiful to lookupon. An exfoliation of the rock itself,you would call the houses that seem togrow there, so identical is the colourand character. I should like to visitAncona again when there is a little airand shadow; we stayed a week as it was,living upon fish and cold water. Water,

water, was the cry all day long, andreally you should have seen me (or youshould not have seen me) lying on thesofa, and demoralised out of all senseof female vanity, not to say decency,with dishevelled hair at full length, and'sans gown, sans stays, sans shoes, sanseverything,' except a petticoat and whitedressing wrapper. I said somethingfeebly once about the waiter; but Idon't think I meant it for earnest, forwhen Robert said, 'Oh, don't mind,dear,' certainly I didn't mind in the least.People don't, I suppose, when they arein ovens, or in exhausted receivers.Never before did I guess what heat wasthat's sure. We went to Loreto for a day,back through Ancona, Sinigaglia (oh, I

forgot to tell you, there was no fair thisyear at Sinigaglia; Italy will be content, Isuppose, with selling her honour),Fano, Pesaro, Rimini to Ravenna, backagain over the Apennines from Forli. A'bel giro,' wasn't it Ravenna, whereRobert positively wanted to go to liveonce, has itself put an end to thoseyearnings. The churches are wonderful:holding an atmosphere of purple glory,and if one could live just in them, or inDante's tomb well, otherwise keep mefrom Ravenna. The very antiquity ofthe houses is whitewashed, and themarshes on all sides send up stenchesnew and old, till the hot air is sick withthem. To get to the pine forest, which isexquisite, you have to go a mile along

the canal, the exhalations pursuing youstep for step, and, what ruffled memore than all beside, we were notadmitted into the house of Dante'stomb 'without an especial permissionfrom the authorities.' Quite furious Iwas about this, and both of us tooangry to think of applying: but westood at the grated window and readthe pathetic inscription as plainly as ifwe had touched the marble. We stoodthere between three and four in themorning, and then went straight on toFlorence from that tomb of the exiledpoet. Just what we should have done,had the circumstances been arranged ina dramatic intention. From Forli, the airgrew pure and quick again; and the

exquisite, almost visionary scenery ofthe Apennines, the wonderful varietyof shape and colour, the suddentransitions and vital individuality ofthose mountains, the chestnut forestsdropping by their own weight into thedeep ravines, the rocks cloven andclawed by the living torrents, and thehills, hill above hill, piling up theirgrand existences as if they did itthemselves, changing colour in theeffort of these things I cannot give youany idea, and if words could not,painting could not either. Indeed, thewhole scenery of our journey, exceptwhen we approached the coast, was fullof beauty. The first time we crossed theApennine (near Borgo San Sepolcro)

we did it by moonlight, and the fleshwas weak, and one fell asleep, and sawthings between sleep and wake, onlythe effects were grand and singular so,even though of course we lost much inthe distinctness. Well, but you willunderstand from all this that we weredelighted to get home I was, I assureyou. Florence seemed as cool as anoven after the fire; indeed, we called itquite cool, and I took possession ofmy own chair and put up my feet onthe cushions and was charmed, bothwith having been so far and comingback so soon. Three weeks brought ushome. Flush was a fellow traveller ofcourse, and enjoyed it in the mostobviously amusing manner. Never was

there so good a dog in a carriage beforehis time! Think of Flush, too! He has asupreme contempt for trees and hills oranything of that kind, and, in theintervals of natural scenery, he drew inhis head from the window and didn'tconsider it worth looking at; but whenthe population thickened, and when avillage or a town was to be passedthrough, then his eyes were starting outof his head with eagerness; he lookedeast, he looked west, you wouldconclude that he was taking notes orpreparing them. His eagerness to getinto the carriage first used to amuse theItalians. Ah, poor Italy! I am asmortified as an Italian ought to be.They have only the rhetoric of patriots

and soldiers, I fear! Tuscany is to bespared forsooth, if she lies still, andhere she lies, eating ices and keeping thefeast of the Madonna. Perdoni! but shehas a review in the Cascine besides, anda gallant show of some 'ten thousandmen' they are said to have made of itonly don't think that I and Robert wentout to see that sight. We should havesickened at it too much. An amiable,refined people, too, these Tuscans are,conciliating and affectionate. When youlook out into the streets on feast days,you would take it for one great 'rout,'everybody appears dressed for adrawing room, and you can scarcelydiscern the least difference betweenclass and class, from the Grand

Duchess to the Donna di facenda; alsothere is no belying of the costume inthe manners, the most gracious andgraceful courtesy and gentleness beingapparent in the thickest crowds. This isall attractive and delightful; but thepeople wants stamina, wants conscience,wants self-reverence. Dante's soul hasdied out of the land. Enough of this.As for France, I have 'despaired of therepublic' for very long, but the nation isa great nation, and will right itselfunder some flag, white or red. Don'tyou think so Thank you for the newsof our authors, it is as 'the sound of atrumpet afar off,' and I am like the war-horse. Neglectful that I am, I forgot totell you before that you heard quite

rightly about Mr. Thackeray's wife, whois ill so. Since your question, I had ingossip from England that the book'Jane Eyre' was written by a governessin his house, and that the preface to theforeign edition refers to him in somemarked way. We have not seen the bookat all. But the first letter in which youmentioned your Oxford student caughtus in the midst of his work upon art.[181] Very vivid, very graphic, full ofsensibility, but inconsequent in someof the reasoning, it seemed to me, andrather flashy than full in themetaphysics. Robert, who knows agood deal about art, to whichknowledge I of course have nopretence, could agree with him only by

snatches, and we, both of us, standingbefore a very expressive picture ofDomenichino's (the 'David' at Fano)wondered how he could blaspheme soagainst a great artist. Still, he is noordinary man, and for a critic to be somuch a poet is a great thing. Also, wehave by no means, I should imagine,seen the utmost of his stature. Howkindly you speak to me of my dearestsisters. Yes, go to see them wheneveryou are in London, they are worthy ofthe gladness of receiving you. And willyou write soon to me, and tell meeverything of yourself, how you are,how home agrees with you, and thelittle details which are such gold dust toabsent friends....

May God bless you, my beloved friend.Let me ever be (my husband joining inall warm regards) your mostaffectionate

BA.

[Footnote 180:'Guercino drew thisangel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend!)that little child to pray Holding his littlehands up, each to each Pressed gently,with his own head turned away, Overthe earth where so much lay before himOf work to do, though heaven wasopening o'er him, And he was left atFano by the beach.

'We were at Fano, and three times wewent To sit and see him in his chapelthere, And drink his beauty to oursoul's content My angel with me too.']

[Footnote 181: The first two volumesof Modern Painters bore no author'sname, but were described as being 'by agraduate of Oxford.' At a later dateMrs. Browning made Mr. Ruskin'sacquaintance, as some subsequentletters testify.]

To Miss Mitford Florence: October 10,1848.

My ever dearest Miss Mitford, Haveyou not thought some hard thoughts

of me, for not instantly replying to aletter which necessarily must have been,to one who loved you, of such painfulinterest Do I not love you truly Yes,indeed. But while preparing to write toyou my deep regret at hearing that youhad been so ill, illness came in anotherform to prevent me from writing, myhusband being laid up for nearly amonth with fever and ulcerated sorethroat. I had not the heart to write aline to anyone, much less to prepare apacket to escort your letter free fromforeign postage; and to make you payfor a chapter of Lamentations' withoutthe spirit of prophecy, would have beentoo hard on you, wouldn't it Quiteunhappy I have been over those

burning hands and languid eyes, theonly unhappiness I ever had by them,and then he wouldn't see a physician;and if it hadn't been that, just at theright moment, Mr. Mahony, thecelebrated Jesuit, and Father Prout of'Fraser,' knowing everything as thoseJesuits are apt to do, came in to us onhis way to Rome, pointed out that thefever got ahead through weakness andmixed up with his own kind hand apotion of eggs and port wine, to thehorror of our Italian servant, wholifted up his eyes at such a prescriptionfor a fever, crying, 'O Inglesi, Inglesi!'the case would have been far worse, Ihave no kind of doubt. For theeccentric prescription gave the power

of sleeping, and the pulse grew quieterdirectly. I shall always be grateful toFather Prout, always. The very sight ofsome one with a friend's name and acheerful face, his very jests at me forbeing a 'bambina' and frightenedwithout cause, were as comforting asthe salutation of angels. Also, he hasbeen in Florence ever since, and wehave seen him every day; he came todoctor and remained to talk. A verysingular person, of whom the worldtells a thousand and one tales, youknow, but of whom I shall speak as Ifind him, because the utmost kindnessand warmheartedness havecharacterised his whole bearing towardsus. Robert met him years ago at dinner

at Emerson Tennent's, and since hascrossed paths with him on variouspoints of Europe. The first time I sawhim was as he stood on a rock atLeghorn, at our disembarkation in Italy.Not refined in a social sense by anymanner of means, yet a mostaccomplished scholar and vibrating allover with learned associations andvivid combinations of fancy andexperience having seen all the ends ofthe earth and the men thereof, andpossessing the art of talk and quotationto an amusing degree. In another weekor two he will be at Rome.... Howgraphically you give us your Oxfordstudent! Well! the picture is moredistinct than Turner's, and if you had

called it, in the manner of the Master,'A Rock Limpet,' we should haverecognised in it the corresponding typeof the gifted and eccentric writer inquestion. Very eloquent he is, I agree atonce, and true views he takes of Art inthe abstract, true and elevating. It is inthe application of connective logic thathe breaks away from one so violently....We are expecting our books by an earlyvessel, and are about to be very busy,building up a rococo bookcase ofcarved angels and demons. Also weshall get up curtains, and get downbedroom carpets, and finish theremainder of our furnishing business,now that the hot weather is at an end. Isay 'at an end,' though the glass stands

at seventy. As to the 'war,' that is ratherdifferent, it is painful to feel ourselvesgrowing gradually cooler and cooler onthe subject of Italian patriotism, valour,and good sense; but the process isinevitable. The child's play between theLivornese and our Grand Dukeprovokes a thousand pleasantries.Every now and then a day is fixed for arevolution in Tuscany, but up to thepresent time a shower has come andput it off. Two Sundays ago Florencewas to have been 'sacked' by Leghorn,when a drizzle came and saved us. Youthink this a bad joke of mine or animpotent sarcasm, perhaps; whereas Imerely speak historically. Brave men,good men, even sensible men there are

of course in the land, but they are notstrong enough for the times or formasterdom. For France, it is a greatnation; but even in France they want aman, and Cavaignacso[182] only asoldier. If Louis Napoleon had themuscle of his uncle's little finger in hissoul, he would be president, and king;but he is flaccid altogether, you see, andJoinville stands nearer to the royalprobability after all. 'Henri Cinq' is saidto be too closely espoused to theChurch, and his connections at Naplesand Parma don't help his cause. Roberthas more hope of the republic than Ihave: but call ye this a republic Do youknow that Miss Martineau takes up the'History of England' under Charles

Knight, in the continuation of apopular book I regret her fineimagination being so wasted. So yousaw Mr. Chorley What a pleasantflashing in the eyes! We hear of him inHolland and Norway. Dear Mr. Kenyonwon't stir from England, we see plainly.Ah! Frederic Soulie! he is too dead, Ifear. Perhaps he goes on, though,writing romances, after the fashion ofpoor Miss Pickering, that provenothing. I long for my Frenchfountains of living literature, which,pure or impure, plashed in one's face sopleasantly. Some old French 'Memoires'we have got at lately, 'Brienne' forinstance. It is curious how the leadersof the last revolution (under Louis

XVIII.) seem to have despised oneanother. Brienne is very dull and flat.For Puseyism, it runs counter to thespirit of our times, after all, and willnever achieve a church. May God blessyou! Robert's regards go with the loveof your ever affectionate

BA.

[Footnote 182: At this time Presidentof the Council, after suppressing theCommunist rising of June 1848.]

To Mrs. Martin Florence: December 3,1848.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, It seemed long

to me that you had not written, and itseems long to me now that I have notanswered the kind letter which came atlast. Then Henrietta told me of yourbeing unwell at the moment of hermad excursion into Herefordshire.Altogether I want to speak to you andhear from you, and shall be easier andgladder when both are done. Doforgive my sins and write directly, andtell me everything about both of you,and how you are in spirits and health,and whether you really make up yourminds to see more danger in the stormyinfluences of the Continent in themoral point of view than in those ofEngland in the physical. For my part Ihold to my original class of fear, and

would rather face two or threerevolutions than an east wind of anEnglish winter. If I were you I wouldgo to Pau 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 about him[183]),or I would go to Italy and try Florence,where really democratic ministries roaras gently as sucking doves, particularlywhen they are safe in place. We havelistened to dreadful rumours Florencewas to have been sacked several timesby the Livornese; the Grand Duke wentso far as to send away his family toSiena, and we had 'Morte a Fiorentini!'chalked up on the walls. Still, somehowor other, the peace has been kept in

Florentine fashion; it has rained onceor twice, which is always enough hereto moderate the most revolutionarywhen they wear their best surtouts, andI look forward to an unbrokentranquillity just as I used to do, eventhough the windows of the RidolfiPalace (the ambassador in London)were smashed the other evening a fewyards from ours. Perhaps a gentle andaffectionate approach to contempt forour Florentines mixes a little with thisfeeling of security, but what then Theyare an amiable, refined, graceful people,with much of the artistic temperamentas distinguished from that of men ofgenius effeminate, no, rather feminine ina better sense of a fancy easily turned

into impulse, but with no strenuousand determinate strength in them. Whatthey comprehend best in the 'ItalianLeague' is probably a league to wear silkvelvet and each a feather in his hat, tocarry flags and cry vivas, and keep agrand festa day in the piazzas. Betterand happier in this than in stabbingprime ministers, or hanging up theirdead bodies to shoot at; and not muchmore childish than these Frenchpatriots and republicans, who crowntheir great deeds by electing to thepresidency such a man as Prince LouisNapoleon, simply because 'C'est leneveu de son oncle!'[184] A curiousprecedent for a president, certainly; but,oh heavens and earth, what curious

things abroad everywhere just now,inclusive of the sea serpent! I agreewith you that much of all is verymelancholy and disheartening, thoughholding fast by my hope and belief thatgood will be the end, as it always isGod's end to man's frenzies, and thatall we observe is but the fermentationnecessary to the new wine, whichpresently we shall drink pure.Meanwhile, the saddest thing is theimpossibility (which I, for one, feel) tosympathise, to go along with, the peopleto whom and to whose cause all mynatural sympathies yearn. The word'Liberty' ceases to make me thrill, as atsomething great and unmistakable, as,for instance, the other great words

Truth, and Justice; do. The salt has lostits savour, the meaning has escapedfrom the term; we know nothing ofwhat people will do when they aspire toLiberty. The holiness of liberty isdesecrated by the sign of the ass's hoof.Fixed principles, either of opinion oraction, seem clearly gone out of theworld. The principle of Destruction isin the place of the principle of Re-integration, or of Radical Reform, aswe called it in England. I look all roundand can sympathise nowhere. Therulers hold by rottenness, and thepeople leap into the abyss, and nobodyknows why this is, or why that is. As toFrance, my tears (which I really couldn'thelp at the time of the expulsion of

poor Louis Philippe and his family, notbeing very strong just then) arejustified, it appears, though myhusband thought them foolish (and sodid I), and though we both began by anadhesion to the Republic in the cordialmanner. But, just see, the Republic wasa 'man in an iron mask' or helmet, andturns out a military dictatorship, athrottling of the press, a starving of thefinances, and an election of LouisNapoleon to be President. LouisPhilippe was better than all this, takehim at worst, and at worst he did notdeserve the mud and stones cast at him,which I have always maintained andmaintain still. England might have gotup ('happy country') more crying

grievances than France at the momentof outbreak; but what makes outbreaksnow-a-days is not 'the cause, my soul,'but the stuff of the people. You arehuckaback on the other side of theChannel, and you wear out the poorIrish linen, let the justice of the case bewhat it may. Politics enough and toomuch, surely, especially now when theyare depressing to you, and more or lessto everybody.... We are still in the slowagonies of furnishing our apartment.You see, being the poorest and mostprudent of possible poets, we had tosolve the problem of taking ourfurniture out of our year's income(proceeds of poems and the like), andof not getting into debt. Oh, I take no

credit to myself; I was always in debt inmy little way ('small im morals,' as Dr.Bowring might call it) before I married,but Robert, though a poet anddramatist by profession, beingdescended from the blood of all thePuritans, and educated by the strictestof dissenters, has a sort of horrorabout the dreadful fact of owing fiveshillings five days, which I call quitemorbid in its degree and extent, andwhich is altogether unpoeticalaccording to the traditions of theworld. So we have been dragging in byinches our chairs and tables throughoutthe summer, and by no means lookfinished and furnished at this latemoment, the slow Italians coming at

the heels of our slowest intentions withthe putting up of our curtains, whichbegin to be necessary in this Novembertramontana. Yet in a month or threeweeks we shall look quite comfortablebefore Christmas; and in the meantimewe heap up the pine wood and feelperfectly warm with these thick palacewalls between us and the outside air.Also my husband's new edition is onthe edge of coming out, and we havehad an application from Mr. Phelps, ofSadler's Wells, for leave to act his 'Bloton the 'Scutcheon,' which, if it doesn'tsucceed, its public can have neitherhearts nor intellects (that being animpartial opinion), and which, if itsucceeds, will be of pecuniary

advantage to us. Look out in thepapers.... My love and my husband's goto you, our dear friends. Let me bealways

Your affectionate and grateful BA.

While Italy shows herself so politicallydemoralised, and the blood of poorRussia smokes from the ground, theground seems to care no more for itthan the newspapers, or anybody else.

Such a jar of flowers we have to keepDecember. White roses, as in June.

[Footnote 183: Abd-el-Kadersurrendered to the French in Algeria

early in 1848, under an express promisethat he should be sent either toAlexandria or to St. Jean d'Acre; in spiteof which he was sent to France andkept there as a prisoner for severalyears.]

[Footnote 184: Louis Napoleon waselected President of the FrenchRepublic by a popular vote onDecember 10.]

To Miss Mitford Florence: December 16,[1848].

... You are wondering, perhaps, how weare so fool-hardy as to keep onfurnishing rooms in the midst of

'anarchy,' the Pope a fugitive, and thecrowned heads packing up. Ah, but wehave faith in the softness of ourFlorentines, who must be well spurredup to the leap before they do any harm.These things look worse at a distancethan they do near, although, seen farand near, nothing can be worse than theevidence of demoralisation of people,governors, and journalists, in thesympathy given everywhere to theassassination of poor Rossi.[185] IfRossi was retrocessive, he was at least aconstitutional minister, andconstitutional means of opposing himwere open to all, but Italy understandsnothing constitutional; liberty is a fairword and a watchword, nothing more;

an idea it is not in the minds of any.The poor Pope I deeply pity; he is aweak man with the noblest and mostdisinterested intentions. His faithfulflock have nearly broken his heart bythe murder of his two personal friends,Rossi and Palma, and the threat, whichthey sent him by embassy, ofmurdering every man, woman, andchild in the Quirinal, with the exceptionof his Holiness, unless he acceptedtheir terms. He should have gone outto them and so died, but having missedthat opportunity, nothing remained butflight. He was a mere Pope hostage aslong as he stayed in Rome. Curious, the'intervention of the French,' so longdesired by the Italians, and vouchsafed

so.[186] The Florentines open their eyesin mute astonishment, and some ofthem 'won't read the journals any more.'The boldest say softly that the Romansare sure not to bear it. And what is tohappen in France Why, what a worldwe have just now.... Father Prout isgone to Rome for a fortnight, hasstayed three weeks, and day by day weexpect him back again. I don'tunderstand how the Prout papersshould have hurt him ecclesiastically,but that he should be known for theirwriter is not astonishing, as the secretwas never, I believe, attempted to bekept. We have been, at least I have been,a little anxious lately about the fate ofthe 'Blot on the 'Scutcheon,' which Mr.

