Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  The move to London was followed by two results of great importance for Elizabeth Barrett. In the first place, her health, which had never been strong, broke down altogether in the London atmosphere, and it is from some time shortly after the arrival in Gloucester Place that the beginning of her invalid life must be dated. On the other hand, residence in London brought her into the neighbourhood of new friends; and although the number of those admitted to see her in her sick-room was always small, we yet owe to this fact the commencement of some of her closest friendships, notably those with her distant cousin, John Kenyon, and with Miss Mitford, the authoress of ‘Our Village,’ and of a correspondence on a much fuller and more elaborate scale than any of the earlier period. To this, no doubt, the fact of her confinement to her room contributed not a little; for being unable to go out and see her friends, much of her communication with them was necessarily by letter. At the same time her literary activity was increasing. She began to contribute poems to various magazines, and to be brought thereby into connection with literary men; and she was also employed on the longer compositions which went to make up her next volume of published verse.

  All this was, however, only of gradual development; and for some time her correspondence is limited to Mr. Boyd, who was now living in St. John’s Wood, and Mrs. Martin. The exact date of the first letter is uncertain, but it seems to belong to a time soon after the arrival of the Barretts in town.

  To H.S. Boyd

  [74 Gloucester Place, London: autumn 1835.]

  My dear Mr. Boyd, — As Georgie is going to do what I am afraid I shall not be able to do to-day — namely, to visit you — he must take with him a few lines from Porsonia greeting, to say how glad I am to feel myself again at only a short distance from you, and how still gladder I shall be when the same room holds both of us. Don’t be angry because I have not visited you immediately. You know — or you will know, if you consider — I cannot open the window and fly.

  Papa and I were very much obliged to you for the poison — and are ready to smile upon you whenever you give us the opportunity, as graciously as Socrates did upon his executioner. How much you will have to say to me about the Greeks, unless you begin first to abuse me about the Romans; and if you begin that, the peroration will be a very pathetic one, in my being turned out of your doors. Such is my prophecy.

  Papa has been telling me of your abusing my stanzas on Mrs. Hemans’s death. I had a presentiment that you would: and behold, why I said nothing to you of them. Of course, I maintain, versus both you and papa, that they are very much to be admired: as well as everything else proceeding from or belonging to ME. Upon which principle, I hope you will admire George particularly.

  Believe me, dear Mr. Boyd, your affectionate friend,

  E.B. BARRETT.

  Arabel’s and my love to Annie. Won’t she come to see us?

  To Mrs. Martin

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

  My dearest Mrs. Martin, — I am half willing and half unwilling to write to you when, among such dearer interests and deep anxieties, you may perhaps be scarcely at liberty to attend to what I write. And yet I will write, if it be only briefly, that you may not think — if you think of us at all — that we have changed our hearts with our residence so much as to forget to sympathise with you, dear Mrs. Martin, or to neglect to apprise you ourselves of our movements. Indeed, a letter to you should have been written among my first letters on arriving in London, only Henrietta (my scape-goat, you will say) said, ‘I will write to Mrs. Martin.’ And then after I had waited, and determined to write without waiting any longer, we heard of poor Mrs. Hanford’s affliction and your anxiety, and I have considered day after day whether or not I should intrude upon you; until I find myself — thus!

  I do hope that you have from the hand of God those consolations which only He in Jesus Christ can give to the so afflicted. For I know well that you are afflicted with the afflicted, and that with you sympathy is suffering; and that while the tenderest earthly comfort is administered by your presence and kindness to your dear friends, you will feel bitterly for them what a little thing earthly comfort is, when the earthly beloved perish before them. May He who is the Beloved in the sight of His Father and His Church be near to them and you, and cause you to feel as well as know the truth, that what is sudden sorrow, to our judgments, is only long-prepared mercy in His will whose names are Wisdom and Love. Should it not be, dear friend, that the tears of our human eyes ought to serve the happy and touching purpose of reminding us of those tears of Jesus which He shed in assuming our sorrow with our flesh? And the memory of those tears involves all comfort. A recognition of the oneness of the human nature of that Divine Saviour who ever liveth, with ours which perishes and sorrows so; an assurance drawn from thence of His sympathy who sits on the throne of God, with us who suffer in the dust of earth, and of all those doctrines of redemption and sanctification and happiness which come from Him and by Him.