Phelps applied for my husband'spermission to revive at Sadler's. Ofcourse, putting the request was a mereform, as he had every right to act theplay, and there was nothing to answerbut one thing. Only it made oneanxious made me anxious till we heardthe result, and we, both of us, are verygrateful to dear Mr. Chorley, who notonly made it his business to be at thetheatre the first night, but, before heslept, sat down like a true friend to giveus the story of the result, and never, hesays, was a more complete andlegitimate success. The play wentstraight to the heart of the audience, itseems, and we hear of its continuanceon the stage from the papers. So far, so

well. You may remember, or may nothave heard, how Macready brought itout and put his foot on it in the flashof a quarrel between manager andauthor, and Phelps, knowing the wholesecret and feeling the power of the play,determined on making a revival of iton his own theatre, which was wise, asthe event proves. Mr. Chorley called hisacting really 'fine.' I see the secondedition of the 'Poetical Works'advertised at last in the 'Athenaeum,'and conclude it to be coming outdirectly. Also my second edition iscalled for, only nothing is yet arrangedon that point. We have had a mostinteresting letter from Mr. Home, givingterrible accounts, to be sure, of the

submersion of all literature in Englandand France since the FrenchRevolution, but noble and instructiveproof of individual wave-ridingenergy, such as I have always admiredin him. He and his wife, he says, livechiefly on the produce of their garden,and keep a cheerful heart for the rest;even the 'Institutes' expect gratuitouslectures, so that the sweat of the brainseems less productive than the sweat ofthe brow. I am glad that Mr. SerjeantTalfourd and his wife spokeaffectionately of my husband, for he isattached to both of them.... My Flushhas grown to be passionately fond ofgrapes, devouring bunch after bunch,and looking so fat and well that we

attribute some virtue to them. When hegoes to England he will be as much in astrait as an Italian who related to us hisadventures in London; he had had along walk in the heat, and catchingsight of grapes hanging up in a grocer'sshop, he stopped short to have apennyworth, as he said inwardly tohimself. Down he sat and made out aTuscan luncheon in purple bunches. Atlast, taking out his purse to look for thehalfpence: 'Fifteen shillings, sir, if youplease,' said the shopman. Now dowrite soon, and speak particularly ofyour health, and take care of it anddon't be too complaisant to visitors.May God bless you, my very dearfriend! 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 entranceof the Chamber of Deputies, onNovember 15, 1848. Ten days later thePope fled to Gaeta, and his experimentsin 'reform' came to a final end.]

[Footnote 186: The Pope, havingdeclared war against Austria before hisflight, had invited French support, withthe concurrence of his people; beingexpelled from Rome, he invited (andobtained) French help to restore him,

in spite of the desperate opposition ofhis people.]

CHAPTER VI

1849-1851

There is here a pause of two months inthe correspondence of Mrs. Browning,during which the happiness of heralready happy life was crowned by thebirth, on March 9, 1849, of her son,Robert Wiedeman Barrett Browning.[187] How great a part this childhenceforward played in her life will beshown abundantly by the letters that

follow. Some passages referring to thechild's growth, progress, andperformances have been omitted, partlyin the necessary reduction of the bulkof the correspondence, and partlybecause too much of one subject mayweary the reader. But enough has beenleft to show that, in the case of Mrs.Browning (and of her husbandlikewise), the parent was by no meanslost in the poet. There is little in whatshe says which might not equally besaid, and is in substance said, byhundreds of happy mothers in everyage; but it would be a suppression ofone essential part of her nature, and aninjury to the pleasant picture which thewhole life of this poet pair presents, if

her enthusiasms over her child wereomitted or seriously curtailed.Biographers are fond of elaborating thedetails in which the lives of poets havenot conformed to the standard of themoral virtues; let us at least recognisethat, in the case of Robert andElizabeth Browning, the moral and theintellectual virtues flourished side byside, each contributing its share to thecompleteness of the whole character.

[Footnote 187: Wiedeman was themaiden name of Mr. Browning'smother, her father having been aGerman who settled in Scotland andmarried a Scotch wife.]

The joy of this firstborn's birth was,however, very quickly dimmed by thenews of the death, only a few days later,of Mr. Browning's mother, to whom hewas devotedly attached. Her death wasvery sudden, and the shock of thereaction completely prostrated him fora long time. The following letters fromMrs. Browning tell how he felt this loss.

To Miss Browning April i, 1849[postmark].

I do indeed from the bottom of myheart pity you and grieve with you, mydearest Sarianna. I may grieve with youas well as for you; for I too have lost.Believe that, though I never saw her

face; I loved that pure and tender spirit(tender to me even at this distance), andthat she will be dear and sacred to meto the end of my own life.

Dearest Sarianna, I thank you for yourconsideration and admirable self-control in writing those letters. I dothank and bless you. If the news hadcome unbroken by such precaution tomy poor darling Robert, it would havenearly killed him, I think. As it is, hehas been able to cry from the first, andI am able to tell you that thoughdreadfully affected, of course, for youknow his passionate love for her, he isbetter and calmer now much better. Heand I dwell on the hope that you and

your dear father will come to us atonce. Come dear, dear Sarianna I will atleast love you as you deserve you andhim if I can do no more. If you wouldcomfort Robert, come.

No day has passed since our marriagethat he has not fondly talked of her. Iknow how deep in his dear heart hermemory lies. God comfort you, mydearest Sarianna. The blessing ofblessed duties heroically fulfilled mustbe With you. May the blessing of theBlessed in heaven be added to the rest!

Robert stops me. My dear love to yourfather.

Your ever attached sister, BA.

To Miss Browning [April 1849.]

You will have comfort in hearing, mydearest Sarianna, that Robert is betteron the whole than when I wrote last,though still very much depressed. Iwish I could get him to go somewhereor do something at any rate God'scomforts are falling like dew on all thisaffliction, and must in time make itlook a green memory to you both.Continually he thinks of you and ofhis father believe how continually andtenderly he thinks of you. DearestSarianna, I feel so in the quick of myheart how you must feel, that I scarcely

have courage to entreat you to go outand take the necessary air and exercise,and yet that is a duty, clear as otherduties, and to be discharged like othersby you, as fully, and with as littleshrinking of the will. If your healthshould suffer, what grief upon grief tothose who grieve already! And besides,we who have to live are not to lie downunder the burden. There will be timeenough for lying down presently, verysoon; and in the meanwhile there isplenty of God's work to do with thebody and with the soul, and we have todo it as cheerfully as we can. DearestSarianna, you can look behind andbefore, on blessed memories and holyhopes love is as full for you as ever in

the old relation, even though her life inthe world is cut off. There is no dropof bitterness in all this flood ofsorrow. In the midst of the greatanguish which God has given, you haveto thank Him for some blessing withevery pang as it comes. Never was amore beautiful, serene, assuring deaththan this we are all in tears for for,believe me, my very dear sister, I havemourned with you, knowing what weall have lost, I who never saw her norshall see her until a few years shall bringus all together to the place where nonemourn nor are parted. Sarianna, will itnot be possible, do you think, for youand your father to come here, if onlyfor a few months Then you might

decide on the future upon moreknowledge than you have now. Itwould be comfort and joy to Robertand me if we could all of us livetogether henceforward. Think what youwould like, and how you would bestlike it. Your living on even through thissummer at that house, I, who have wellknown the agony of such bindings tothe rack, do protest against. DearestSarianna, it is not good or right eitherfor you or for your dear father. ForRobert to go back to that house unlessit were to do one of you some good,think how it would be with him! Tell usnow (for he yearns towards you weboth do), what is the best way ofbringing us all together, so as to do

every one of us some good If Florenceis too far off, is there any other placewhere we could meet and arrange forthe future Could not your dear father'sleave of absence be extended thissummer, out of consideration of whathas happened, and would he not be soenabled to travel with you and meet ussomewhere We will do anything. For mypart, I am full of anxiety; and forRobert, you may guess what his is, youwho know him. Very bitter has it beento me to have interposed unconsciouslyas I have done and deprived him of herlast words and kisses very bitter andnothing could be so consolatory to meas to give him back to you at least. Sothink for me, dearest Sarianna think for

your father and yourself, think forRobert and remember that Robert andI will do anything which shall appearpossible to you. May God bless you,both of you! Give my true love to yourfather. Feeling for you and with youalways and most tenderly, I am youraffectionate sister, BA.

To Miss Mitford Florence: April 30,1849.

I am writing to you, at last, you will say,ever dearest Miss Mitford; but, exceptonce to Wimpole Street, this is the firstpacket of letters which goes from mesince my confinement. You will haveheard how our joy turned suddenly

into deep sorrow by the death of myhusband's mother. An unsuspecteddisease (ossification of the heart)terminated in a fatal way, and she lay inthe insensibility precursive of thegrave's, when the letter, written in suchgladness by my poor husband, andannouncing the birth of his child,reached her address. 'It would havemade her heart bound,' said herdaughter to us. Poor, tender heart, thelast throb was too near. The medicalmen would not allow the news to becommunicated. The next joy she feltwas to be in heaven itself. My husbandhas been in the deepest anguish, andindeed, except for the courageousconsideration of his sister, who wrote

two letters of preparation saying that'she was not well,' and she 'was very ill,'when in fact all was over, I amfrightened to think what the resultwould have been to him. He has lovedhis mother as such passionate naturesonly can love, and I never saw a man sobowed down in an extremity of sorrownever. Even now the depression isgreat, and sometimes when I leave himalone a little and return to the room, Ifind him in tears. I do earnestly wish tochange the scene and air; but where togo England looks terrible now. He saysit would break his heart to see hismother's roses over the wall, and theplace where she used to lay her scissorsand gloves. Which I understand so

thoroughly that I can't say, 'Let us go toEngland.' We must wait and see whathis father and sister will choose to door choose us to do, for of course aduty plainly seen would draw usanywhere. My own dearest sisters willbe painfully disappointed by anychange of plan, only they are too goodand kind not to understand thedifficulty, not to see the motive. So doyou, I am certain. It has been very verypainful altogether, this drawing togetherof life and death. Robert was tooenraptured at my safety, and with hislittle son, and the sudden reaction wasterrible. You see how natural that was.How kind of you to write that note tohim full of affectionate expressions

towards me! Thank you, dearest friend.He had begged my sisters to let youknow of my welfare, and I hope theydid; and now it is my turn to know ofyou, and so I do entreat you not todelay, but to let me hear exactly howyou are and what your plans are for thesummer. Do you think of Parisseriously Am I not a sceptic about yourvoyages round the world It's about theonly thing that I don't thoroughlybelieve you can do. But (not to beimpertinent) I want to hear so much! Iwant first and chiefly to hear of yourhealth; and occupations next, and nextyour plans for the summer. LouisNapoleon is astonishing the world, yousee, by his firmness and courage; and

though really I don't make out the aimand end of his French republicans ingoing to Rome to extinguish therepublic there, I wait before I swear athim for it till my information becomesfuller. If they have at Rome such arepublic as we have had in Florence,without a public, imposed by a fewbawlers and brawlers on many mutesand cowards, why, the sooner it goes topieces the better, of course. Probablythe French Government acts uponinformation. In any case, if the Romansare in earnest they may resist eightthousand men.[1] We shall see. My faithin every species of Italian is, however,nearly tired out. I don't believe they aremen at all, much less heroes and

patriots. Since I wrote last to you, Ithink we have had two revolutions hereat Florence, Grand Duke out, GrandDuke in.[188] The bells in the churchopposite rang for both. They firstplanted a tree of liberty close to ourdoor, and, then they pulled it down.The same tune, sung under thewindows, did for 'Viva la republica!'and 'Viva Leopoldo!' The genuinepopular feeling is certainly for theGrand Duke ('O, santissima madre diDio!' said our nurse, clasping her hands,'how the people do love him!'); onlynobody would run the risk of a pin'sprick to save the ducal throne. If theLeghornese, who put up Guerazzi onits ruins, had not refused to pay at

certain Florentine cafes, we shouldn'thave had revolution the second, and allthis shooting in the street! Dr. Harding,who was coming to see me, had time toget behind a stable door, just beforethere was a fall against it of four shotcorpses; and Robert barely managed toget home across the bridges. He hadbeen out walking in the city,apprehending nothing, when the stormgathered and broke. Sad andhumiliating it all has been, and theauthor of 'Vanity Fair' might turn it tobetter uses for a chapter. By the way, wehave just been reading 'Vanity Fair.'Very clever, very effective, but cruel tohuman nature. A painful book, and notthe pain that purifies and exalts. Partial

truths after all, and those notwholesome. But I certainly had no ideathat Mr. Thackeray had intellectualforce for such a book; the power isconsiderable. For Balzac, Balzac mayhave gone out of the world as far as weare concerned. Isn't it hard on us exilesfrom Balzac! The bookseller here,having despaired of the republic andthe Grand Duchy both, I suppose, andtaking for granted on the whole thatthe world must be coming shortly to anend, doesn't give us the sign of a newbook. We ought to, be done with suchvanities. There! and almost I have donemy paper without a single word to youof the baby! Ah, you won't believe that Iforgot him even if I pretend, so I

won't. He is a lovely, fat, strong child,with double chins and rosy cheeks, anda great wide chest, undeniable lungs, Ican assure you. Dr. Harding called him'a robust child' the other day, and 'amore beautiful child he never saw.' Inever saw a child half as beautiful, formy part.... Dear Mr. Chorley has writtenthe kindest letter to my husband. Imuch regard him indeed. May Godbless you. Let me ever be (with Robert'sthanks and warm remembrance),

Your most affectionate BA.

Flush's jealousy of the baby wouldamuse you. For a whole fortnight hefell into deep melancholy and was

proof against all attentions lavished onhim. Now he begins to be consoled alittle and even condescends to patronisethe cradle.

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

[Footnote 188: A revolution, fomentedchiefly by the Leghornese, expelled theGrand Duke in March 1849; aboutseven weeks later a counter-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 yourkindness and affection. I understandwhat I have lost. I know the worth of atenderness such as you speak of, and Ifeel that for the sake of my love forRobert she was ready out of thefullness of her heart to love me also. Ithas been bitter to me that I haveunconsciously deprived him of thepersonal face-to-face shining out of herangelic nature for more than two years,but she has forgiven me, and we shallall meet, when it pleases God, beforeHis throne. In the meanwhile, mydearest Sarianna, we are thinking muchof you, and neither of us can bear thethought of your living on where you

are. If you could imagine the relief itwould be to us to me as well as toRobert to be told frankly what weought to do, where we ought to go, toplease you best you and your dearestfather you would think the wholematter over and use plain words in thespeaking of it. Robert naturally shrinksfrom the idea of going to New Crossunder the circumstances of drearychange, and for his sake England hasgrown suddenly to me a land ofclouds. Still, to see you and his father,and to be some little comfort to youboth, would be the best consolation tohim, I am very sure; and so, dearestSarianna, think of us and speak to us.Could not your father get a long

vacation Could we not meetsomewhere Think how we best maycomfort ourselves by comforting you.Never think of us, Sarianna, as apartfrom you as if our interest or ourpleasure could be apart from yours. Thechild is so like Robert that I can believein the other likeness, and may the innernature indeed, as you say, be after thatpure image! He is so fat and rosy andstrong that almost I am sceptical of hisbeing my child. I suppose he is, after all.May God bless you, both of you. I amashamed to send all these letters, butRobert makes me. He is better, but stillmuch depressed sometimes, and overyour letters he drops heavy tears. Thenhe treasures them up and reads them

again and again. Better, however, on thewhole, he is certainly. Poor little babe,who was too much rejoiced over at first,fell away by a most natural recoil (evenI felt it to be most natural) from all thattriumph, but Robert is still very fondof him, and goes to see him bathedevery morning, and walks up and downon the terrace with him in his arms. Ifyour dear father can toss and rockbabies as Robert can, he will be a nursein great favour.

Dearest Sarianna, take care of yourself,and do walk out. No grief in the worldwas ever freer from the corroding dropof bitterness was ever sweeter, holier,and more hopeful than this of yours

must be. Love is for you on both sidesof the grave, and the blossoms of lovemeet over it. May God's love, too, blessyou!

Your ever affectionate sister, BA.

To Mrs. Martin Florence: May 14,[1849].

My dearest Mrs. Martin, At last I cometo thank you for all your kindness, allyour goodness, all your sympathy forboth of us. Robert would have writtento you in the first instance (for we boththought of you) if we had not agreedthat you would hear as quickly fromHenrietta, we not knowing your direct

address. Also your welcome little noteshould have had an immediateacknowledgment from him if he hadnot been so depressed at that time thatI was glad to ask him to wait till Ishould be ready to write myself. In fact,he has suffered most acutely from theaffliction you have since of courseheard of; and just because he was toohappy when the child was born, the painwas overwhelming afterwards. That iseasy to understand, I think. While hewas full of joy for the child, his motherwas dying at a distance, and the verythought of accepting that new affectionfor the old became a thing to recoilfrom do you not see So far fromsuffering less through the particular

combination of circumstances, as somepeople seemed to fancy he would, hesuffered much more, I am certain, andvery naturally. Even now he is lookingvery unwell thinner and paler thanusual, and his spirits, which used to beso good, have not rallied. I long to gethim away from Florence somewherewhere, I can't fix my wishes; our Englishplans seem flat on the ground for thepresent, that is one sad certainty. Mydearest sisters will be very grieved if wedon't go to England, and yet how can Ieven try to persuade my husband backinto the scene of old associationswhere he would feel so much pain Do Inot know what I myself should sufferin some places And he loved his

mother with all his power of loving,which is deeper and more passionatethan love is with common men. Shehearts of men are generally strong inproportion to their heads. Well, I amnot to send you such a dull letterthough, after waiting so long, and afterreceiving so much to speak thankfullyof. My child you never would believe tobe my child, from the evidence of hisimmense cheeks and chins for praydon't suppose that he has only onechin. People call him a lovely child, andif I were to call him the same itwouldn't be very extraordinary, only Iassure you 'a robust child' I may tellyou that he is with a sufficient modesty,and also that Wilson says he is

universally admired in various tongueswhen she and the nurse go out withhim to the Cascine 'What a beautifulbaby!' and 'Che bel bambino!' He hashad a very stormy entrance upon life,poor little fellow; and when he was justthree days old, a grand festa round theliberty tree planted at our door,attended with military music, civicdancing and singing, and the firing ofcannons and guns from morning tonight, made him start in his cradle, andthrew my careful nurse into paroxysmsof devotion before the 'VergineSantissima' that I mightn't have a feverin consequence. Since then the tree ofliberty has come down with a crash andwe have had another festa as noisy on

that occasion. Revolution and counter-revolution, Guerazzi[189] and Leopold,sacking of Florence and entrance ofthe Austrian army we live througheverything, you see, and baby grows fatindiscriminately. For my part, I amaltogether blasee about revolutions andinvasions. Don't think it want offeeling in me, or want of sympathywith 'the people,' but really I can't helpa certain political latitudinarianismfrom creeping over me in relation tothis Tuscany. You ought to be here tounderstand what I mean and how Ithink. Oh heavens! how ignoble it allhas been and is! A revolution made byboys and vivas, and unmade by boysand vivas no, there was blood shed in

the unmaking some horror and terror,but not as much patriotism and truth ascould lift up the blood from thekennel. The counter-revolution wasstrictly counter, observe. I mean, that ifthe Leghornese troops here bad paidtheir debts at the Florentine coffeehouses, the Florentines would have lettheir beloved Grand Duke stay on atGaeta to the end of the world. TheGrand Duke, too, whose part I havebeen taking hitherto (because he didseem to me a good man, more sinnedagainst than sinning) the Grand Duke Igive up from henceforth, seeing that hehas done this base thing of takingagain his Austrian titles in hisproclamations coincidently with the

approach of the Austrians. Of Rome,knowing nothing, I don't like to speak.If a republic in earnest is establishedthere, Louis Napoleon should not tryto set his foot on it. Dearest Mrs.Martin, how you mistake me aboutFrance, and how too lightly I must havespoken. If you knew how I admire theFrench as a nation! Robert always callsthem 'my beloved French.' Their very faultsappear to me to arise from an excess ofideality land aspiration; but I was vexedrather at their selection of LouisNapoleon a selection since justified bythe firmness and apparent integrity ofthe man. His reputation in England,you will admit, did not promise theconclusion. Will he be emperor, do you

imagine And shall I ever have donetalking politics I would far rather talkof you, after all. Henrietta tells me ofyour looking well, but of your notbeing strong yet. Now do, for once, havea fit of egotism and tell me a littleabout yourself.... Surely I oughtespecially to thank you, dearest kindfriend, for your goodness in writing to ,of which Henrietta very properly toldme. I never shall forget this and otherproofs of your affection for me, andshall remember them with warmgratitude always. As to , I have held outboth [my] hands, and my husband'shands in mine, again and again to him;he cannot possibly, in the secret placeof his heart, expect more from either

of us. My husband would have writtento him in the first place, but for theobstacles raised by himself and others,and now what could Robert write andsay except the bare repetition of what Ihave said over and over for him andmyself It is exactly an excuse not moreand not less. Just before I was ill I sentmy last messages, because, with certainhazards before me, my heart turned tothem naturally. I might as well haveturned to a rock. has been by far thekindest, and has written to me two orthree little notes, and one since thebirth of our child. I love them all fartoo well to be proud, and my husbandloves me too well not to wish to befriends with every one of them; we

have neither of us any stupid feelingabout 'keeping up our dignity.' Yes, Ihad a letter from some time ago, inwhich something was said of Robert'sbeing careless of reconciliation. Ianswered it most explicitly andaffectionately, with every possibleassurance from Robert, and offeringthem from himself the affection of abrother. Not a word in answer! To mypoor dearest papa I have written verylately, and as my letter has not, after aweek, been sent back, I catch at thehope of his being moved a little. If heneither sends it back nor repliesseverely, I shall take courage to write tohim again after a while. It will be animmense gain to get him only to read

my letters. My father and my brothershold quite different positions, ofcourse, and though he has acted sternlytowards me, I, knowing hispeculiarities, do not feel embittered andastonished and disappointed as in theother cases. Absolutely happy mymarriage has been never could there bea happier marriage (as there are nomarriages in heaven); but dear Henriettais quite wrong in fancying, or seemingto fancy, that this quarrel with myfamily has given or gives me slight pain.Old affections are not so easily troddenout of me, indeed, and while I liveunreconciled to them, there must be avoid and drawback. Do write to me andtell me of both of you, my very dear

friends. Don't fancy that we are notanxious for brave Venice and Sicily, andthat we don't hate this Austrianinvasion. But Tuscany has acted a vilepart altogether so vile, that I amsceptical about the Romans. We expectdaily the Austrians in Florence, andhave made up our minds to be verykind. May God bless you! Do write,and mention your health particularly, asI am anxious about it. I am quite wellmyself, and, as ever,

Your affectionate BA.

Don't you both like Macaulay's HistoryWe are delighted just now with it.

[Footnote 189: Chief administrator ofthe Republic of Tuscany during theshort absence of the Grand DukeLeopold.]

To Miss Browning [Florence: about June1849.]

I must say to my dearest Sarianna howdelighted we are at the thought ofseeing her in Florence. I wish it hadbeen before the autumn, but sinceautumn is decided for we must becontent to reap our golden harvest atthe time for such things. Certainly thesummer heat of Florence is terribleenough only we should have carriedyou with us into the shade somewhere

to the sea or to the mountains andRobert has, of course, told you of ourSpezzia plan. The 'fatling of the flock'has been sheared closely of his longpetticoats. Did he tell you that And youcan't think how funny the little creaturelooks without his train, his wise babyface appearing to approve of the wholearrangement. He talks to himself nowand smiles at everybody, and admiredmy roses so much the other day that hewanted to eat them; having a sublimetranscendental notion about the mouthbeing the receptacle of all beauty andglory in this world. Tell your dear fatherthat certainly he is a 'sweet baby,' there'sno denying it. We lay him down on thefloor to let him kick at ease, and he

makes violent efforts to get up byhimself, and Wilson declares that theleast encouragement would set himwalking. Robert's nursing does notmend his spirits much. I shall be veryglad to get him away from Florence; hehas suffered too much here to rally as Ilong to see him do, because, dearestSarianna, we have to live after all; andto live rightly we must turn our facesforward and press forward and notlook backward morbidly for thefootsteps in the dust of those belovedones who travelled with us butyesterday. They themselves are notbehind but before, and we carry withus our tenderness living andundiminished towards them, to be

completed when the round of this lifeis complete for us also. DearestSarianna, why do I say such things, butbecause I have known what grief isOh, and how I could havecompounded with you, grief for grief,mine for yours, for I had no last wordsnor gestures, Sarianna. God keep youfrom such a helpless bitter agony asmine then was. Dear Sarianna, you willthink of us and of Florence, my dearsister, and remember how you havemade us a promise and have to keep it.May God bless you and comfort you.We think of you and love youcontinually, and I am always your mostaffectionate

BA.

In July the move from Florence, ofwhich Mrs. Browning speaks in theabove letter, was effected, the placeultimately chosen for escape from thesummer heat in the valley of the Arnobeing the Bagni di Lucca. Here threemonths were spent, as the followingletters describe. By this time thestruggle for Italian liberty had ended infailure everywhere. The battle ofNovara, on March 23, had prostratedPiedmont, and caused the abdicationof its king, Charles Albert. The TuscanRepublic had come and gone, and theGrand Duke had re-entered his capitalunder the protection of Austrian

bayonets. Sicily had been reduced tosubjection to the Bourbons of Naples.On July 2 the French entered Rome,bringing back the Pope cured of hisleanings to reform and constitutionalgovernment; on the 24th, Venice, afteran heroic resistance, capitulated to theAustrians. The struggle was over for thetime; the longing for liberty becomes,of necessity, silent; and we hear little,for a space, of Italian politics. For themoment it might seem justifiable todespair 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 been forgetting you(how far from that!) but wandering insearch of cool air and a cool boughamong all the olive trees to build oursummer nest on. My husband has beensuffering beyond what one could shutone's eyes to in consequence of thegreat mental shock of last March lossof appetite, loss of sleep, looks quiteworn and altered. His spirits neverrallied except with an effort, and everyletter from New Cross threw him backinto deep depressions. I was veryanxious, and feared much that the endof it all (the intense heat of Florenceassisting) would be a nervous fever orsomething similar. And I had thegreatest difficulty in persuading him to

leave Florence for a month or two hewho generally delights so in travelling,had no mind for change or movement.I had to say and swear that baby and Icouldn't bear the heat, and that wemust and would go away. Ce que femmeveut, if the latter is at all reasonable, orthe former persevering. At last I gainedthe victory. It was agreed that we twoshould go on an exploring journey tofind out where we could have mostshadow at least expense; and we leftour child with his nurse and Wilsonwhile we were absent. We went alongthe coast to Spezzia, saw Carrara withthe white marble mountains, passedthrough the olive forests and thevineyards, avenues of acacia trees,

chestnut woods, glorious surprises ofmost exquisite scenery. I say oliveforests advisedly; the olive grows like aforest tree in those regions, shading theground with tents of silvery network.The olive near Florence is but a shrubin comparison, and I have learnt todespise a little, too, the Florentine vine,which does not swing such portcullisesof massive dewy green from one tree toanother as along the whole road wherewe travelled. Beautiful, indeed, it was.Spezzia wheels the blue sea into thearms of the wooded mountains, andwe had a glance at Shelley's house atLerici. It was melancholy to me, ofcourse. I was not sorry that thelodgings we inquired about were far

above our means. We returned on oursteps (after two days in the dirtiest ofpossible inns), saw Seravezza, a villagein the mountains, where rock, river, andwood enticed us to stay, and theinhabitants drove us off by theirunreasonable prices. It is curious, butjust in proportion to the want ofcivilisation the prices rise in Italy. Ifyou haven't cups and saucers you aremade to pay for plate. Well, so findingno rest for the sole of our feet, Ipersuaded Robert to go to the Baths ofLucca, only to see them. We were toproceed afterwards to San Marcello orsome safer wilderness. We had both ofus, but he chiefly, the strongestprejudice against these Baths of Lucca,

taking them for a sort of wasp's nest ofscandal and gaming, and expecting tofind everything trodden flat by theContinental English; yet I wanted to seethe place, because it is a place to seeafter all. So we came, and were socharmed by the exquisite beauty of thescenery, by the coolness of the climateand the absence of our countrymen,political troubles serving admirably ourprivate requirements, that we made anoffer for rooms on the spot, andreturned to Florence for baby and therest of our establishment withoutfurther delay. Here we are, then; wehave been here more than a fortnight.We have taken an apartment for theseason four months paying twelve

pounds for the whole term, and hopingto be able to stay till the end ofOctober. The living is cheaper thaneven at Florence, so that there has beenno extravagance in coming here. In fact,Florence is scarcely tenable during thesummer from the excessive heat by dayand night, even if there were noparticular motive for leaving it. We havetaken a sort of eagle's nest in this place,the highest house of the highest of thethree villages which are called the Bagnidi Lucca, and which lie at the heart of ahundred mountains sung to continuallyby a rushing mountain stream. Thesound of the river and of the cicala isall the noise we hear. Austrian drumsand carriage wheels cannot vex us; God

be thanked for it; the silence is full ofjoy and consolation. I think myhusband's spirits are better already andhis appetite improved. Certainly littlebabe's great cheeks are growing rosierand rosier. He is out all day when thesun is not too strong, and Wilson willhave it that he is prettier than the wholepopulation of babies here. He fixes hisblue eyes on everybody and smilesuniversal benevolence, rather tooindiscriminately it might be if it werenot for Flush. But certainly, on thewhole he prefers Flush. He pulls hisears and rides on him, and Flush,though his dignity does not approve ofbeing used as a pony, only protests byturning his head round to kiss the little

bare dimpled feet. A merrier, sweeter-tempered child there can't be than ourbaby, and people wonder at his beingso forward at four months old andthink there must be a mistake in his age.He is so strong that when I put out twofingers and he has seized them in hisfists he can draw himself up on hisfeet, but we discourage thisforwardness, which is not desirable, saythe learned. Children of friends ofmine at ten months and a year can't doso much. Is it not curious that my childshould be remarkable for strength andfatness He has a beaming, thinking littleface, too; oh, I wish you could see it.Then my own strength has wonderfullyimproved, just as my medical friends

prophesied; and it seems like a dreamwhen I find myself able to climb thehills with Robert and help him to losehimself in the forests. I have beengrowing stronger and stronger, andwhere it is to stop I can't tell, really; Ican do as much, or more, now than atany point of my life since I arrived atwoman's estate. The air of this placeseems to penetrate the heart and notthe lungs only; it draws you, raises you,excites you. Mountain air without itskeenness, sheathed in Italian sunshine,think what that must be! And the beautyand the solitude for with a few paceswe get free of the habitations of menall is delightful to me. What is peculiarlybeautiful and wonderful is the variety

of the shapes of the mountains. Theyare a multitude, and yet there is nolikeness. None, except where the goldenmist comes and transfigures them intoone glory. For the rest, the mountainthere wrapt in the chestnut forest is notlike that bare peak which tilts againstthe sky, nor like that serpent twine ofanother which seems to move and coilin the moving coiling shadow. Oh, Iwish you were here. You would enjoythe shade of the chestnut trees, and thesound of the waterfalls, and at nightsseem to be living among the stars; thefireflies are so thick, you would likethat too. We have subscribed to aFrench library where there are scarcelyany new books. I have read Bernard's

'Gentilhomme Campagnard' (see howarrieres we are in French literature!), andthought it the dullest and worst of hisbooks. I wish I could see the 'Memoirsof Louis Napoleon,' but there is nochance of such good fortune. All thisegotism has been written with a heartfull of thoughts of you and anxietiesfor you. Do write to me directly and sayfirst how your precious health is, andthen that you have ceased to suffer painfor your friends.... But your dear selfchiefly how are you, my dearest MissMitford I do long so for good news ofyou. On our arrival here Mr. Levercalled on us. A most cordial vivaciousmanner, a glowing countenance, withthe animal spirits somewhat

predominant over the intellect, yet theintellect by no means in default; youcan't help being surprised into beingpleased with him, whatever yourprevious inclination may be. Naturaltoo, and a gentleman past mistake. Hiseldest daughter is nearly grown up, andhis youngest six months old. He haschildren of every sort of intermediateage almost, but he himself is youngenough still. Not the slightest Irishaccent. He seems to have spent nearlyhis whole life on the Continent and byno means to be tired of it. Ah, dearestMiss Mitford, hearts feel differently,adjust themselves differently before theprick of sorrow, and I confess I agreewith Robert. There are places stained

with the blood of my heart for ever,and where I could not bear to standagain. If duty called him to New Crossit would be otherwise, but his sister israther inclined to come to us, I think,for a few weeks in the autumn perhaps.Only these are scarcely times for plansconcerning foreign travel. It issomething to talk of. It has been a greatdisappointment to me the not going toEngland this year, but I could not runthe risk of the bitter pain to him. MayGod bless you from all pain! Love meand write to me, who am ever and everyour affectionate E.B.B.

To Mrs. Jameson Bagni di Lucca: August11, 1849.

I thank you, dearest friend, for yourmost affectionate and welcome letterwould seem to come by instinct, andwe have thanked you in our thoughtslong before this moment, when I beginat last to write some of them. Dobelieve that to value your affection andto love you back again are parts of ourlife, and that it must be alwaysdelightful to us to read in yourhandwriting or to hear in your voicethat we are not exiled from your life.Give us such an assurance wheneveryou can. Shall we not have it face toface at Florence, when the booksellerslet you go And meantime there is thepost; do write to us.... Did you ever see

this place, I wonder The coolness, thecharm of the mountains, whose veryheart you seem to hear beating in therush of the little river, the green silenceof the chestnut forests, and theseclusion which anyone may make forhimself by keeping clear of the valley-villages; all these things drew us. Wetook a delightful apartment over theheads of the whole world in thehighest house of the Bagni Caldi,where only the donkeys and theportantini can penetrate, and where wesit at the open windows and hearnothing but the cicale. Not a mosquito!think of that! The thermometer rangesfrom sixty-eight to seventy-four, but theseventy-four has been a rare excess: the

nights, mornings, and evenings areexquisitely cool. Robert and I go outand lose ourselves in the woods andmountains, and sit by the waterfalls onthe starry and moonlit nights, andneither by night nor day have the fearof picnics before our eyes. We wereobserving the other day that we nevermet anybody except a monk girt with arope, now and then, or a barefootedpeasant. The sight of a pink parasolnever startles us into unpleasanttheories of comparative anatomy. Onecause, perhaps, may be that on accountof political matters it is a delightfully'bad season,' but, also, we are too highfor the ordinary walkers, who keep tothe valley and the flatter roads. Robert

is better, looking better, and in morehealthy spirits; and we are bothenjoying this great sea of mountainsand our way of life here altogether. Ofcourse, we remembered to go back toFlorence for baby and the rest of ourlittle establishment, and we mean tostay as long as we can, perhaps to theend of October. Baby is in the triumphof health and full-blown roses, and ashe does not hide himself in the woodslike his ancestors, but smiles ateverybody, he is the most popular ofpossible babies.... We had him baptisedbefore we left Florence, withoutgodfathers and godmothers, in thesimplicities of the French LutheranChurch. I gave him your kiss as a

precious promise that you would lovehim one day like a true dear Aunt Nina;and I promise you on my part that heshall be taught to understand both thehappiness and the honour of it. Robertis expecting a visit from his sister in thecourse of this autumn. She hassuffered much, and the change will begood for her, even if, as she says, shecan stay with us only a few weeks. Withher we shall have your book, to bedisinherited of which so long has beenhard on us. Robert's own we have notseen yet. It must be satisfactory to youto have had such a clear triumph afterall the dust and toil of the way. Andnow tell me, won't it be necessary for youto come again to Italy for what remains

to be done Poor Florence is quietenough under the heel of Austria, andLeopold 'l'intrepido,' as he was happilycalled by a poet of Viareggio in awelcoming burst of inspiration, sitsundisturbed at the Pitti. I despair ofthe republic in Italy, or rather of Italyaltogether. The instructed are notpatriotic, and the patriots are notinstructed. We want not only a man, butmen, and we must throw, I fear, thebones of their race behind us beforethe true deliverers can spring up. Still, itis not all over; there will be deliverancepresently, but it will not be now. We arefull of painful sympathy for poorVenice. There! why write more aboutpolitics It makes us sick enough to

think of Austrians in our Florencewithout writing the thought out intogreater expansion. Only don't let the'Times' newspaper persuade you thatthere is no stepping with impunity outof England. ... We have 'lectures onShakespeare' just now by a Mr. Stuart,who is enlightening the Englishbarbarians at the lower village, andquoting Mrs. Jameson to make hisdiscourse more brilliant. We like to hear'Mrs. Jameson observes.' Give our loveto dear Gerardine. I am anxious for herhappiness and yours involved in it.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 threeyears before I see you again AndGeddie; does she not come to ItalyWhen we passed through Pisa the otherday, we went to your old inn in love ofyou, and got your very room to dine in(the landlord is dead and gone, as isPeveruda of the other house, youremember). There were the old vileprints, the old look-out into the garden,with its orange trees and paintedsentinel watching them. Ba must havetold you about our babe, and the littleelse there is to tell that is, for her to tell,for she is not likely to encroach upon

my story which I could tell of herentirely angel nature, as divine a heartas God ever made; I know more of herevery day; I, who thought I knewsomething of her five years ago! I thinkI know you, too, so I love you and am

Ever yours and dear Geddie's R.B.

To Miss Mitford Bagni di Lucca: August31, 1849.