  Now you will forgive me for writing all this, dearest Mrs. Martin. I like to write my thoughts and feelings out of my own head and heart, just as they suggest themselves, when I write to you; and I cannot think of affliction, particularly when it comes near to me in the affliction or anxiety of dear friends, without looking back and remembering what voice of God used to sound softly to me when none other could speak comfort. You will forgive me, and not be angry with me for trying, or seeming to try, to be a sermon writer.

  Perhaps, dear Mrs. Martin, when you do feel inclined and able to write, you would write me a few lines. Remember, I do not ask for them now. No, do not think of writing now. I shall very much like to hear how your dear charge is — whether there should appear any prospect of improvement; and how poor Mrs. Hanford bears up against this heavy calamity; and whether the anxiety and nursing affect your health. But we shall try to hear this from the Biddulphs; and so do put me out of your head, except when its thoughts would dwell on those on earth who sympathise with you and care for you.

  You see we are in London after all, and poor Sidmouth left afar. I am almost inclined to say ‘poor us’ instead of ‘poor Sidmouth.’ But I dare say I shall soon be able to see in my dungeon, and begin to be amused with the spiders. Half my soul, in the meantime, seems to have stayed behind on the seashore, which I love more than ever now that I cannot walk on it in the body. London is wrapped up like a mummy, in a yellow mist, so closely that I have had scarcely a glimpse of its countenance since we came. Well, I am trying to like it all very much, and I dare say that in time I may change my taste and my senses — and succeed. We are in a house large enough to hold us, for four months, at the end of which time, if the experiment of our being able to live in London succeed, I believe that papa’s intention is to take an unfurnished house and have his furniture from Ledbury. You may wonder at me, but I wish that were settled so, and now. I am satisfied with London, although I cannot enjoy it. We are not likely, in the case of leaving it, to return to Devonshire, and I should look with weary eyes to another strangership and pilgrimage even among green fields that know not these fogs. Papa’s object in settling here refers to my brothers. George will probably enter as a barrister student at the Inner Temple on the fifth or sixth of this month, and he will have the advantage of his home by our remaining where we are. Another advantage of London is, that we shall see here those whom we might see nowhere else. This year, dear Mrs. Martin, may it bring with it the true pleasure of seeing you! Three have gone, and we have not seen you.... May God bless you and all that you care for, being with you always as the God of consolation and peace.

  Your affectionate

  E.B. BARRETT.

  It is from the middle of this year that Miss Barrett’s active appearance as an author may be dated. Hitherto her publications had been confined to a few small anonymous volumes, printed rather to please herself and her friends than with any idea of appealing to a wider public. She was now anxious to take this farther step, and, with that object, to obtain admissio
n to some of the literary magazines. This was obtained through the instrumentality of Mr. R.H. Home, subsequently best known as the author of ‘Orion.’ He was at this time personally unknown to Miss Barrett, but an application through a common friend led both to the opening to the poetess of the pages of the ‘New Monthly Magazine,’ then edited by Bulwer, and also to the commencement of a friendship which has left its mark in the two volumes of published letters to Mr. Home. The following is Mr. Home’s account of the opening of the acquaintance (‘Letters,’ i. 7, 8):

  ‘My first introduction to Miss Barrett was by a note from Mrs. Orme, inclosing one from the young lady containing a short poem with the modest request to be frankly told whether it might be ranked as poetry or merely verse. As there could be no doubt in the recipient’s mind on that point, the poem was forwarded to Colburn’s “New Monthly,” edited at that time by Mr. Bulwer (afterwards the late [first] Lord Lytton), where it duly appeared in the current number. The next manuscript sent to me was “The Dead Pan,” and the poetess at once started on her bright and noble career.’

  The poem with which Miss Barrett thus made her bow to the world of letters was ‘The Romaunt of Margret,’ which appeared in the July number of the magazine. Mr. Home must, however, have been in error in speaking of ‘The Dead Pan’ as its successor, since that was not written till some years later. More probably it was ‘The Poet’s Vow, which was printed in the October number of the ‘New Monthly.’