I told Mr. Lever what you thought ofhim, dearest friend, and then he said, allin a glow and animation, that you werenot only his own delight but the delightof his children, which is affection byrefraction, isn't it Quite gratified he

seemed by the hold of your goodopinion. Not only is he the notabilitypar excellence of these Baths of Lucca,where he has lived a whole year, duringthe snows upon the mountains, but hepresides over the weekly balls at thecasino where the English 'docongregate' (all except Robert and me),and is said to be the light of theflambeaux and the spring of thedancers. There is a general desolationwhen he will retire to play whist. Inaddition to which he really seems to beloving and loveable in his family. Youalways see him with his children andhis wife; he drives her and her baby upand down along the only carriageableroad of Lucca: so set down that piece

of domestic life on the bright side inthe broad charge against marriedauthors; now do. I believe he is toreturn to Florence this winter with hisfamily, having had enough of themountains. Have you read 'RolandCashel,' isn't that the name of his lastnovel The 'Athenaeum' said of it that itwas 'new ground,' and praised it. I hearthat he gets a hundred pounds for eachmonthly number. Oh, how glad I wasto have your letter, written in such pain,read in such pleasure! It was only fair totell me in the last lines that the face-ache was better, to keep off a fit ofremorse. I do hope that Mr. May is notright about neuralgia, because that ismore difficult to cure than pain which

arises from the teeth. Tell me how youare in all ways. I look into your letterseagerly for news of your health, thenof your spirits, which are a part ofhealth. The cholera makes me veryfrightened for my dearest people inLondon, and silence, the last longerthan usual, ploughs up my days andnights into long furrows. The diseaserages in the neighbourhood of myhusband's family, and though WimpoleStreet has been hitherto clear, who cancalculate on what may be My head goesround to think of it. And papa, whowill keep going into that horrible city!Even if my sisters and brothers shouldgo into the country as every year, hewill be left, he is no more movable than

St. Paul's. My sister-in-law will probablynot come to us as soon as she intended,through a consideration for her father,who ought not, Robert thinks, to stayalone in the midst of suchcontingencies, so perhaps we may go toseek her ourselves in the spring, if shedoes not seek us out before in Italy.God keep us all, and near to oneanother. Love runs dreadful risks in theworld. Yet Love is, how much the bestthing in the world We have had a greatevent in our house. Baby has cut atooth.... His little happy laugh is alwaysringing through the rooms. He is afraidof nobody or nothing in the world,and was in fits of ecstasy at the tossingof the horse's head, when he rode on

Wilson's knee five or six miles the otherday to a village in the mountainsscreaming for joy, she said. He is not sixmonths yet by a fortnight! His fatherloves him; passionately, and thesentiment is reciprocated, I assure you.We have had the coolest of Italiansummers at these Baths of Lucca, thethermometer at the hottest hour of thehottest day only at seventy-six, andgenerally at sixty-eight or seventy. Thenights invariably cool. Now thefreshness of the air is growing almosttoo fresh. I only hope we shall be able(for the cold) to keep our intention ofstaying here till the end of October, Ihave enjoyed it so entirely, and shall beso sorry to break off this happy silence

into the Austrian drums at poorFlorence. And then we want to see thevintage. Some grapes are ripe already,but it is not vintage time. We have everykind of good fruit, great water-melons,which with both arms I can scarcelycarry, at twopence halfpenny each, andfigs and peaches cheap in proportion.And the place agrees with Baby, andhas done good to my husband's spirits,though the only 'amusement' ordistraction he has is looking at themountains and climbing among thewoods with me. Yes, we have beenreading some French romances, 'MonteCristo,' for instance, I for the secondtime but I have liked it, to read it withhim. That Dumas certainly has power;

and to think of the scramble there wasfor his brains a year or two ago in Paris!For a man to write so much and so welltogether is a miracle. Do you mean thatthey have left off writing those Frenchwriters or that they have tired you outwith writing that looks faint beside therush of facts, as the range of Frenchpolitics show those Has not EugeneSue been illustrating the passionsSomebody told me so. Do you tell mehow you like the French President, andwhether he will ever, in your mind, siton Napoleon's throne. It seems to methat he has given proof, as far as theevidence goes, of prudence, integrity,and conscientious patriotism; thesituation is difficult, and he fills it

honorably. The Rome business hasbeen miserably managed; this is thegreat blot on the character of hisgovernment. But I, for my own part(my husband is not so minded), doconsider that the French motive hasbeen good, the intention pure, theoccupation of Rome by the Austriansbeing imminent and the Frenchintervention the only means (with theexception of a European war) ofsaving Rome from the hoof of theAbsolutists. At the same time if PiusIX. is the obstinate idiot he seems tobe, good and tenderhearted man as hesurely is, and if the old abuses are to berestored, why Austria might as wellhave done her own dirty work and

saved French hands from the disgraceof it. It makes us two very angry.Robert especially is furious. We are notwithin reach of the book you speak of,'Portraits des Orateurs Francais' oh, wemight nearly as well live on a desertisland as far as modern books go. Andhere, at Lucca, even Robert can't catchsight of even the 'Athenaeum.' We havea two-day old 'Galignani,' and thinkourselves royally off; and then this littleshop with French books in it, just afew, and the 'GentilhommeCampagnard' the latest published. Yes,but somebody lent us the first volumeof 'Chateaubriand's Memoires.' Haveyou seen it Curiously uninteresting,considering 'the man and the hour.' He

writes of his youth with a grey goosequill; the paper is all wrinkled. Andthen he is not frank; he must have moreto tell than he tells. I looked for a moreintense and sincere book outre tombecertainly. I am busy about my newedition, that is all at present, but somethings are written. Good of Mr.Chorley (he is good) to place you face toface with Robert's books, and I am gladyou like 'Colombe' and 'Luria.' Dear Mr.Kenyon's poems we have just receivedand are about to read, and I amdelighted at a glance to see that he hasinserted the 'Gipsy Carol,' which in MS.was such a favorite of mine. Really, ishe so rich I am glad of it, if he is.Money could not be in more generous

and intelligent hands. Dearest MissMitford, you are only just in beingtrustful of my affection for you. Neverdo I forget nor cease to love you. Writeand tell me of your dear self; how youare exactly, and whether you have beenat Three Mile Cross all the summer.May God bless you. Robert's regards.Can you read Love a little your

Ever affectionate E.B.B.

To Mrs. Jameson Bagni di Lucca: October1, [1849].

There seems to be a fatality about ourletters, dearest friend, only the worstfate comes to me! I lose, and you are

near losing! And I should not have likedyou to lose any least proof of mythinking of you, lest a worst lossshould happen to me as a consequence,even worse than the loss of your letters;for then, perhaps, and by degrees, youmight leave off thinking of Robert andme, which, rich as we are in this mortalworld, I do assure you we could neitherof us afford.... We have had much quietenjoyment here in spite of everything,read some amusing books (Dumas andSue shake your head!), and seen ourchild grow fuller of roses andunderstanding day by day. Before hewas six months old he would stretchout his hands and his feet too, whenbidden to do so, and his little mouth to

kiss you. This is said to be a miracle offorwardness among the learned. Heknows Robert and me quite well as'Papa' and 'Mama,' and laughs for joywhen he meets us out of doors. Robertis very fond of him, and threw me intoa fit of hilarity the other day byspringing away from his newspaper inan indignation against me because hehit his head against the floor rollingover and over. 'Oh, Ba, I really can'ttrust you!' Down Robert was on thecarpet in a moment, to protect theprecious head. He takes it to be madeof Venetian glass, I am certain. We mayleave this place much sooner than theend of October, as everything dependsupon the coming in of the cold. It will

be the end of October, won't it, beforeGerardine can reach Florence I wish Iknew. We have made an excursion intothe mountains, five miles deep, with allour household, baby and all, onhorseback and donkeyback, and peopleopen their eyes at our havingperformed such an exploit I and thechild. Because it is five miles straight upthe Duomo; you wonder how anyhorse could keep its footing, the way isso precipitous, up the exhausted torrentcourses, and with a palm's breadthbetween you and the headlong ravines.Such scenery. Such a congregation ofmountains: looking alive in the stormylight we saw them by. We dined withthe goats, and baby lay on my shawl

rolling and laughing. He wasn't in theleast tired, not he! I won't say so muchfor myself. The Mr. Stuart who lecturedhere on Shakespeare (I think I told youthat) couldn't get through a lecturewithout quoting you, and wound up bya declaration that no English critic haddone so much for the divine poet as awoman Mrs. Jameson. He appears to bea cultivated and refined person, andespecially versed in German criticism,and we mean to use his society a littlewhen we return to Florence, where heresides.... What am I to say aboutRobert's idleness and mine I scold himabout it in a most anti-conjugalmanner, but, you know, his spirits andnerves have been shaken of late; we

must have patience. As for me, I ammuch better, and do something, really,now and then. Wait, and you shall haveus both on you; too soon, perhaps. MayGod bless you. How are your friendsLady Byron, Madame de Goethe. Thedreadful cholera has made us anxiousabout England.

Your ever affectionate BA.

Mr. Browning adds the following note:

Dear Aunt Nina, Ba will have told youeverything, and how we wish you andGeddie all manner of happiness. Ihope we shall be in Florence when shepasses through it. The place is

otherwise distasteful to me, with thecreeping curs and the floggers of thesame. But the weather is breaking uphere, and I suppose we ought to goback soon. Shall you indeed come toItaly next year That will indeed bepleasant to expect. We hope to go toEngland in the spring. What comes of'hoping,' however, we [know] by thistime.

Ever yours affectionately, R.B.

To Miss Mitford Bagni di Lucca: October2, 1849.

Thank you, my dearest Miss Mitford: Itis great comfort to know that you are

better, and that the cholera does notapproach your neighbourhood. Mybrothers and sisters have gone toWorthing for a few weeks; and thoughmy father (dearest Papa!) is notpersuadeable, I fear, into joining them,yet it is something to know that thehorrible pestilence is abating inLondon. Oh, it has made me soanxious: I have caught with such afrightened haste at the newspaper toread the 'returns,' leaving even suchsubjects as Rome and the President'sletter to quite the last, as if they wereindifferent, or, at most, bits of Mrs.Manning's murder. By the way andtalking of murder, how do you accountfor the crown of wickedness which

England bears just now over the headsof the nations, in murders of all kinds,by poison, by pistol, by knife In thispoor Tuscany, which has not brainsenough to govern itself, as you observe,and as really I can't deny, there havebeen two murders (properly so called)since we came, just three years ago, onefrom jealousy and one from revenge(respectable motives compared to theadvantages of the burying societies!),and the horror on all sides was great, asif the crime were some rare prodigy,which, indeed, it is in this country. Wehave 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 leaningto the artistic nature without thestrength of genius impliesdemoralisation in most cases, and it isthis which makes your 'good fornothing poets and poetesses,' aboutwhich I love so to battle with you.Genius, I maintain always, you know, isa purifying power and goes with highmoral capacities. Well, and so you inviteus home to civilisation and 'the"Times" newspaper.' We mean to gonext spring, and shall certainly do sounless something happen to catch usand keep us in a net. But alwayssomething does happen: and I have sooften built upon seeing England, andbeen precipitated from the fourth

storey, that I have learnt to think warilynow. I hunger and thirst for the sightof some faces; must I not long, do youthink, to see your face And then, I shallbe properly proud to show my child tothose who loved me before him. He isbeginning to understand everythingchiefly in Italian, of course, as his nursetalks in her sleep, I fancy, and can't besilent a second in the day and whentold to 'dare un bacio a questo poveroFlush,' he mixes his little face withFlush's ears in a moment.... You wouldwonder to see Flush just now. Hesuffered this summer from the climatesomewhat as usual, though not nearlyas much as usual; and having beeninsulted oftener than once by a

supposition of 'mange,' Robertwouldn't bear it any longer (he is asfond of Flush as I am), and, taking apair of scissors, clipped him all overinto the likeness of a lion, much to hisadvantage in both health andappearance. In the winter he is alwaysquite well; but the heat and the fleastogether are too much in the summer.The affection between baby and him isnot equal, baby's love being far thestronger. He, on the other hand, looksdown upon baby. What bad news youtell me of our French writers! What! Isit possible that Dumas even is struckdumb by the revolution His first worksare so incomparably the worst that Ican't admit your theory of the 'first

runnings.' So of Balzac. So of Sue!George Sand is probably writing'banners' for the 'Reds,' which,considering the state of parties inFrance, does not really give me a higheropinion of her intelligence or virtue.Ledru Rollin's[190] confidante andcouncillor can't occupy an honorableposition, and I am sorry, for her sakeand ours. When we go to Florence wemust try to get the 'Portraits' andLamartine's autobiography, which I stillmore long to see. So, two women werein love with him, were they That mustbe a comfort to look back upon, now,when nobody will have him. I see byextracts from his newspaper inGalignani that he can't be accused of

temporising with the Socialists anylonger, whatever other charge may bebrought against him: and if, as he says,it was he who made the Frenchrepublic, he is by no meansirreproachable, having made a bad andfalse thing. The President's letter aboutRome[191] has delighted us. A letterworth writing and reading! We read itfirst in the Italian papers (long before itwas printed in Paris), and the amusingthing was that where he speaks of the'hostile influences' (of the cardinals)they had misprinted it 'orribiliinfluenze,' which must have turned stillcolder the blood in the veins ofAbsolutist readers. The misprint wasnot corrected until long after more than

a week, I think. The Pope is just a pope;and, since you give George Sand creditfor having known it, I am the morevexed that Blackwood (under 'orribiliinfluenze') did not publish the poem Iwrote two years ago,[192] in the fullglare and burning of the Pope-enthusiasm, which Robert and I nevercaught for a moment. Then, I mighthave passed a little for a prophetess aswell as George Sand! Only, to confess atruth, the same poem would haveproved how fairly I was taken in by ourTuscan Grand Duke. Oh, the traitor!

I saw the 'Ambarvalia'[193] reviewedsomewhere I fancy in the 'Spectator 'and was not much struck by the

extracts. They may, however, have beenselected without much discrimination,and probably were. I am very glad thatyou like the gipsy carol in dear Mr.Kenyon's volume, because it is, and wasin MS., a great favorite of mine. Thereare excellent things otherwise, as mustbe when he says them: one of the mostradiant of benevolences with one ofthe most refined of intellects! How thepaper seems to dwindle as I would faintalk on more. I have performed a greatexploit, ridden on a donkey five milesdeep into the mountains to an almostinaccessible volcanic ground not farfrom the stars. Robert on horseback,and Wilson and the nurse (with baby)on other donkeys; guides, of course.

We set off at eight in the morning andreturned at six P.M., after dining on themountain pinnacle, I dreadfully tired,but the child laughing as usual, andburnt Brick-colour for all bad effect.No horse or ass, untrained to themountains, could have kept foot amoment where we penetrated, and evenas it was one could not help the naturalthrill. No road except the bed ofexhausted torrents above and throughthe chestnut forests, and precipitousbeyond what you would think possiblefor ascent or descent. Ravines tearingthe ground to pieces under your feet.The scenery, sublime and wonderful,satisfied us wholly, however, as welooked round on the world of

innumerable mountains bound faintlywith the grey sea, and not a humanhabitation. I hope you will go toLondon this winter; it will be good foryou, it seems to me. Take care ofyourself, my much and ever lovedfriend! I love you and think of youindeed. Write of your health,remembering this,

And your affectionate, E.B.B.

My husband's regards always. You hadbetter, I think, direct to Florence, as weshall be there in the course of October.

[Footnote 190: Minister of the Interiorin the Republic of 1848, and one of

the most prominent f the advancedRepublican leaders.]

[Footnote 191: A letter, addressed to aprivate friend but intended to be madepublic, denouncing the reactionary andoppressive administration of therestored Pope.]

[Footnote 192: Probably the first partof Casa Guidi Windows.]

[Footnote 193: By A.H. Clough and T.Burbidge.]

To Florence, accordingly, they returnedin October, and settled down oncemore in Casa Guidi for the winter. Mrs.

Browning's principal literaryoccupation at this time was thepreparation of a new edition of herpoems, including nearly all the contentsof the 'Seraphim' volume of 1838,more or less revised, as well as the'Poems' of 1844. This edition,published in 1850, has formed thebasis of all subsequent editions of herpoems. Meanwhile her husband wasengaged in the preparation of'Christmas Eve and Easter Day,' whichwas also published in the course of1850.

To Miss Mitford Florence: December I,1849.

My ever loved friend, you will havewondered at this unusual silence; andso will my sisters to whom I wrote justnow, after a pause as little in mycustom. It was not the fault of my headand heart, but of this unruly body,which has been laid up again in the wayof all flesh of mine....

I am well again now, only obliged tokeep quiet and give up my grandwalking excursions, which poor Robertused to be so boastful of. If he is vainabout anything in the world, it is aboutmy improved health, and I used to sayto him, 'But you needn't talk so muchto people of how your wife walkedhere with you and there with you, as if

a wife with a pair of feet was a miracleof nature.' Now the poor feet havefallen into their old ways again. Ah, butif God pleases it won't be for long....

The American authoress, Miss Fuller,with whom we had had some slightintercourse by letter, and who has beenat Rome during the siege, as a devotedfriend of the republicans and ameritorious attendant on the hospitals,has taken us by surprise at Florence,retiring from the Roman field with ahusband and child above a year old.Nobody had even suspected a word ofthis underplot, and her Americanfriends stood in mute astonishmentbefore this apparition of them here.

The husband is a Roman marquis,appearing amiable and gentlemanly, andhaving fought well, they say, at thesiege, but with no pretension to copewith his wife on any groundappertaining to the intellect. She talks,and he listens. I always wonder at thatspecies of marriage; but people are sodifferent in their matrimonial ideals thatit may answer sometimes. This Mdme.Ossoli saw George Sand in Paris was atone of her soirees and called her 'amagnificent creature.' The soiree was'full of rubbish' in the way of its socialcomposition, which George Sand likes,nota bene. If Mdme. Ossoli called it'rubbish' it must have been really rubbishnot expressing anything conventionally

so she being one of the out and outReds and scorners of grades of society.She said that she did not see Balzac.Balzac went into the world scarcely atall, frequenting the lowest cafes, so thatit was difficult to track him out. Whichinformation I receive doubtingly. Therumours about Balzac with certainparties in Paris are not likely to be toofavorable nor at all reliable, I shouldfancy; besides, I never entertaindisparaging thoughts of my demi-godsunless they should be forced upon meby evidence you must know. I have notmade a demi-god of Louis Napoleon,by the way no, and I don't mean it. Iexpect some better final result than hehas just proved himself to be of the

French Revolution, with all its bitterand cruel consequences hitherto, so Ican't quite agree with you. Only so far,that he has shown himself up to thispoint to be an upright man with nobleimpulses, and that I give him much ofmy sympathy and respect in the difficultposition held by him. A man of geniushe does not seem to be and what, afterall, will he manage to do at Rome Idon't take up the frantic Republican cryin Italy. I know too well the want ofknowledge and the consequent want ofi effective faith and energy among theItalians; but there is a stain uponFrance in the present state of theRoman affair, and I don't shut my eyesto that either. To cast Rome helpless

and bound into the hands of thepriests is dishonor to the actors,however we consider the act; and forthe sake of France, even more than forthe sake of Italy, I yearn to see the actcancelled. Oh, we have had the sight ofClough and Burbidge, at last. Cloughhas more thought, Burbidge moremusic; but I am disappointed in thebook on the whole. What I likeinfinitely better is Clough's 'Bothie ofToper-na-fuosich,' a 'long vacationpastoral,' written in loose and more-than-need-be unmusical hexameters,but full of vigour and freshness, andwith passages and indeed whole scenesof great beauty and eloquence. It seemsto have been written before the other

poems. Try to get it, if you have notread it already. I feel certain you willlike it and think all the higher of thepoet. Oh, it strikes both Robert and meas being worth twenty of the other littlebook, with its fragmentary, dislocated,unartistic character. Arnold's volumehas two good poems in it: 'The SickKing of Bokhara' and 'The DesertedMerman.' I like them both. But noneof these writers are artists, whatever theymay be in future days. Have you read'Shirley,' and is it as good as 'Jane Eyre'We heard not long since that Mr.Chorley had discovered the author, the'Currer Bell.' A woman, most certainly.We hear, too, that three large editionsof the 'Princess' are sold. So much the

happier for England and poetry.

Dearest dear Miss Mitford, mind youwrite to me, and don't pay me out inmy own silence! You have not been ill, Ihope and trust. Write and tell me everylittle thing of yourself how you are,and whether there is still danger ofyour being uprooted from Three MileCross. I love and think of you always.Fancy Flush being taken in the light ofa rival by baby! Oh, baby was quitejealous the other day, and strugggledand kicked to get to me because he sawFlush leaning his pretty head on my lap.There's a great strife for privilegesbetween those two. May God bless you!My husband's kind regards always,

while I am your most

Affectionate E.B.B.

To Miss Mitford Florence: January 9,1850.

Thank you, ever dearest Miss Mitford,for this welcome letter written on yourbirthday! May the fear of small-poxhave passed away long before now, andevery hope and satisfaction havestrengthened and remained!...

May God bless you and give you manyhappy years, you who can do so muchtowards the happiness of others. May Inot answer for my own ...

Little Wiedeman began to crawl onChristmas Day. Before, he used to roll.We throw things across the floor andhe crawls for them like a little dog, onall fours....

He has just caught a cold, which I makemore fuss about than I ought, say thewise; but I can't get resigned to theassociation of any sort of sufferingwith his laughing dimpled little body itis the blowing about in the wind ofsuch a heap of roses. So you prefer'Shirley' to 'Jane Eyre'! Yet I hear fromnobody such an opinion; yet you arevery probably right, for 'Shirley' maysuffer from the natural reaction of the

public mind. What you tell me ofTennyson interests me as everythingabout him must. I like to think of himdigging gardens room for cabbage andall. At the same time, what he saysabout the public 'hating poetry' iscertainly not a word for Tennyson.Perhaps no true poet, having claimsupon attention solely through his poetry,has attained so certain a success withsuch short delay. Instead of beingpelted (as nearly every true poet hasbeen), he stands already on a pedestal,and is recognised as a master spirit notby a coterie but by the great public.Three large editions of the 'Princess'have already been sold. If he isn'tsatisfied after all, I think he is wrong.

Divine poet as he is, and no laurelbeing too leafy for him, yet he must bean unreasonable man, and notunderstanding of the growth of thelaurel trees and the nature of a readingpublic. With regard to the othergarden-digger, dear Mr. Home, I wishas you do that I could hear somethingsatisfactory of him. I wrote from Luccain the summer, and have no answer.The latest word concerning him is theannouncement in the 'Athenaeum' of athird edition of his 'Gregory theSeventh,' which we were glad to see,but very, very glad we should be tohave news of his prosperity in the fleshas well as in the litterae scriptae....

I have not been out of doors these twomonths, but people call me 'lookingwell,' and a newly married niece ofMiss Bayley's, the accomplished MissThomson, who has become the wife ofDr. Emil Braun (the learned Germansecretary of the ArchaeologicalSociety), and just passed throughFlorence on her way to Rome, wherethey are to reside, declared that thechange she saw in me was miraculous'wonderful indeed.' I took her to lookat Wiedeman in his cradle, fast asleep,and she won my heart (over again, foralways she was a favorite of mine) byexclaiming at his prettiness. Charmed,too, we both were with Dr. Braun Imean Robert and I were charmed. He

has a mixture of fervour and simplicitywhich is still more delightfullypicturesque in his foreign English. Oh,he speaks English perfectly, only withan obvious accent enough. I am surewe should be cordial friends, if thelines had fallen to us in the samepleasant places; but he is fixed at Rome,and we are half afraid of the enervatingeffects of the Roman climate on theconstitutions of children. Tell me, doyou hear often from Mr. Chorley Itquite pains us to observe from hismanner of writing the great depressionof his spirits. His mother was ill in thesummer, but plainly the sadness doesnot arise entirely or chiefly from thiscause. He seems to me over-worked,

taxed in the spirit. I advise nobody togive up work; but that 'Athenaeum'labour is a sort of treadmill disciplinein which there is no progress, nortriumph, and I do wish he would givethat up and come out to us with a newset of anvils and hammers. Only, ofcourse, he couldn't do it, even if hewould, while there is illness in hisfamily. May there be a whole sun ofsuccess shining on the new play! Robertis engaged on a poem,[194] and I ambusy with my edition. So much tocorrect, I find, and many poems to add.Plainly 'Jane Eyre' was by a woman. Itused to astound me when sensiblepeople said otherwise. Write to me, willyou I long to hear again. Tell me

everything of yourself; accept myhusband's true regards, and think ofme as your

Ever affectionate E.B.B.

[Footnote 194: Christmas Eve and EasterDay.]

To Miss Browning Florence: January 29,1850.

My dearest Sarianna, I have waited tothank you for your great and readykindness about the new edition, untilnow when it is fairly on its way toEngland. Thank you, thank you! I amonly afraid, not that you will find

anything too 'learned,' as you suggest,but a good many things too careless, Iwas going to say, only Robert, withvarious deep sighs for 'his poorSarianna,' devoted himself duringseveral days to rearranging myarrangements, and simplifying mycomplications. It was the old story ofOrder and Disorder over again. Hepulled out the knotted silks with anindefatigable patience, so that really youwill owe to him every moment of easeand facility which may be enjoyable inthe course of the work. I am afraid thatat the easiest you will find it a vexatiousbusiness, but I throw everything onyour kindness, and am not distrustfulon such a point of weights and

measures.

Your letter was full of sad news. Robertwas deeply affected at the account ofthe illness of his cousin was in tearsbefore he could end the letter. I dohope that in a day or two we may hearfrom you that the happy change wasconfirmed as time passed on. I do hopeso; it will be joy, not merely to Robert,but to me, for indeed I never forget theoffice which his kindness performedfor both of us at a crisis ripe with allthe happiness of my life.

Then it was sad to hear of your dearfather suffering from lumbago. May thelast of it have passed away long before

you get what I am writing! Tell himwith my love that Wiedeman shall hearsome day (if we all live) the verses hewrote to him; and I have it in my headthat little Wiedeman will be verysensitive to verses and kindness too helikes to hear anything rhythmical andmusical, and he likes to be petted andkissed the most affectionate littlecreature he is sitting on my knee, whileI give him books to turn the leaves over(a favorite amusement), every twominutes he puts up his little rosebud ofa mouth to have a kiss. His cold is quitegone, and he has taken advantage ofthe opportunity to grow still fatter; asto his activities, there's no end to them.His nurse and I agree that he doesn't

remain quiet a moment in the day....[195]

Now the love of nephews can't bearany more, Sarianna, can it Only yourfather will take my part and say that itisn't tedious beyond pardoning.

May God bless both of you, andenable you to send a brighter letter nexttime. Robert will be very anxious.

Your ever affectionate sister BA.Mention yourself, do.

[Footnote 195: A long description ofthe baby's meals and daily programmefollows, the substance of which can

probably be imagined by connoisseursin the subject.]

To Miss Mitford Florence: February 18,1850.

Ever dearest Miss Mitford, you alwaysgive me pleasure, so for love's sakedon't say that you 'seldom give it,' andsuch a magical act as conjuring up forme the sight of a new poem by AlfredTennyson[196] is unnecessary to proveyou a right beneficent enchantress.Thank you, thank you. We are not sounworthy of your redundant kindnessas to abuse it by a word spoken or signsignified. You may trust us indeed. Butnow you know how free and sincere I

am always! Now tell me. Apart from thefact of this lyric's being a fragment offringe from the great poet's 'singingclothes' (as Leigh Hunt sayssomewhere), and apart from a certainsweetness and rise and fall in therhythm, do you really see much foradmiration in the poem Is it new in, anyway I admire Tennyson with the mostworshipping part of the multitude, asyou are aware, but I do not perceivemuch in this lyric, which strikes me,and Robert also (who goes with methroughout), as quite inferior to theother lyrical snatches in the 'Princess.'By the way, if he introduces it in the'Princess,' it will be the only rhymed versein the work. Robert thinks that he was

thinking of the Rhine echoes in writingit, and not of any heard in his Irishtravels. I hear that Tennyson has takenrooms above Mr. Forster's in Lincoln'sInn Fields, and is going to try aLondon life. So says Mr. Kenyon.... Iam writing with an easier mind thanwhen I wrote last, for I was for a littletime rendered very unhappy (sounhappy that I couldn't touch on thesubject, which is always the way withme when pain passes a certain point),by hearing accidentally that papa wasunwell and looking altered. My sisterpersisted in replying to my anxietiesthat they were unfounded, that I wasquite absurd, indeed, in being anxiousat all; only people are not generally

reformed from their absurditiesthrough being scolded for them. Now,however, it really appears that the evilhas passed. He left his doctor who hadgiven him lowering medicines, and,coincidently with the leaving, he hasrecovered looks and health altogether.Arabel says that I should think he waslooking as well as ever, if I saw him,and that appetite and spirits are evenredundant. Thank God.... To have thisgood news has made me very happy,and I overflow to you accordingly. Oh,there is pain enough from that quarter,without hearing of his being out ofhealth. I write to him continually andhe does not now return my letters,which is a melancholy something

gained. Now enough of such a subject.

I certainly don't think that the qualities,half savage and half freethinking,expressed in 'Jane Eyre' are likely to suita model governess or schoolmistress;and it amuses me to consider them inthat particular relation. Your accountfalls like dew upon the parchedcuriosity of some of our friends here,to whom (as mere gossip, which didnot leave you responsible) I couldn'tresist the temptation of communicatingit. People are so curious even hereamong the Raffaels about thisparticular authorship, yet nobody seemsto have read 'Shirley'; we are too slow ingetting new books. First Galignani has

to pirate them himself, and then tohand us over the spoils. By the way,there's to be an international copyright,isn't there Something is talked of it inthe 'Athenaeum.' Meanwhile theAmericans have already reprinted myhusband's new edition. 'Landthieves, Imean pirates.' I used to take that for aslip of the pen in Shakespeare; but itwas a slip of the pen into prophecy.Sorry I am at Mrs. falling short of yourwarm-hearted ideas about her! Can youunderstand a woman's hating a girlbecause it is not a boy her first childtoo I understand it so little that scarcelyI can believe it. Some women have,however, undeniably an indifference tochildren, just as many men have,

though it must be unnatural andmorbid in both sexes. Men often affectit very foolishly, if they count upon thescenic effects; affectation neversucceeds well, and this sort ofaffectation is peculiarly unbecoming,except in old bachelors, for there is apathetic side to the question so viewed.For my part and my husband's, we maybe frank and say that we have caughtup our parental pleasures with a sort ofpassion. But then, Wiedeman is such adarling little creature; who could helploving the child ... Little darling! Somuch mischief was not often putbefore into so small a body. Fancy thechild's upsetting the water jugs till he isdrenched (which charms him), pulling

the brooms to pieces, and havingserious designs upon cutting up hisfrocks with a pair of scissors. Helaughs like an imp when he can succeedin doing anything wrong. Now, seewhat you get, in return for yourkindness of 'liking to hear about' him!Almost I have the grace to be ashameda little. Just before I had your letter wesent my new edition to England. I gavemuch time to the revision, and did notomit reforming some of the rhymes,although you must consider that theirregularity of these in a certain degreerather falls in with my system than fallsout through my carelessness. So muchthe worse, you will say, when a personis systematically bad. The work will

include the best poems of the'Seraphim' volume, strengthened andimproved as far as the circumstancesadmitted of. I had not the heart to leaveout the wretched sonnet to yourself, foryour dear sake; but I rewrote the latterhalf of it (for really it wasn't a sonnet atall, and 'Una and her lion' are rococo),and so placed it with my other poemsof the same class. There are some new,verses also.[197] The Miss Hardings Ihave seen, and talked with them of you,a sure way of finding them delightful.But, my dearest friend, I shall not seeany of the Trollope party it is not likely.You can scarcely image to yourself theretired life we live, or how we haveretreated from the kind advances of the

English society here. Now people seemto understand that we are to be leftalone; that nothing is to be made of us.The fact is, we are not like our child,who kisses everybody who smiles athim! Neither my health nor ourpecuniary circumstances, nor ourinclinations perhaps, would admit ofour entering into English society here,which is kept up much after the oldEnglish models, with a proper disdainfor Continental simplicities of expense.We have just heard from Father Prout,who often, he says, sees Mr. Horne,'who is as dreamy as ever.' So glad I am,for I was beginning to be uneasy abouthim. He has not answered my letterfrom Lucca. The verses in the

'Athenaeum'[198] are on SophiaCottrell's child.

May God bless you, dearest friend.Speak of yourself more particularly toyour ever affectionate

E.B.B.

Robert's kindest regards. Tell us of Mr.Chorley's play, do.

[Footnote 196: Apparently the Echo-songwhich now precedes canto iv. of thePrincess, though one is surprised at theopinion here expressed of it. It will beremembered that this and the otherlyrical interludes did not appear in the

original edition of the Princess.]

[Footnote 197: Notably the Sonnets fromthe Portuguese.]

[Footnote 198: 'A Child's Death atFlorence,' which appeared in theAthenaeum of December 22, 1849.]

To Mrs. Martin Florence: February 22,1850.

My dearest Mrs. Martin, Have youwondered that I did not write before Itwas not that I did not thank you in myheart for your kind, considerate letter,but I was unconquerablyuncomfortable about papa; and, what

with the weather, which always has mein its power somehow, and other things,I fell into a dislike of writing, which Ihope you didn't mistake for ingratitude,because it was not in the least like thesame fault. Now the severe weather(such weather for Italy!) has broken up,and I am relieved in all ways, havingreceived the most happy satisfactorynews from Wimpole Street, and theassurance from my sisters that if I wereto see papa I should think him lookingas well as ever. He grew impatient withDr. Elliotson's medicines which, itappears, were of a very loweringcharacter suddenly gave them up, andas suddenly recovered his looks and allthe rest, and everybody at home

considers him to be quite well. It hasrelieved me of a mountain's weight,and I thank God with great joy. Oh,you must have understood how naturalit was for me to be unhappy under theother circumstances. But if youthought, dearest friend, that they werenecessary to induce me to write to himthe humblest and most beseeching ofletters, you do not know how I feel hisalienation or my own love for him. IWith regard to my brothers, it is quitedifferent, though even towards them Imay faithfully say that my affection hasborne itself higher than my pride. Butas to papa, I have never contendedabout the right or the wrong, I havenever irritated him by seeming to

suppose that his severity to me hasbeen more than justice. I have confinedmyself simply to a supplication for hisforgiveness of what he called, in hisown words, the only fault of my lifetowards him, and an expression of thelove which even I must feel I for him,whether he forgives me or not. This hasbeen done in letter after letter, and theyare not sent back it is all. In my lastletter, I ventured to ask him to let it bean understood thing that he shouldbefore the world, and to every practicalpurpose, act out his idea of justice byexcluding me formally, me and mine,from every advantage he intended hisother children that, having so been just,he might afford to be merciful by

giving me his forgiveness and affectionall I asked and desired. My husbandand I had talked this over again andagain; only it was a difficult thing to say,you see. At last I took courage and saidit, because, doing it, papa might seem tohimself to reconcile his notion of strictjustice, and whatever remains of pityand tenderness might still be in hisheart towards me, if there are any such.I know he has strong feelings at bottomotherwise, should I love him so but hehas adopted a bad system, and he (aswell as I) is crushed by it.... If I were towrite to you the political rumours wehear every day, you would scarcely thinkour situation improved in safety by thehorrible Austrian army. Florence

bristles with cannon on all sides, and atthe first movement we are promised tobe bombarded. On the other hand, ifthe red republicans get uppermost therewill be a universal massacre; not apriest, according to their ownprofession, will be left alive in Italy. Theconstitutional party hope they aregaining strength, but the progresswhich depends on intellectual growthmust necessarily be slow. That thePapacy has for ever lost its prestige andpower over souls is the only evidenttruth; bright and strong enough to clingto. I hear even devout women say: 'Thiscursed Pope! it's all his fault.' Protestantplaces of worship are thronged withItalian faces, and the minister of the

Scotch church at Leghorn has beenthreatened with exclusion from thecountry if he admits Tuscans to thechurch communion. Politicallyspeaking, much will depend uponFrance, and I have strong hope forFrance, though it is so strictly thefashion to despair of her. Tell me dearMr. Martin's impression and your owneverything is good that comes fromyou. But most particularly, tell me howyou both are tell me whether you arestrong again, dearest Mrs. Martin, forindeed I do not like to hear of yourbeing in the least like an invalid. Dospeak of yourself a little more. Do youknow, you are very unsatisfactory as aletter-writer when you write about

yourself the reason being that younever do write about yourself except bythe suddenest snatches, when you can'tpossibly help the reference....

Robert sends his true regards withthose of your Gratefully affectionateBA.

To Mrs. Jameson April 2, [1850].

You have perhaps thought usungrateful people, my ever dear friend,for this long delay in thanking you foryour beautiful and welcome present.[199] Here is the truth. Though we hadthe books from Rome last month, theywere snatched from us by impatient

hands before we had finished the firstvolume. The books are hungered andthirsted for in Florence, and, althoughthe English reading club has them, theycan't go fast enough from one toanother. Four of our friends entreatedus for the reversion, and although itreally is only just that we should be letread our own books first, yet Robert'sgenerosity can't resist the need of thisperson who is 'going away,' and of thatperson who is 'so particularly anxious'for particular reasons perhaps so werenounce the privilege you gave us(with the pomps of this world) and arestill waiting to finish even the firstvolume. Our cultivated friends theOgilvys, who had the work from us

earliest, because they were going toNaples, were charmed with it. Mr.Kirkup the artist, who disputes withMr. Bezzi the glory of finding Dante'sportrait yes, and breathes fire in thedispute has it now. Madame Ossoli,Margaret Fuller, the Americanauthoress, who brought from the siegeof Rome a noble marquis as herhusband, asks for it. And your adorerMr. Stuart, who has lectured uponShakespeare all the winter, entreats forit. So when we shall be free to enjoy itthoroughly for ourselves remainsdoubtful. Robert promises every day,'You shall have it next, certainly,' and Ionly hope you will put him and me inyour next edition of the martyrs, for

such a splendid exercise of the gifts ofself-renunciation. But don't fancy thatwe have not been delighted with thesight of the books, with your kindness,and besides with the impressionsgathered from a rapid examination ofthe qualities of the work. It seems to usin every way a valuable and mostinteresting work; it must render itself anecessity for art students, and generalreaders and seers of pictures like me,who carry rather sentiment than scienceinto the consideration of such subjects.We much admire your introductionexcellent in all ways, besides the graceand eloquence. Altogether, the workmust set you higher with a high class ofthe public, and I congratulate you on

what is the gain of all of us. Robert hasbegun a little pencil list of triflingcriticisms he means to finish. We bothcry aloud at what you say ofGuercino's angels, and never wouldhave said if you had been to Fano andseen his divine picture of the 'GuardianAngel,' which affects me every time Ithink of it. Our little Wiedeman hadhis part of pleasure in the book bybeing let look at the engravings. Hescreamed for joy at the miracle of somany bird-men, and kissed some ofthem very reverentially, which is hisusual way of expressing admiration....

Whether you will like Robert's newbook I don't know, but I am sure you

will admit the originality and power init. I wish we had the option of giving itto you, but Chapman & Hall neverseem to think of our giving copiesaway, nor leave them at our disposal.There is nothing Italian in the book;poets are apt to be most present withthe distant. A remark of Wilson's[200]used to strike me as eminently true thatthe perfectest descriptive poem(descriptive of rural scenery) would benaturally produced in a London cellar. Ihave read 'Shirley' lately; it is not equalto 'Jane Eyre' in spontaneousness andearnestness. I found it heavy, I confess,though in the mechanical part of thewriting the compositional savoir fairethere is an advance. Robert has

exhumed some French books, just now,from a little circulating library which hehad not tried, and we have been makingourselves uncomfortable over Balzac's'Cousin Pons.' But what a wonderfulwriter he is! Who else could have takensuch a subject, out of the lowest mudof humanity, and glorified andconsecrated it He is wonderful there isnot another word for him profound, asNature is. S I complain of Florence forthe want of books. We have to dig anddig before we can get anything new, andI can read the newspapers only throughRobert's eyes, who only can read themat Vieusseux's in a room sacred fromthe foot of woman. And this isn'talways satisfactory to me, as whenever

he falls into a state of disgust with anypolitical regime, he throws the wholesubject over and won't read a wordmore about it. Every now and then, forinstance, he ignores France altogether,and I, who am more tolerant and morecurious, find myself suspended over anhiatus (valde deflendus), and what's to besaid and done M. Thiers' speech 'Thiersis a rascal; I make a point of notreading one word said by M. Thiers.' M.Prudhon 'Prudhon is a madman; whocares for Prudhon ' The President 'ThePresident's an ass; he is not worththinking of.' And so we treat ofpolitics.