  To H.S. Boyd

  [London:] October 14, Friday .

  My dear Friend, — Be as little angry with me as you can. I have not been very well for a day or two, and shall enjoy a visit to you on Monday so much more than I shall be able to do to-day, that I will ask you to forgive my not going to you this week, and to receive me kindly on that day instead — provided, you know, it is not wet.

  The αχαιιδες [Achaiides] approach the αχαιοι [Achaioi] more tremblingly than usual, with the ‘New Monthly Magazine’ in their hands. Now pray don’t annoy yourself by reading a single word which you would rather not read except for the sake of being kind to me. And my prophecy is, that even by annoying yourself and making a strenuous effort, the whole force of friendship would not carry you down the first page. Georgie says you want to know the verdict of the ‘Athenaeum.’ That paper unfortunately has been lent out of the house; but my memory enables me to send you the words very correctly, I think. After some observations on other periodicals, the writer goes on to say: ‘The “New Monthly Magazine” has not one heavy article. It is rich in poetry, including some fine sonnets by the Corn Law Rhymer, and a fine although too dreamy ballad, “The Poet’s Vow.” We are almost tempted to pause and criticise the work of a writer of so much inspiration and promise as the author of this poem, and exhort him once again, to greater clearness of expression and less quaintness in the choice of his phraseology; but this is not the time or place for digression.’

  You see my critic has condemned me with a very gracious countenance. Do put on yours,

  And believe me, affectionately yours,

  E.B. BARRETT.

  I forgot to say that you surprised and pleased me at the same time by your praise of my ‘Sea-mew.’ Love to Annie. We were glad to hear that she did not continue unwell, and that you are well again, too. I hope you have had no return of the rheumatic pain.

  To H.S. Boyd

  [74 Gloucester Place:] Saturday, [October 1836].

  My dear Friend, — I am much disappointed in finding myself at the end of this week without having once seen you — particularly when your two notes are waiting all this time to be answered. Do believe that they were not, either of them, addressed to an ungrateful person, and that the only reason of their being received silently was my hope of answering them more agreeably to both of us — by talking instead of writing.

  Yes; you have read my mystery.

  You paid a tithe to your human nature in reading only nine-tenths of it, and the rest was a pure gift to your friendship for me, and is taken and will be remembered as such. But you have a cruel heart for a parody, and this one tried my sensibility so much that I cried — with laughing. I confess to you notwithstanding, it was very fair, and dealt its blow with a shining pointed weapon.

  But what will you say to me when I confess besides that, in the face of all your kind encouragement, my Drama of the Angels has never been touched until the last three days? It was not out of pure idleness on my part, nor of disregard to your admonition; but when my thoughts were distracted with other things, books just begun inclosing me all around, a whole load of books upon my conscience, I could not possibly rise up to the gate of heaven and write about my angels. You know one can’t sometimes sit down to the sublunary, occupation of reading Greek, unless one feels free to it. And writing poetry requires a double liberty, and an inclination which comes only of itself.

  But I have begun. I tried the blank metre once, and it would not do, and so I had to begin again in lyrics. Something above an hundred lines is written, and now I am in two panics, just as if one were not enough. First, because it seems to me a very daring subject — a subject almost beyond our sympathies, and therefore quite beyond the sphere of human poetry. Perhaps when all is written courageously, I shall have no courage left to publish it. Secondly, because all my tendencies towards mysticism will be called into terrible operation by this dreaming upon angels. Yes; you will read a mystery, but don’t make any rash resolutions about reading anything. As I have begun, I certainly will go on with the writing.

  Here is a question for you:

  Am I to accept your generous sacrifice of reading nine-tenths of my ‘Vow,’ as an atonement for your WANT OF CONFIDENCE IN ME? Oh, your conscience will understand very well what I mean, without a dictionary.

  Arabel and I intend to pay you a visit on Monday, and if we can, and it is convenient to you, we are inclined to invite ourselves to your dinner table. But this is all dependent on the weather.

  Believe me, dear Mr. Boyd, your affectionate friend,

  E.B. BARRETT.