I wish you would write to us a little

oftener (or rather, a good deal) and tellus much of yourself. It made me verysorry that you should be suffering inthe grief of your sister you whosesympathies are so tender and quick!May it be better with you now! MentionLady Byron. I shall be glad to hear thatshe is stronger notwithstanding thiscruel winter. We have lovely weatherhere now, and I am quite well and ableto walk out, and little Wiedeman rollswith Flush on the grass of the Cascine.Dear kind Wilson is doatingly fond ofthe child, and sometimes gives it as herserious opinion that 'there never wassuch a child before.' Of course I don'targue the point much. Now, will youwrite to us Speak of your plans

particularly when you do. We havetaken this apartment on for anotheryear from May. May God bless you!Robert unites in affectionate thanksand thoughts of all kinds, with your

E.B.B. rather, BA.

This letter has waited some days to besent away, as you will see by the date.

[Footnote 199: Mrs. Jameson's Legendsof the Monastic Orders, which had justbeen published.]

[Footnote 200: Presumably not Mrs.Browning's maid, but 'ChristopherNorth.']

At the end of March 1850, the long-deferred marriage of Mrs. Browning'ssister, Henrietta, to Captain SurteesCook took place. It is of interest heremainly as illustrating Mr. Barrett'sbehaviour to his daughters. Anapplication for his consent only elicitedthe pronouncement, 'If Henriettamarries you, she turns her back on thishouse for ever,' and a letter to Henriettaherself reproaching her with the 'insult'she had offered him in asking hisconsent when she had evidently madeup her mind to the conclusion, anddeclaring that, if she married, her nameshould never again be mentioned in hispresence. The marriage having

thereupon taken place, his decision wasforthwith put into practice, and asecond child was thenceforward anexile from her father's house.

To Miss Mitford Florence: [end of] April1850.

You will have seen in the papers,dearest friend, the marriage of my sisterHenrietta, and will have understoodwhy I was longer silent than usual.Indeed, the event has much moved me,and so much of the emotion waspainful painfulness being inseparablefrom events of the sort in our familythat I had to make an effort to realise tomyself the reasonable degree of

gladness and satisfaction in her releasefrom a long, anxious, transitional state,and her prospect of happiness with aman who has loved her constantly andwho is of an upright, honest, reliable,and religious mind. Our father'sobjections were to his Tractarianopinions and insufficient income. Ihave no sympathy myself withTractarian opinions, but I cannot underthe circumstances think an objection ofthe kind tenable by a third person, andin truth we all know that if it had notbeen this objection, it would have beenanother there was no escape any way.An engagement of five years and anattachment still longer were to havesome results; and I can't regret, or

indeed do otherwise than approve frommy heart, what she has done from hers.Most of her friends and relatives haveconsidered that there was no choice,and that her step is abundantlyjustified. At the same time, I thank Godthat a letter sent to me to ask my advicenever reached me (the second letter ofmy sisters' lost, since I left them),because no advice ought to be given onany subject of the kind, and because I,especially, should have shrunk fromaccepting such a responsibility. So Ionly heard of the marriage three daysbefore it took place no, four daysbefore and was upset, as you maysuppose, by the sudden news. CaptainSurtees Cook's sister was one of the

bridesmaids, and his brother performedthe ceremony. The means are very smallof course he has not much, and mysister has nothing still it seems to methat they will have enough to liveprudently on, and he looks out for afurther appointment. Papa 'will neveragain let her name be mentioned in hishearing,' he says, but we must hope. Thedreadful business passed off better onthe whole than poor Arabel expected,and things are going on as quietly asusual in Wimpole Street now. I feeldeeply for her, who in her puredisinterestedness just pays the price andsuffers the loss. She represents herself,however, to be relieved at the crisisbeing passed. I earnestly hope for her

sake that we may be able to get toEngland this year a sight of us will besome comfort. Henrietta is to live atTaunton for the present, as he has amilitary situation there, and they arepreparing for a round of visits amongtheir many friends who are anxious tohave them previous to their settling. Allthis, you see, will throw me back withpapa, even if I can be supposed to havegained half a step, and I doubt it. Ohyes, dearest Miss Mitford. I have indeedagain and again thought of your'Emily,' stripping the situation of 'thefavour and prettiness' associated withthat heroine. Wiedeman might compete,though, in darlingness with the child, asthe poem shows him. Still, I can accept

no omen. My heart sinks when I dwellupon peculiarities difficult to analyse. Ilove him very deeply. When I write tohim, I lay myself at his feet. Even if Ihad gained half a step (and I doubt it,as I said), see how I must be thrownback by the indisposition to receiveothers. But I cannot write of thissubject. Let us change it....

Madame Ossoli sails for America in afew days, with the hope of returning toItaly, and indeed I cannot believe thather Roman husband will be easilynaturalised among the Yankees. A veryinteresting person she is, far better thanher writings thoughtful, spiritual in herhabitual mode of mind; not only

exalted, but exaltee in her opinions, andyet calm in manner. We shall be sorry tolose her. We have lost, besides, ourfriends Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvy, cultivatedand refined people: they occupied thefloor above us the last winter, and atthe Baths of Lucca and Florence wehave seen much of them for a year past.She published some time since avolume of 'Scottish Minstrelsy,'graceful and flowing, and aspiresstrenuously towards poetry; a prettywoman with three pretty children, ofquick perceptions and activeintelligence and sensibility. They areupright, excellent people in variousways, and it is a loss to us that theyshould have gone to Naples now.

Dearest friend, how your letterdelighted me with its happy account ofyour improved strength. Take care ofyourself, do, to lose no ground. Thepower of walking must refresh yourspirits as well as widen your dailypleasures. I am so glad. Thank God. Wehave heard from Mr. Chorley, whoseems to have received very partialgratification in respect to his play andyet prepares for more plays, morewrestlings in the same dust. Well, I can'tmake it out. A man of his sensitivenessto choose to appeal to the coarsest sideof the public which, whatever youdramatists may say, you all certainly dois incomprehensible to me. Then Icannot help thinking that he might

achieve other sorts of successes moreeasily and surely. Your criticism is veryjust. But I like his 'Music and Mannersin Germany' better than anything hehas done. I believe I always did like itbest, and since coming to Florence Ihave heard cultivated Americans speakof it with enthusiasm, yes, withenthusiasm. 'Pomfret' they wouldscarcely believe to be by the sameauthor. I agree with you, but it is a pityindeed for him to tie himself to thewheels of the 'Athenaeum,' toapprofondir the ruts; what other endAnd, by the way, the 'Athenaeum,' sinceMr. Dilke left it, has grown duller andduller, colder and colder, flatter andflatter. Mr. Dilke was not brilliant, but

he was a Brutus in criticism; andthough it was his speciality to condemnhis most particular friends to thehangman, the survivors thought therewas something grand about it on thewhole, and nobody could hold him incontempt. Now it is all different. Wehave not even 'public virtue' to fastenour admiration to. You will be sure tothink I am vexed at the article on myhusband's new poem.[201] Why,certainly I am vexed! Who would not bevexed with such misunderstanding andmistaking. Dear Mr. Chorley writes aletter to appreciate most generously: soyou see how little power he has in thepaper to insert an opinion, or stop aninjustice. On the same day came out a

burning panegyric of six columns inthe 'Examiner,' a curious cross-fire. Ifyou read the little book (I wish I couldsend you a copy, but Chapman & Hallhave not offered us copies, and you willcatch sight of it somewhere), I hopeyou will like things in it at least. Itseems to me full of power. Twohundred copies went off in the firstfortnight, which is a good beginning inthese days. So I am to confess to asatisfaction in the American piracies.Well, I confess, then. Only it is rather acomplex smile with which one hears:'Sir or Madam, we are selling your bookat half price, as well printed as inEngland.' 'Those apples we stole fromyour garden, we sell at a halfpenny,

instead of a penny as you do; they aremuch appreciated.' Very gratifyingindeed. It's worth while to rob us, that'splain, and there's somethingmagnificent in supplying a distantmarket with apples out of one's garden.Still the smile is complex in itscharacter, and the morality simple, that'sall I meant to say. A letter fromHenrietta and her husband, glowingwith happiness; it makes me happy. Shesays, 'I wonder if I shall be as happy asyou, Ba.' God grant it. It was signifiedto her that she should at once give upher engagement of five years, or leavethe house. She married directly. I donot understand how it could beotherwise, indeed. My brothers have

been kind and affectionate, I am glad tosay; in her case, poor dearest papa doesinjustice chiefly to his own nature, bythese severities, hard as they seem. Writesoon and talk of yourself to

Ever affectionate BA.

I am rejoicing in the People's Editionof your work. 'Viva!' (Robert's bestregards.)

[Footnote 201: The Athenaeum reviewof Christmas Eve and Easter Day, whilerecognising the beauty of manypassages in the two poems, criticisedstrongly the discussion of theologicalsubjects in 'doggrel verse;' and its

analysis of the theology would hardlybe satisfactory to the author.]

To Mrs. Jameson Florence: May 4, [1850],

Dearest Friend, This little note will begiven to you by the Mr. Stuart ofwhom I once told you that he washolding you up to the admiration of allFlorence and the Baths of Lucca as thebest English critic of Shakespeare, inhis lectures on the great poet....

Robert bids me say that he wrote you aconstrained half-dozen lines by Mr.Henry Greenough, who asked for aletter of introduction to you, while theasker was sitting in the room, and the

form of 'dear Mrs. Jameson' couldn'twell be escaped from. He loves you aswell as ever, you are to understand,through every complication of forms,and you are to love him, and me, for Icome in as a part of him, if you please.Did you get my thanks for the dearPetrarch pen (so steeped in double-distilled memories that it seems scarcelyfit to be steeped in ink), and ourappreciation as well as gratitude for thebooks which, indeed, charm us moreand more Robert has been picking uppictures at a few pauls each, 'hole andcorner' pictures which the 'dealers' hadnot found out; and the other day hecovered himself with glory bydiscovering and seizing on (in a corn

shop a mile from Florence) fivepictures among heaps of trash; and oneof the best judges in Florence (Mr.Kirkup) throws out such names forthem as Cimabue, Ghirlandaio,Giottino, a crucifixion painted on abanner, Giottesque, if not Giotto, butunique, or nearly so, on account of thelinen material, and a little Virgin by aByzantine master. The curious thing isthat two angel pictures, for which hehad given a scudo last year, prove tohave been each sawn off the sides ofthe Ghirlandaio, so called, representingthe 'Eterno Padre' clothed in a mysticalgarment and encircled by a rainbow, thevarious tints of which, together withthe scarlet tips of the flying seraphs'

wings, are darted down into the smallerpictures and complete the evidence, linefor line. It has been a grand altar-piece,cut to bits. Now come and see foryourself. We can't say decidedly yetwhether it will be possible orimpossible for us to go to England thisyear, but in any case you must come tosee Gerardine and Italy, and we shallmanage to catch you by the skirts thenso do come. Never mind the rumblingof political thunders, because, even if astorm breaks, you will slip under coverin these days easily, whether in Franceor Italy. I can't make out, for my part,how anybody can be afraid of suchthings.

Will you be among the likers ordislikers, I wonder sometimes, ofRobert's new book The faculty, you willrecognise, in all cases; he can doanything he chooses. I have complainedof the asceticism in the second part, buthe said it was 'one side of the question.'Don't think that he has taken to thecilix indeed he has not but it is his wayto see things as passionately as otherpeople feel them....

Chapman & Hall offer us no copies, oryou should have had one, of course. SoWordsworth is gone a great light out ofheaven.

May God bless you, my dear friend!

Love your affectionate and grateful, forso many reasons, BA.

The death of Wordsworth on April 23left the Laureateship vacant, andthough there was probably never anylikelihood of Mrs. Browning's beinginvited to succeed him, it is worthnoticing that her claims were advocatedby so prominent a paper as the'Athenaeum,' which not only urged thatthe appointment would be eminentlysuitable under a female sovereign, buteven expressed its opinion that 'there isno living poet of either sex who canprefer a higher claim than Mrs.Elizabeth Barrett Browning.' No doubt

there would have been a certainappropriateness in the post of Laureateto a Queen being held by a poetess, butthe claims of Tennyson to the primacyof English poetry were rightly regardedas paramount. The fact that in RobertBrowning there was a poet of equalcalibre with Tennyson, though of sodifferent a type, seems to have occurredto no one.

To Miss Mitford Florence: June 15, 1850.

My ever dear Friend, How it grieves methat you should have been so unwellagain! From what you say about thestate of the house, I conclude that yourhealth suffers from that cause precisely;

and that when you are warmly anddryly walled in, you will be less liable tothese attacks, grievous to your friendsas to you. Oh, I don't praise anybody, Iassure you, for wishing to entice you tolive near them. We come over the Alpsfor a sunny climate; what should wenot do for a moral atmosphere likeyours I dare say you have chosenexcellently your new residence, and Ihope you will get over the fuss of itwith great courage, remembering theadvantages which it is likely to secure toyou. Tell me as much as you can aboutit all, that I may shift the scene in theright grooves, and be able to imagineyou to myself out of Three Mile Cross.You have the local feeling so eminently

that I have long been resolved on neverasking you to migrate. Doves won'ttravel with swallows; who shouldpersuade them This is no migrationonly a shifting from one branch toanother. With Reading on one side ofyou still, you will lose nothing, neithersight nor friend. Oh, do write to me assoon as you can, and say that thedeepening summer has done you goodand given you strength; say it, ifpossible. I shall be very anxious for thenext letter.... My only objection toFlorence is the distance from London,and the expense of the journey. One'sheart is pulled at through differentEnglish ties and can't get the right rest,and I think we shall move northwards

try France a little, after a time. Thepresent year has been full of pettyvexation to us about the difficulty ofgoing to England, and it becomes moreand more doubtful whether we canattain to the means of doing it. Thereare four of us and the child, you see,and precisely this year we are restrictedin means, as far as our presentknowledge goes; but I can't say yet,only I do very much fear. Nobody willbelieve our promises, I think, any more,and my poor Arabel will be in despair,and I shall lose the opportunity ofauthenticating Wiedeman; for, as Robertsays, all our fine stories about him willgo for nothing, and he will be set downas a sham child. If not sham, how

could human vanity resist the showinghim off bodily That soundsreasonable....

Certainly you are disinterested aboutAmerica, and, of course, all of us whohave hearts and heads must feel thesympathy of a greater nation to bemore precious than a thick purse. Still,it is not just and dignified, this vantageground of American pirates. Liking theends and motives, one disapproves themeans. Yes, even you do; and if I werean American I should dissent with stillmore emphasis. It should be made apoint of honour with the nation, ifthere is no point of law against the republishers. For my own part, I have

every possible reason to thank and loveAmerica; she has been very kind to me,and the visits we receive here fromdelightful and cordial persons of thatcountry have been most gratifying tous. The American minister at the courtof Vienna, with his family, did not passthrough Florence the other day withoutcoming to see us General WatsonWebbe-with an air of moral as well asmilitary command in his brow and eyes.He looked, and talked too, like one ofoar dignities of the Old World. The go-ahead principle didn't seem the leastover-strong in him, nor likely to disturbhis official balance. What is to happennext in France Do you trust still yourPresident He is in a hard position, and,

if he leaves the Pope where he is, in adishonored one. As for the change inthe electoral law and the increase ofincome, I see nothing in either to makean outcry against. There is greatinjustice everywhere and a ranklingparty-spirit, and to speak the truth andact it appears still more difficult thanusual. I was sorry, do you know, to hearof dear Mr. Horne's attempt at Shylock;he is fit for higher things. Did I tell youhow we received and admired his JudasIscariot Yes, surely I did. He says thatLouis Blanc is a friend of his and muchwith him, speaking with enthusiasm. Ishould be more sorry at his beinginvolved with the Socialists than withShylock still more sorry; for I love

liberty so intensely that I hateSocialism. I hold it to be the mostdesecrating and dishonouring tohumanity of all creeds. I would rather(for me) live under the absolutism ofNicholas of Russia than in a Fouriermachine, with my individuality suckedout of me by a social air-pump. Oh, ifyou happen to write again to Mrs.Deane, thank her much for her kindanxiety; but, indeed, if I had lost mydarling I should not write verses aboutit.[202] As for the Laureateship, it won'tbe given to me, be sure, though thesuggestion has gone the round of theEnglish newspapers 'Galignani' and alland notwithstanding that most kindand flattering recommendation of the

'Athenaeum,' for which I am sure weshould be grateful to Mr. Chorley. Ithink Leigh Hunt should have theLaureateship. He has condescended towish for it, and has 'worn his singingclothes' longer than most of hiscontemporaries, deserving the price oflong as well as noble service. Whoeverhas it will be, of course, exempted fromCourt lays; and the distinction of thetitle and pension should remain forSpenser's sake, if not for Wordsworth's.We are very anxious to know aboutTennyson's new work, 'In Memoriam.'Do tell us about it. You are aware that itwas written years ago, and relates to ason of Mr. Hallam, who wasTennyson's intimate friend and the

betrothed of his sister. I have heard,through someone who had seen theMS., that it is full of beauty andpathos.... Dearest, ever dear MissMitford, speak particularly of yourhealth. May God bless you, prays

Your ever affectionate E.B.B. Robert'skindest regards.

[Footnote 202: Referring to the linesentitled A Child's Grave at Florence,which had apparently beenmisunderstood as implying the deathof Mrs. Browning's own child.]

To Miss Mitford Florence: July 8, 1850.

My dearest Miss Mitford, I thismoment have your note; and as apacket of ours is going to England, Isnatch up a pen to do what I can withit in the brief moments between thisand post time. I don't wait till it shall bepossible to write at length, because Ihave something immediate to say toyou. Your letter is delightful, yet it isnot for that that I rush so uponanswering it. Nor even is it for theexcellent news of your consenting, fordear Mr. Chorley's sake, to give us somemore of your 'papers,'[203] though'blessed be the hour, and month, andyear' when he set about editing the'Ladies' Companion' and persuadingyou to do such a thing. No, what I want

to say is strictly personal to me. You arethe kindest, warmest-hearted, mostaffectionate of critics, and precisely assuch it is that you have thrown me intoa paroxysm of terror. My dearest friend,for the love of me I don't argue the pointwith you but I beseech you humbly,kissing the hem of your garment, andby all sacred and tender recollections ofsympathy between you and me, don'tbreathe a word about any juvenileperformance of mine don't, if you haveany love left for me. Dear friend,'disinter' anybody or anything youplease, but don't disinter me, unless youmean the ghost of my vexation to vexyou ever after. 'Blessed be she whospares these stones.' All the saints know

that I have enough to answer for since Icame to my mature mind, and that Ihad difficulty enough in making mostof the 'Seraphim' volume presentable alittle in my new edition, because it wastoo ostensible before the public to becaught back; but if the sins of myrawest juvenility are to be thrust uponme and sins are extant of even twelveor thirteen, or earlier, and I was in printonce when I was ten, I think what is tobecome of me I shall groan as loud asChristian did. Dearest Miss Mitford,now forgive this ingratitude which isgratitude all the time. I love you andthank you; but, right or wrong, mindwhat I say, and let me love and thankyou still more. When you see my new

edition you will see that everythingworth a straw I ever wrote is there, andif there were strength in conjuration Iwould conjure you to pass an act ofoblivion on the stubble that remains ifanything does remain, indeed. Now,more than enough of this. For the rest,I am delighted. I am even so generousas not to be jealous of Mr. Chorley forprevailing with you when nobody elsecould. I had given it up long ago; Inever thought you would stir a penagain. By what charm did he prevailYour series of papers will be delightful,I do not doubt; though I never couldsee anything in some of your heroes,American or Irish. Longfellow is a poet;I don't refer to him. Still, whatever you

say will be worth hearing, and the guidethrough 'Pompeii' will be better thanmany of the ruins. 'The Pleader'sGuide' I never heard of before. Praedhas written some sweet and tenderthings. Then I shall like to hear you onBeaumont and Fletcher, and AndrewMarvell.