  To H.S. Boyd

  [74 Gloucester Place:] November 26, 1836 [postmark].

  My dear Mr. Boyd, — I have been so busy that I have not been able until this morning to take breath or inspiration to answer your lyrics. You shall see me soon, but I am sorry to say it can’t be Monday or Tuesday.

  I have had another note from the editor of the ‘New Monthly Magazine’ — very flattering, and praying for farther supplies. The Angels were not ready, and I was obliged to send something else, 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 I won’t miss this post,

  Yours affectionately,

  E.B. BARRETT.

  Your lyrics found me dull as prose

  Among a file of papers

  And analysing London fogs

  To nothing but the vapours.

  They knew their part; but through the fog

  Their flaming lightning raising;

  They missed my fancy, and instead,

  My choler set a-blazing.

  Quoth I, ‘I need not care a pin

  For charge unjust, unsparing;

  Yet oh! for ancient bodkin keen,

  To punish this Pindáring.

  ‘Yet oh! that I, a female Jove,

  These fogs sublime might float on,

  Where, eagle-like, my dove might show

  A very υγρον νωτον [ugron nôton].

  ‘Then lightning should for lightning flash,

  Vexation for vexation,

  And shades of St. John’s Wood should glow

  In awful conflagration.’

  I spoke; when lo! my birds of peace,

  The vengeance disallowing,

  Replied, ‘Coo, coo!’ But keep in mind,

  That cooing is not cowing.

  To Mrs. Martin

  74 Gloucester Place: December 7, 1836.

  My dearest Mrs. Ma
rtin, — Indeed I have long felt the need of writing to you (I mean the need to myself), and although so many weeks and even months have passed away in silence, they have not done so in lack of affection and thought.

  I had wished very much to have been able to tell you in this letter where we had taken our house, or where we were going to take it. We remain, however, in our usual state of conscious ignorance, although there is a good deal of talking and walking about a house in Wimpole Street — which, between ourselves, I am not very anxious to live in, on account of the gloominesses of that street, and of that part of the street, whose walls look so much like Newgate’s turned inside out. I would rather go on, in my old way, inhabiting castles in the air than that particular house. Nevertheless, if it is decided upon, I dare say I shall contrive to be satisfied with it, and sleep and wake very much as I should in any other. It will certainly be a point gained to be settled somewhere, and I do so long to sit in my own armchair — strange as it will look out of my own room — and to read from my own books.... For our own particular parts, our healths continue good — none of us, I think, the worse for fog or wind. As to wind, we were almost elevated into the prerogative of pigs in the late storm. We could almost see it, and the feeling it might have been fatal to us. Bro and I were moralising about shipwrecks, in the dining-room, when down came the chimney through the skylight into the entrance passage. You may imagine the crashing effect of the bricks bounding from the staircase downwards, breaking the stone steps in the process, in addition to the falling in of twenty-four large panes of glass, frames and all. We were terrified out of all propriety, and there has been a dreadful calumny about Henrietta and me — that we had the hall door open for the purpose of going out into the street with our hair on end, if Bro had not encouraged us by shutting the door and locking it. I confess to opening the door, but deny the purpose of it — at least, maintain that I only meant to keep in reserve a way of escape, in case, as seemed probable, the whole house was on its way to the ground. Indeed, we should think much of the mercy of the escape. Bro had been on the staircase only five minutes before. Sarah the housemaid was actually there. She looked up accidentally and saw the nodding chimneys, and ran down into the drawing-room to papa, shrieking, but escaping with one graze of the hand from one brick. How did you fare in the wind? I never much imagined before that anything so true to nature as a real live storm could make itself heard in our streets. But it has come too surely, and carried away with it, besides our chimney, all that was left to us of the country, in the shape of the Kensington Garden trees. Now do write to me, dearest Mrs. Martin, and soon, and tell me all you can of your chances and mischances, and how Mr. Martin is getting on with the parish, and yourself with the parishioners. But you have more the name of living at Colwall than the thing. You seem to me to lead a far more wandering life than we, for all our homelessness and ‘pilgrim shoon.’ Why, you have been in Ireland since I last said a word to you, even upon paper....