I have seen nothing of Tennyson's newpoem. Do you know if the echo-songis the most popular of his verses It isonly another proof to my mind of theno-worth of popularity. That songwould be eminently sweet for acommon writer, but Tennyson hasdone better, surely; his eminences are tobe seen above. As for the laurel, in a

sense he is worthier of it than LeighHunt; only Tennyson can wait, that isthe single difference.

So anxious I am about your house.Your health seems to me mainly todepend on your moving, and I do urgeyour moving; if not there, elsewhere.May God bless you, ever dear friend!

I dare say you will think I have giventoo much importance to the rococoverses you had the goodness to speakof; but I have a horror of beingdisinterred, there's the truth! Leave theviolets to grow over me. Because thatwretched school-exercise of a versionof the 'Prometheus' had been named

by two or three people, wasn't I at thepains of making a new translationbefore I left England, so to erase a sortof half-visible and half invisible 'Bloton the Scutcheon' After such anexpenditure of lemon-juice, you willnot wonder that I should trouble youwith all this talk about nothing....

I am so delighted that you are to lift upyour voice again, and so grateful to Mr.Chorley.

Ah yes, if we go to Paris we shall drawyou. Mr. Chorley shan't have all thetriumphs to himself.

Not a word more, says Robert, or the

post will be missed. God bless you! Dotake care of yourself, and don't stay inthat damp house. And do makeallowances for love.

Your ever affectionate BA.

How glad I shall be if it is true thatTennyson is married! I believe in thehappiness of marriage, for menespecially.

[Footnote 203: These are the paperssubsequently published under the titleRecollections of a Literary Life. Amongthem was an article on the Brownings,giving biographical detail with respectto Mrs. Browning's early life, especially

as to the loss of her brother, whichcaused extreme pain to her sensitivenature, as a later letter testifies.]

Through the greater part of thesummer of 1850 the Brownings heldfast in Florence, and it was not untilSeptember, when Mrs. Browning wasrecovering from a rather sharp attack ofillness, that they took a short holiday,going for a few weeks to Siena, a placewhich they were again to visit someyears later, during the last two summersof Mrs. Browning's life. The letterannouncing their arrival is the first inthe present collection addressed to MissIsa Blagden. Miss Blagden was aresident in Florence for many years, and

was a prominent member of Englishsociety there. Her friendship, not onlywith Mrs. Browning, but with herhusband, was of a very intimatecharacter, and was continued after Mrs.Browning's death until the end of herown life in 1872.

To Miss I. Blagden Siena: September[1850].

Here I am keeping my promise, my dearMiss Blagden. We arrived quite safely,and I was not too tired to sleep atnight, though tired of course, and thebaby was a miracle of goodness all theway, only inclining once to a rabbiathrough not being able to get at the

electric telegraph, but in ecstasiesotherwise at everything new. We had tostay at the inn all night. We heard of amultitude of villas, none of whichcould be caught in time for thedaylight. On Sunday, however, just aswe were beginning to give it up, inRobert came with good news, and wewere settled in half an hour afterwardshere, a small house of some sevenrooms, two miles from Siena, andsituated delightfully in its own groundsof vineyard and olive ground, not toboast too much of a pretty little squareflower-garden. The grapes hang ingarlands (too tantalising to Wiedeman)about the walls and before them, and,through and over, we have magnificent

views of a noble sweep of country,undulating hills and various verdure,and, on one side, the great Maremmaextending to the foot of the Romanmountains. Our villa is on a hill called'poggio dei venti,' and the winds give usa turn accordingly at every window. It isdelightfully cool, and I have not beenable to bear my window open at nightsince our arrival; also we get good milkand bread and eggs and wine, and arenot much at a loss for anything. Thinkof my forgetting to tell you (Robertwould not forgive me for that) how wehave a specola or sort of belvedere at thetop of the house, which he delights in,and which I shall enjoy presently, whenI have recovered my taste for climbing

staircases. He carried me up once, butthe being carried down was so muchlike being carried down the flue of achimney, that I waive the wholeprivilege for the future. What is better,to my mind, is the expected fact ofbeing able to get books at Siena nearly aswell as at Brecker's, really; thoughDumas fils seems to fill up many of theinterstices where you think you havefound something. Three pauls a month,the subscription is; and for seven, weget a 'Galignani,' or are promised to getit. We pay for our villa ten scudi themonth, so that altogether it is notruinous. The air is as fresh as Englishair, without English dampness andtransition; yes, and we have English

lanes with bowery tops of trees, andbrambles and blackberries, and not awall anywhere, except the walls of ourvilla.

For my part, I am recovering strength, Ihope and believe. Certainly I can moveabout from one room to another,without reeling much: but I still look soghastly, as to 'back recoil,' perfectlyknowing 'Why,' from everything in theshape of a looking glass. Robert hasfound an armchair for me at Siena. Tosay the truth, my time for enjoying thiscountry life, except the enchantingsilence and the look from the window,has not come yet: I must wait for a littlemore strength. Wiedeman's cheeks are

beginning to redden already, and hedelights in the pigeons and the pig andthe donkey and a great yellow dog andeverything else now; only he wouldchange all your trees (except the appletrees), he says, for the Austrian band atany moment. He is rather a townbaby....

Our drawback is, dear Miss Blagden,that we have not room to take you in.So sorry we both are indeed. Write andtell me whether you have decided aboutVallombrosa. I hope we shall see muchof you still at Florence, if not here. Wecould give you everything here except abed.

Robert's kindest regards with those ofYour ever affectionate ELIZABETH B.BROWNING.

My love to Miss Agassiz, whenever yousee her.

To Miss Mitford Siena: September 24,1850.

To think that it is more than twomonths since I wrote last to you, mybeloved friend, makes the said twomonths seem even longer to me thanotherwise they would necessarily be aslow, heavy two months in every case,'with all the weights of care and deathhung at them.' Your letter reached me

when I was confined to my bed, andcould scarcely read it, for all thestrength at my heart.... As soon as Icould be moved, and before I couldwalk from one room to another, Dr.Harding insisted on the necessity ofchange of air (for my part, I seemed tomyself more fit to change the worldthan the air), and Robert carried meinto the railroad like a baby, and off wecame here to Siena. We took a villa amile and a half from the town, a villasituated on a windy hill (called 'poggioal vento'), with magnificent views fromall the windows, and set in the midst ofits own vineyard and olive ground,apple trees and peach trees, not tospeak of a little square flower-garden,

for which we pay eleven shillings one pennyfarthing the week; and at the end of thesethree weeks, our medical comforter'sprophecy, to which I listened soincredulously, is fulfilled, and I am ableto walk a mile, and am really as well asever in all essential respects.... Our poorlittle darling, too (see what disasters!),was ill four-and-twenty hours from aspecies of sunstroke, and frightened uswith a heavy hot head and glassy staringeyes, lying in a half-stupor. Terrible, thesilence that fell suddenly upon thehouse, without the small pattering feetand the singing voice. But God sparedus; he grew quite well directly and sanglouder than ever. Since we came herehis cheeks have turned into roses....

What still further depressed me duringour latter days at Florence was thedreadful event in America the loss ofour poor friend Madame Ossoli,[204]affecting in itself, and also throughassociation with that past, when thearrowhead of anguish was broken toodeeply into my life ever to be quitedrawn out. Robert wanted to keep thenews from me till I was stronger, butwe live too close for him to keepanything from me, and then I shouldhave known it from the first letter orvisitor, so there was no use trying. Thepoor Ossolis spent part of their lastevening in Italy with us, he and she andtheir child, and we had a note from her

off Gibraltar, speaking of the captain'sdeath from smallpox. Afterwards itappears that her child caught thedisease and lay for days between lifeand death; recovered, and then came thefinal agony. 'Deep called unto deep,'indeed. Now she is where there is nomore grief and 'no more sea;' and noneof the restless in this world, none ofthe ship-wrecked in heart ever seemedto me to want peace more than she did.We saw much of her last winter; andover a great gulf of differing opinionwe both felt drawn strongly to her.High and pure aspiration she had yes,and a tender woman's heart and wehonoured the truth and courage in her,rare in woman or man. The work she

was preparing upon Italy wouldprobably have been more equal to herfaculty than anything previouslyproduced by her pen (her otherwritings being curiously inferior to theimpressions her conversation gave you);indeed, she told me it was the onlyproduction to which she had giventime and labour. But, if rescued, themanuscript would be nothing but theraw material. I believe nothing wasfinished; nor, if finished, could thework have been otherwise than deeplycoloured by those blood colours ofSocialistic views, which would havedrawn the wolves on her, with a stillmore howling enmity, both in Englandand America. Therefore it was better

for her to go. Only God and a fewfriends can be expected to distinguishbetween the pure personality of awoman and her professed opinions.She was chiefly known in America, Ibelieve, by oral lectures and aconnection with the newspaper press,neither of them happy means ofpublicity. Was she happy in anything, Iwonder She told me that she never was.May God have made her happy in herdeath!

Such gloom she had in leaving Italy! Sofull she was of sad presentiment! Doyou know she gave a Bible as a partinggift from her child to ours, writing in it'In memory of Angelo Eugene Ossoli' a

strange, prophetical expression Thatlast evening a prophecy was talked ofjestingly an old prophecy made to poorMarquis Ossoli, 'that he should shunthe sea, for that it would be fatal tohim.' I remember how she turned to mesmiling and said, 'Our ship is called the"Elizabeth," and I accept the omen.'

Now I am making you almost dullperhaps, and myself certainly duller.Rather let me tell you, dearest MissMitford, how delightedly I lookforward to reading whatever you havewritten or shall write. You write 'as wellas twenty years ago'! Why, I shouldthink so, indeed. Don't I know whatyour letters are Haven't I had faith in

you always Haven't I, in fact, teased youhalf to death in proof of it I, who wasa sort of Brutus, and oughtn't to havedone it, you hinted. Moreover, Robertis a great admirer of yours, as I musthave told you before, and has thepretension (unjustly though, as I tellhim) to place you still higher amongwriters than I do, so that we are two inexpectancy here. May Mr. Chorley'speriodical live a thousand years!

As my 'Seagull' won't, but you will findit in my new edition, and the 'Doves'and everything else worth a straw ofmy writing. Here's a fact which youmust try to settle with your theories ofsimplicity and popularity: None of these

simple poems of mine have been favorites withgeneral readers. The unintelligible onesare always preferred, I observe, byextracters, compilers, and ladies andgentlemen who write to tell me that I'ma muse. The very Corn Law Leaguers inthe North used to leave your 'Seagulls'to fly where they could, and clap handsover mysteries of iniquity. Dearest MissMitford for the rest, don't mistake whatI write to you sometimes don't fancythat I undervalue simplicity and thinknothing of legitimate fame I only meanto say that the vogue which begins withthe masses generally comes to nought(Beranger is an exceptional case, fromthe form of his poems, obviously),while the appreciation beginning with

the few always ends with the masses.Wasn't Wordsworth, for instance, bothsimple and unpopular, when he wasmost divine To go to the great from thesmall, when I complain of thelamentable weakness of much in my'Seraphim' volume, I don't complain ofthe 'Seagull' and 'Doves' and the simpleverses, but exactly of the moreambitious ones. I have had to rewritepages upon pages of that volume. Oh,such feeble rhymes, and turns ofthought such a dingy mistiness! EvenRobert couldn't say a word for muchof it. I took great pains with the whole,and made considerable portions new,only your favourites were not touchednot a word touched, I think, in the

'Seagull,' and scarcely a word in the'Doves.' You won't complain of me agreat deal, I do hope and trust. Also Iput back your 'little words' into the'House of Clouds.' The two volumesare to come out, it appears, at the endof October; not before, because Mr.Chapman wished to inaugurate themfor his new house in Piccadilly. Thereare some new poems, and one ratherlong ballad written at request of anti-slavery friends in America.[205] Iarranged that it should come next tothe 'Cry of the Children,' to appearimpartial as to national grievances....

Oh Balzac what a loss! One of thegreatest and (most) original writers of

the age gone from us! To hear this newsmade Robert and me very melancholy.Indeed, there seems to be fatality justnow with the writers of France. Soulie,Bernard, gone too; George Sandtranslating Mazzini; Sue in asocialistical state of decadence what hemeans by writing such trash as the'Peches' I really can't make out; onlyAlexandre Dumas keeping his head upgallantly, and he seems to me to writebetter than ever. Here is a new book,just published, by Jules Sandeau, called'Sacs et Parchemins'! Have you seen it Itmiraculously comes to us from the littleSiena library.

We stay in this villa till our month is

out, and then we go for a week intoSiena that I may be nearer the churchesand pictures, and see something of thecathedral and Sodomas. We calculatedthat it was cheaper to move ourquarters than to have a carriage to andfro, and then Dr. Hardingrecommended repeated change of airfor me, and he has proved his ability somuch (so kindly too!) that we arebound to act on his opinions as closelyas we can. Perhaps we may even go toVolterra afterwards, if the finances willallow of it. If we do, it may be foranother week at farthest, and then wereturn to Florence. You had betterdirect there as usual. And do write andtell me much of yourself, and set me

down in your thoughts as quite well,and ever yours in warm and gratefulaffection.

E.B.B.

[Footnote 204: Drowned with herhusband on their way to America.]

[Footnote 205: The Runaway Slave atPilgrim's Point.]

To Miss Mitford Florence: November 13,1850 [postmark].

I meant to cross your second letter, andso, my very dear friend, you are asecond time a prophetess as to my

intentions, while I am still moregrateful than I could have been withthe literal fulfilment. Delightful it is tohear from you do always write whenyou can. And though this second letterspeaks of your having been unwell, stillI shall continue to flatter myself thatupon the whole 'the better partprevails,' and that if the rains don'twash you away this winter, I may haveleave to think of you as strengtheningand to strengthen still. Meanwhile youcertainly, as you say, have roots to yourfeet. Never was anyone so pure as youfrom the drop of gypsey blood whichtingles in my veins and my husband's,and gives us every now and then a feverfor roaming, strong enough to carry us

to Mount Caucasus if it were not forthe healthy state of depletionobservable in the purse. I get fond ofplaces, so does he. We both of us grewrather pathetical on leaving our Sienesevilla, and shrank from parting with thepig. But setting out on one's travels hasa great charm; oh, I should like to beable to pay our way down the Nile, andinto Greece, and into Germany, andinto Spain! Every now and then we takeout the road-books, calculate theexpenses, and groan in the spirit whenit's proved for the hundredth time thatwe can't do it. One must have a home,you see, to keep one's books in andone's spring-sofas in; but the charm ofa home is a home to come back to. Do

you understand No, not you! You haveas much comprehension of thepleasure of 'that sort of thing' as in thepeculiar taste of the three ladies whohung themselves in a French balloonthe other day, operatically nude, in order,I conjecture, to the ultimate perfectionof French delicacy in morals andmanners....

I long to see your papers, and dare saythey are charming. At the same time,just because they are sure to becharming (and notwithstanding theirkindness to me, notwithstanding that Ilive in a glass house myself, warmed bysuch rare stoves!) I am a little in fearthat your generosity and excess of

kindness may run the risk of loweringthe ideal of poetry in England bylifting above the mark the names ofsome poetasters. Do you know, youtake up your heart sometimes bymistake, to admire with, when youought to use it only to love with andthis is apt to be dangerous, with yourreputation and authority in matters ofliterature. See how impertinent I am!But we should all take care to teach theworld that poetry is a divine thing,should we not that is, not mere verse-making, though the verses be pretty intheir way. Rather perish every verse Iever wrote, for one, than help to dragdown an inch that standard of poetrywhich, for the sake of humanity as well

as literature, should be kept high. Asfor simplicity and clearness, did I everdeny that they were excellent qualitiesNever, surely. Only, they will not makepoetry; and absolutely vain they are,and indeed all other qualities, withoutthe essential thing, the genius, theinspiration, the insight let us call it whatwe please without which the mostaccomplished verse-writers had farbetter write prose, for their own sakesas for the world's don't you think soWhich I say, because I sighed aloudover many names in your list, and nowhave taken pertly to write out the sighat length. Too charmingly you are sureto have written and see the danger! ButMiss Fanshawe is well worth your

writing of (let me say that I am sensiblewarmly of that) as one of the mostwitty of our wits in verse, men orwomen. I have only seen manuscriptcopies of some of her verses, and thatyears ago, but they struck me verymuch; and really I do not rememberanother female wit worthy to sit besideher, even in French literature.Motherwell is a true poet. But oh, Idon't believe in your John Clares,Thomas Davises, Whittiers, Hallocksand still less in other names which itwould be invidious to name again.How pert I am! But you give me leaveto be pert, and you know the meaningof it all, after all. Your editor quarrelleda little with me once, and I with him,

about the 'poetesses of the unitedempire,' in whom I couldn't orwouldn't find a poet, though there areextant two volumes of them, and LadyWinchilsea at the head. I hold that thewriter of the ballad of 'Robin Gray'was our first poetess rightly so called,before Joanna Baillie.

Mr. Lever is in Florence, I believe, now,and was at the Baths of Lucca in thesummer. We never see him; it is curious.He made his way to us with thesunniest of faces and cordialest ofmanners at Lucca; and I, who am muchtaken by manner, was quite pleasedwith him, and wondered how it wasthat I didn't like his books. Well, he

only wanted to see that we had the rightnumber of eyes and no odd fingers.Robert, in return for his visit, called onhim three times, I think, and I left mycard on Mrs. Lever. But he never cameagain he had seen enough of us, hecould put down in his private diary thatwe had neither claw nor tail; and therean end, properly enough. In fact, helives a different life from ours: he in theballroom and we in the cave, nothingcould be more different; and perhapsthere are not many subjects ofcommon interest between us. I haveseen extracts in the 'Examiner' fromTennyson's 'In Memoriam' whichseemed to me exquisitely beautiful andpathetical. Oh, there's a poet, talking of

poets. Have you read Wordsworth's lastwork the legacy With regard to theelder Miss Jewsbury, do you know, Itake Mr. Chorley's part against you,because, although I know her only byher writings, the writings seem to me toimply a certain vigour and originalityof mind, by no means ordinary. Forinstance, the fragments of her letters inhis 'Memorials of Mrs. Hemans' aremuch superior to any other lettersalmost in the volume certainly to Mrs.Hemans's own. Isn't this so And so youtalk, you in England, of Prince Albert's'folly,' do you really Well, among theodd things we lean to in Italy is to anactual belief in the greatness andimportance of the future exhibition.

We have actually imagined it to be anoble idea, and you take me by surprisein speaking of the general distaste to itin England. Is it really possible For theagriculturists, I am less surprised atcoldness on their part; but do youfancy that the manufacturers and free-traders are cold too Is Mr. Chorleyagainst it equally Yes, I am glad to hearof Mrs. Butler's success or FannyKemble's, ought I to say Our littleWiedeman, who can't speak a word yet,waxes hotter in his ecclesiastical andmusical passion. Think of that baby(just cutting his eyeteeth) screaming inthe streets till he is taken into thechurches, kneeling on his knees to thefirst sound of music, and folding his

hands and turning up his eyes in a sortof ecstatical state. One scarcely knowshow to deal with the sort of thing: it istoo soon for religious controversy. Hecrosses himself, I assure you. Robertsays it is as well to have the eyeteethand the Puseyistical crisis over together.The child is a very curious imaginativechild, but too excitable for his age,that's all I complain of ... God blessyou, my much loved friend. Write to

Your ever affectionate E.B.B.

What books by Soulie have appearedsince his death Do you remember Ihave just got 'Les Enfants de l'Amour,'by Sue. I suppose he will prove in it the

illegitimacy of legitimacy, and vice versa.Sue is in decided decadence, for therest, since he has taken to illustratingSocialism!

To Miss I. Blagden [Florence:] Sundaymorning [about 1850].

My dear Miss Blagden, In spite of allyour drawing kindness, we find itimpossible to go to you on Monday.We are expecting friends from Romewho will remain only a few days,perhaps, in Florence. Now it seems tome that you very often pass our door.Do you not too often leave the trace ofyour goodness with me And would itnot be better of you still, if you would

at once make use of us and give uspleasure by pausing here, you and MissAgassiz, to rest and refresh yourselveswith tea, coffee, or whatever else youmay choose We shall be delighted to seeyou always, and don't fancy that I say soout of form or 'tinkling cymbalism.'

Thank you for your intention about the'Leader.' Robert and I shall like much tosee anything of John Mill's on thesubject of Socialism or any other. Bythe 'British Review,' do you mean theNorth British I read a clever article inthat review some months ago on theGerman Socialists, ably embracing in itsanalysis the fraternity in France, andattributed, I have since heard, to Dr.

Hanna, the son-in-law and biographerof Chalmers. Christian Socialists are byno means a new sect, the Moraviansrepresenting the theory with as littleoffence and absurdity as may be. Whatis it, after all, but an out-of-doorextension of the monastic system Thereligious principle, more or lessapprehended, may bind men togetherso, absorbing their individualities, andpresenting an aim beyond the world; butupon merely human and earthlyprinciples no such system can stand, Ifeel persuaded, and I thank God for it.If Fourierism could be realised (whichit surely cannot) out of a dream, thedestinies of our race would shrivel upunder the unnatural heat, and human

nature would, in my mind, bedesecrated and dishonored because Ido not believe in purification withoutsuffering, in progress without struggle,in virtue without temptation. Least ofall do I consider happiness the end ofman's life. We look to higher things,have nobler ambitions.

Also, in every advancement of theworld hitherto, the individual has ledthe masses. Thus, to elicit individualityhas been the object of the best politicalinstitutions and governments. Now, inthese new theories, the individual isground down into the multitude, andsociety must be 'moving all together ifit moves at all' restricting the very

possibility of progress by the use ofthe lights of genius. Genius is alwaysindividual.

Here's a scribble upon grave matters! Iought to be acknowledging insteadyour scrupulous honesty, as illustratedby five-franc pieces and Tuscan florins.Make us as useful as you can do, for thefuture; and please us by coming often. Iam afraid your German Baroness couldnot make an arrangement with you, asyou do not mention her. Give our bestregards to Miss Agassiz, and acceptthem yourself, dear Miss Blagden, from

Your affectionate ELIZABETHBARRETT BROWNING.

To Mr. Westwood Florence: Thursday,December 12, 1850.

My dear Mr. Westwood, Your book hasnot reached us yet, and so if I waitedfor that, to write, I might wait longerstill. But I don't wait for that, becauseyou bade me not to do so, and besideswe have only this moment finishedreading 'In Memoriam,' and it was asort of miracle with us that we got it sosoon....

December 13. The above sentences werewritten yesterday, and hardly had theybeen written when your third lettercame with its enclosure. How very kind

you are to me, and how am I to thankyou enough! If you had not sent methe 'Athenaeum' article I never shouldhave seen it probably, for my husbandonly saw it in the reading room, wherewomen don't penetrate (because in Italywe can't read, you see), and where theperiodicals are kept so strictly, likeHesperian apples, by the dragons ofthe place, that none can be stolen awayeven for half an hour. So he could onlywish me to catch sight of that articleand you are good enough to send itand oblige us both exceedingly. Forwhich kindness 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 and Query'

magazine why the 'Athenaeum' doesshow me so much favor, while, as in alate instance, so little justice is shown tomy husband It's a problem, likeanother. As for poetry, I hope to dobetter things in it yet, though I have achild to 'stand in my sunshine,' as yousuppose he must; but he only makesthe sunbeams brighter with hisglistening curls, little darling and whocan complain of that You can't thinkwhat a good, sweet, curious, imaginingchild he is. Half the day I do nothingbut admire him there's the truth. Hedoesn't talk yet much, but hegesticulates with extraordinary force ofsymbol, and makes surprisingrevelations to us every half-hour or so.

Meanwhile Flush loses nothing, Iassure you. On the contrary, he ishugged and kissed (rather too hardsometimes), and never is permitted tobe found fault with by anybody underthe new regime. If Flush is scolded,Baby cries as matter of course, and hewould do admirably for a 'whipping-boy' if that excellent institution were tobe revived by Young England and theTractarians for the benefit of ourdeteriorated generations. I was illtowards the end of last summer, andwe had to go to Siena for the sake ofgetting strength again, and there welived in a villa among a sea of littlehills, and wrapt up in vineyards andolive yards, enjoying everything. Much

the worst of Italy is, the drawbackabout books. Somebody said the otherday that we 'sate here like posterity'reading books with the gloss off them.But our case in reality is far moredreary, seeing that Prince Posterity willhave glossy books of his own. Howexquisite 'In Memoriam' is, how earnestand true; after all, the gloss never canwear off books like that.

And as to your book, it will come, itwill come, and meantime I may assureyou that posterity is very impatient forit. The Italian poem will be read withthe interest which is natural. You knowit's a more than doubtful point whetherShakespeare ever saw Italy out of a

vision, yet he and a crowd of inferiorwriters have written about Venice andvineyards as if born to the manner ofthem. We hear of Carlyle travelling inFrance and Germany but I must leaveroom for the words you ask for from acertain hand below.

Ever dear Mr. Westwood's obliged andfaithful

E.B.B.

And the 'certain hand' will write its best(and far better than any poor 'PippaPasses') in recording a feeling whichdoes not pass at all, that of gratitudefor all such generous sympathy as dear

Mr. Westwood's for E.B.B. and (in hisproper degree) R. BROWNING.

To Miss Mitford Florence: December 13,1850.

Did I write a scolding letter, dearestMiss Mitford So much the better, whenpeople deserve to be scolded. Theworst is, however, that it sometimesdoes them no sort of good, and thatthey will sit on among the ruins ofCarthage, let ever so many messagescome from Italy. My only hope now is,that you will have a mild winter inEngland, as we seem likely to have ithere; and that in the spring, by the helpof some divine interposition of friends

supernaturally endowed (after themanner of Mr. Chorley), you may bemade to go away into a house with fastwalls and chimneys. Certainly, if youcould be made to write, anything else ispossible. That's my comfort. And theother's my hope, as I said; and sobetween hope and consolation Ineedn't scold any more. Let me tell youwhat I have heard of Mrs. Gaskell, forfear I should forget it later. She isconnected by marriage with Mrs. A.T.Thompson, and from a friend of Mrs.Thompson's it came to me, and reallyseems to exonerate Chapman & Hallfrom the charge advanced against them.'Mary Barton' was shown in manuscriptto Mrs. Thompson, and failed to please

her; and, in deference to her judgment,certain alterations were made.Subsequently it was offered to all ornearly all the publishers in London andrejected. Chapman & Hall accepted andgave a hundred pounds, as you heard,for the copyright of the work; andthough the success did not, perhaps(that is quite possible), induce anyliberality with regard to copies, theygave another hundred pounds uponprinting the second edition, and it wasnot in the bond to do so. I am told thatthe liberality of the proceeding wasappreciated by the author and herfriends accordingly and there's the endof my story. Two hundred pounds is agood price isn't it for a novel, as times

go. Miss Lynn had only a hundred andfifty for her Egyptian novel, or perhapsfor the Greek one. Taking the long runof poetry (if it runs at all), I am halfgiven to think that it pays better thanthe novel does, in spite of everything.Not that we speak out of goldenexperience; alas, no! We have had not asou from our books for a year past, thebooksellers being bound of course tocover their own expenses first. Thenthis Christmas account has not yetreached us. But the former editionspaid us regularly so much a year, and sowill the present ones, I hope. Only Iwas not thinking of them, in preferringwhat may strike you as an extravagantparadox, but of Tennyson's returns

from Moxon last year, which Iunderstand amounted to five hundredpounds. To be sure, 'In Memoriam' wasa new success, which should notprevent our considering the fact of aregular income proceeding from theprevious books. A novel flashes up fora season and does not often outlast it.For 'Mary Barton' I am a little, littledisappointed, do you know. I have justdone reading it. There is power andtruth she can shake and she can piercebut I wish half the book away, it is sotedious every now and then; andbesides I want more beauty, more airfrom the universal world theseclassbooks must always be defective asworks of art. How could I help being

disappointed a little when Mrs. Jamesontold me that 'since the "Bride ofLammermoor," nothing had appearedequal to "Mary Barton" ' Then the styleof the book is slovenly, and given to akind of phraseology which would bevulgar even as colloquial English. Oh, itis a powerful book in many ways. Youare not to set me down as hypercritical.Probably the author will, write herselfclear of many of her faults: she hasstrength enough. As to 'In Memoriam,'I have seen it, I have read it dear Mr.Kenyon had the goodness to send it tome by an American traveller and now Ireally do disagree with you, for thebook has gone to my heart and soul; Ithink it full of deep pathos and beauty.

All I wish away is the marriage hymn atthe end, and that for every reason I wishaway it's a discord in the music. Themonotony is a part of the position (thesea is monotonous, and so is lastinggrief.) Your complaint is against fateand humanity rather than against thepoet Tennyson. Who that has sufferedhas not felt wave after wave break dullyagainst one rock, till brain and heart,with all their radiances, seemed lost in asingle shadow So the effect of thebook is artistic, I think, and indeed I donot wonder at the opinion which hasreached us from various quarters thatTennyson stands higher through havingwritten it. You see, what he appeared towant, according to the view of many,

was an earnest personality and directpurpose. In this last book, though ofcourse there is not room in it for thatexercise of creative faculty whichelsewhere established his fame, heappeals heart to heart, directly as fromhis own to the universal heart, and weall feel him nearer to us I do and so doothers. Have you read a poem called'the Roman' which was praised highlyin the 'Athenaeum,' but did not seem toRobert to justify the praise in thepassages extracted written by somebodywith certainly a nom de guerre SidneyYendys. Observe, Yendys is Sidneyreversed. Have you heard anythingabout it, or seen The 'Athenaeum' hasbeen gracious to me beyond gratitude

almost; nothing could by possibility bekinder. A friend of mine sent me thearticle from Brussels a Mr. Westwood,who writes poems himself; yes, andpoetical poems too, written with anodorous, fresh sense of poetry aboutthem. He has not original power,more's the pity: but he has stayed nearthe rose in the 'sweet breath andbuddings of the spring,' and althoughthat won't make anyone live beyondspring-weather, it is the expression of asensitive and aspirant nature; and theman is interesting and amiable an oldcorrespondent 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 fear thatneither of them will make way in thatparticular department of literatureselected by them for action. Oh, mydearest friend, you may talk aboutcoteries, but the English society atFlorence (from what I hear of the humof it at a distance) is worse than anycoterie-society in the world. A coterie,if I understand the thing, is informedby a unity of sentiment, or faith, orprejudice; but this society here is notinformed at all. People come togetherto gamble or dance, and if there's anend, why so much the better; but there'snot an end in most cases, by any mannerof means, and against every sort ofinnocence. Mind, I imply nothing

about Mr. Lever, who livesirreproachably with his wife and family,rides out with his children in a troopof horses to the Cascine, and yet is associal a person as his joyoustemperament leads him to be. But welive in a cave, and peradventure he isafraid of the damp of us who knowsWe know very few residents inFlorence, and these, with chancevisitors, chiefly Americans, are all thatkeep us from solitude; every now andthen in the evening somebody drops into tea. Would, indeed, you were near!but should I be satisfied with you 'oncea week,' do you fancy. Ah, you wouldsoon love Robert. You couldn't help it,I am sure. I should be soon turned

down to an underplace, and, under thecircumstances, would not struggle. Doyou remember once telling me that 'allmen are tyrants' as sweeping an opinionas the Apostle's, that 'all men are liars.'Well, if you knew Robert you wouldmake an exception certainly. Talking ofthe artistical English here, somebodytold me the other day of a youngCambridge or Oxford man whodeducted from his researches in Romeand Florence that 'Michael Angelo wasa wag.' Another, after walking throughthe Florentine galleries, exclaimed to afriend of mine, 'I have seen nothinghere equal to those magnificent picturesin Paris by Paul de Kock.' My friendhumbly suggested that he might mean

Paul de la Roche. But see what Englishyou send us for the most part. We havehad one very interesting visitor lately,the grandson of Goethe. He did us thehonour, he said, of spending two daysin Florence on our account, heespecially wishing to see Robert onaccount of some sympathy of viewabout 'Paracelsus.' There can scarcely bea more interesting young man quiteyoung he seems, and full of aspirationof the purest kind towards the goodand true and beautiful, and not towardsthe poor laurel crowns attainable fromany possible public. I don't know whenI have been so charmed by a visitor,and indeed Robert and I paid him thehighest compliment we could, by

wishing, one to another, that our littleWiedeman might be like him some day.I quite agree with you about the churchof your Henry. It surprises me that achild of seven years should findpleasure even once a day in the longEnglish service too long, according tomy doxy, for matured years. As tofanaticism, it depends on a defect ofintellect rather than on an excess of theadoring faculty. The latter cannot, Ithink, be too fully developed. How Ishall like you to see our Wiedeman! Heis a radiant little creature, really, yet hewon't talk; he does nothing butgesticulate, only making his will andpleasure wonderfully clear andsupreme, I assure you. He's a tyrant,

ready made for your theory. If yourbook is 'better than I expect,' what willit be God bless you! Be well, and loveme, and write to me, for I am your everaffectionate

BA.

To Mrs. Martin Florence: January 30,1851.

Here I am at last, dearest friend. Butyou forget how you told me, when youwrote your 'long letter,' that you weregoing away into chaos somewhere, andthat your address couldn't be knownyet. It was this which made me delaythe answer to that welcome letter and

to begin to 'put off' is fatal, as perhapsyou know. Now forgive me, and I willbehave better in future, indeed....

I am quite well, and looking well, theysay; but the frightful illness of theautumn left me paler and thinner longafter the perfect recovery. The physiciantold Robert afterwards that few womenwould have recovered at all; and when Ileft Siena I was as able to walk, and aswell in every respect as ever,notwithstanding everything think, forinstance, of my walking to St. Miniato,here in Florence! You remember,perhaps, what that pull is. I dare say youheard from Henrietta how we enjoyedour rustication at Siena. It is pleasant

even to look back on it. We wereobliged to look narrowly at theeconomies, more narrowly than usual;but the cheapness of the place suitedthe occasion, and the little villa, like amere tent among the vines, charmed us,though the doors didn't shut, andthough (on account of the smallness)Robert and I had to whisper all our talkwhenever Wiedeman was asleep. Oh, Iwish you were in Italy. I wish you hadcome here this winter which has beenso mild, and which, with ordinaryprudence, would certainly have suiteddear Mr. Martin.... I tried to dissuadethe Peytons from making theexperiment, through the fear of its notanswering.... We can't get them into

society, you see, because we are out ofit, having struggled to keep out of itwith hands and feet, and partiallyhaving succeeded, knowing scarcelyanybody except bringers of letters ofintroduction, and those chieflyAmericans and not residents inFlorence. The other day, however, Mrs.Trollope and her daughter-in-law calledon us, and it is settled that we are toknow them; though Robert had made asort of vow never to sit in the sameroom with the author of certain booksdirected against liberal institutions andVictor Hugo's poetry. I had a longerbattle to fight, on the matter of thisvow, than any since my marriage, andhad some scruples at last of taking

advantage of the pure goodness whichinduced him to yield to my wishes; butI did, because I hate to seem ungraciousand unkind to people; and humanbeings, besides, are better than theirbooks, than their principles, and eventhan their everyday actions, sometimes.I am always crying out: 'Blessed be theinconsistency of men.' Then I thoughtit probable that, the first shock of thecold water being over, he would like theproposed new acquaintances very muchand so it turns out. She was veryagreeable, and kind, and good-natured,and talked much about you, which wasa charm of itself; and we mean to bequite friends, and to lend each otherbooks, and to forget one another's

offences, in print or otherwise. Also,she admits us on her private days; forshe has public days (dreadful to relate!),and is in the full flood and flow ofFlorentine society. Do write to me, willyou or else I shall set you down asvexed with me. The state of politicshere is dismal. Newspapers put down;Protestant places of worship shut up. Itis so bad that it must soon be better.What are you both thinking of the'Papal aggression' [206] 'Are youfrightened Are you frenzied For mypart I can't get up much steam about it.The 'Great Insult' was simply a greatmistake, the consequence (naturalenough) of the Tractarian idiocies asenacted in Italy.

God bless both of you, dearest andalways remembered friends! Robert'sbest regards, he says.

Your affectionate BA.

Tell me your thoughts about France. Iam so anxious about the crisis there.[207] We have had a very interestingvisit lately from the grandson ofGoethe.

[Footnote 206: The Papal Bullappointing Roman Catholic bishopsthroughout England was issued onSeptember 24, 1850, and England wasnow in the throes of the anti-papal

excitement produced by it.]

[Footnote 207: "Where LouisNapoleon was engaged in his series ofencroachments on the power of theAssembly and intrigues for the imperialthrone."]

To Miss Browning Florence: April 23,1851 [postmark].

My dearest Sarianna, I do hope thatRobert takes his share of the blame inusing and abusing you as we have done.It was altogether too bad shameful tosend that last MS. for you to copy out;and I did, indeed, make a little outcryabout it, only he insisted on having it

so. Was it very wrong, I wonder Yourkindness and affectionateness I neverdoubt of; but if you are not quitestrong just now, you might be teased, inspite of your heart, by all that copyingwork not pleasant at any time. Well,believe that I thank you, at leastgratefully, for what you have done. Soquickly too! The advertisement at theend of the week proves how you musthave worked for me. Thank you, dearSarianna.

Robert will have told you our schemes,and how we are going to work, and areto love you near for the future, I hope.You, who are wise, will approve of us, Ithink, for keeping on our Florentine

apartment, so as to run no more riskthan is necessary in making the Parisexperiment. We shall let the old dearrooms, and make money by them, andkeep them to fall back upon, in case wefail at Paris. 'But we'll not fail.' Well, Ihope not, though I am very brittle stilland susceptible to climate. DearestSarianna, it will do you infinite good tocome over to us every now and thenyou want change, absolute change ofscene and air and climate, I amconfident; and you never will be righttill you have had it. We talk, Robert andI, of carrying you back with us toRome next year as an English trophy.Meanwhile you will see Wiedeman, youand dear Mr. Browning. Don't expect to

see a baby of Anak, that's all. Robert isalways measuring him on the door, andreporting such wonderful growth(some inch a week, I think), that if youreceive his reports you will cry out onbeholding the child. At least, you'll say:'How little he must have been to be nolarger now.' You'll fancy he must havebegun from a mustard-seed! The fact is,he is small, only full of life and joy tothe brim. I am not afraid of your notloving him, nor of his not loving you.He has a loving little heart, I assureyou. If anyone pricks a finger with aneedle he begins to cry he can't bear tosee the least living thing hurt. Andwhen he loves, it is well. Robert says Imust finish, so here ends dearest

Sarianna's

Ever affectionate sister BA.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUMESMITH, ELDER, & CO.'S NEWBOOKS.

* * * * *

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