I am happy to announce to you that a new little dove has appeared from a shell — over which nobody had prognosticated good — on August 16, 1837. I and the senior doves appear equally delighted, and we all three, in the capacity of good sitters and indefatigable pullers-about, take a good deal of credit upon ourselves....
Arabel has begun oil painting, and without a master — and you can’t think how much effect and expression she has given to several of her own sketches, notwithstanding all difficulties. Poor Henrietta is without a piano, and is not to have one again until we have another house! This is something like ‘when Homer and Virgil are forgotten.’ Speaking of Homer and Virgil, I have been writing a ‘Romance of the Ganges,’ in order to illustrate an engraving in the new annual to be edited by Miss Mitford, Finden’s tableaux for 1838. It does not sound a very Homeric undertaking — I confess I don’t hold any kind of annual, gild it as you please, in too much honour and awe — but from my wish to please her, and from the necessity of its being done in a certain time, I was ‘quite frightful,’ as poor old Cooke used to say, in order to express his own nervousness. 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 could send you some kind of news that would interest you; but you see scarcely any except all this selfishness is in my beat. Dearest Bro draws and reads German, and I fear is dull notwithstanding. But we are every one of us more reconciled to London than we were. Well! I must not write any more. Whenever you think of me, dearest Mrs. Martin, remember how deeply and unchangeably I must regard you — both with my mind, my affections, and that part of either, called my gratitude. BA.
Henrietta’s kindest love and thanks for your letter. She desires me to say that she and Bro are going to dine with Mrs. Robert Martin to-morrow. I must tell you that Georgie and I went to hear Dr. Chalmers preach, three Sundays ago. His sermon was on a text whose extreme beauty would diffuse itself into any sermon preached upon it — God is love. His eloquence was very great, and his views noble and grasping. I expected much from his imagination, but not so much from his knowledge. It was truer to Scripture than I was prepared for, although there seemed to me some want on the subject of the work of the Holy Spirit on the heart, which work we cannot dwell upon too emphatically. ‘He worketh in us to will and to do,’ and yet we are apt to will and do without a transmission of the praise to Him. May God bless you.
To Miss Commeline
London: August 19, 1837.
My dear Miss Commeline, — I could not hear of your being in affliction without very frequent thoughts of you and a desire to express some of them in this way, and although so much time has passed I do hope that you will believe in the sympathy with which I, or rather we, have thought of you, and in the regard we shall not cease to feel for you even if we meet no more in this world. It is blessed to know both for ourselves and for each other that while there is a darkness that must come to all, there is a light which may; and may He who is the light in the dark place be with you [now] and always, causing you to feel rather the glory that is in Him than the shadow which is in all beside — that so the sweetness of the consolation may pass the bitterness of even grief. Do give my love to Mrs. Commeline and to your sisters, and believe me, all of you, that the friends who have gone from your neighbourhood have not gone from my old remembrance, either of your kindness to them, or of their own feelings of interest in you.
Trusting to such old remembrances, I will believe that you care to know what we are doing and how we are settling — that word which has now been on our lips for years, which it is marvellous to think how it got upon human lips at all. We came from Sidmouth to try London and ourselves, and see whether or not we could live together; and after more than a year and a half close contact with smoke we find no very good excuse for not remaining in it; and papa is going on with his eternal hunt for houses — the wild huntsman in the ballad is nothing to him, all except the sublimity — intending very seriously to take the first he can. He is now about one in particular, but I won’t tell where it is because we have considered so many houses in particular that our considerations have come to be a jest in general. I shall be heartily glad, at least I think so, for it is possible that the reality of being bricked up for a lease time may not be very agreeable. I think I shall be heartily glad when a house is taken, and we have made it look like our own with our furniture and pictures and books. I am so anxious to see my old books. I believe I shall begin at the beginning and read every story book through in the joy of meeting, and shall be as sedentary as ever I was in my own arm-chair. I remember when I was a child spreading my vitality, not over trees and flowers (I do that still — I still believe they have a certain animal susceptibility to pleasure and pain; ‘it is my creed,’ and, being Wordsworth’s besides, I am not ashamed of it), but over chairs and tables and books in particular, and being used to fancy a kind of love in them to suit my love to them. And so if I were a child I should have an intense pity for my poor folios, quartos, and duodecimos, to say nothing of the arm-chair, shut up all these weeks and months in boxes, without a rational eye to look upon them. Pray forgive me if I have written a great deal of nonsense— ‘Je m’en doute.’
Henrietta has spent a fortnight at Chislehurst with the Martins, and was very joyous there, and came back to us with that happy triumphant air which I always fancy people ‘just from the country’ put on towards us hapless Londoners.
But you must not think I am a discontented person and grumble all day long at being in London. There are many advantages here, as I say to myself whenever it is particularly disagreeable; and if we can’t see even a leaf or a sparrow without soot on it, there are the parrots at the Zoological Gardens and the pictures at the Royal Academy; and real live poets above all, with their heads full of the trees and birds and sunshine of paradise. I have stood face to face with Wordsworth and Landor; and Miss Mitford, who is in herself what she is in her books, has become a dear friend of mine, but a distant one. She visits London at long intervals, and lives thirty miles away....
Bro and I were studying German together all last summer with Henry, before he left us to become a German, and I believe this is the last of my languages, for I have begun absolutely to detest the sight of a dictionary or grammar, which I never liked except as a means, and love poetry with an intenser love, if that be possible, than I ever did. Not that Greek is not as dear to me as ever, but I write more than I read, even of Greek poetry, and am resolute to work whatever little faculty I have, clear of imitations and conventionalisms which cloud and weaken more poetry (particularly now-a-days) than would be believed possible without looking into it....
As to society in London, I assure you that none of us have much, and that as for me, you would wonder at seeing how possible it is to live as secludedly in the midst of a multitude as in the centre of solitude. My doves are my chief acquaintances, and I am so very intimate with them that they accept and even demand my assistance in building their innumerable nests. Do tell me if there is any hope of seeing any of you in London at any time. I say ‘do tell me,’ for I will venture to ask you, dear Miss Commeline, to write me a few lines in one of the idlest hours of one of your idlest days just to tell me a little about you, and whether Mrs. Commeline is tolerably well. Pray believe me under all circumstances,
Yours sincerely and affectionately,
E.B. BARRETT.
The spring of 1838 was marked by two events of interest to Miss Barrett and her family. In the first place, Mr. Barrett’s apparently interminable search for a house ended in his selection of 50 Wimpole Street, which continued to be his home for the rest of his life, and which is, consequently, more than any other house in London, to be associated with his daughter’s memory. The second event was the publication of ‘The Seraphim, and other Poems,’ which was Miss Barrett’s first serious appearance before the public, and in her own name, as a poet. The early letters of this year refer to the preparation of this volume, as well a
s to the authoress’s health, which was at this 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 on the frailest of tenures, and lived in all respects the life of an invalid.
To H.S. Boyd
Monday morning, March 27, 1838 [postmark].
My dear Friend, — I do hope that you may not be very angry, but papa thinks — and, indeed, I think — that as I have already had two proof sheets and forty-eight pages, and the printers have gone on to the rest of the poem, it would not be very welcome to them if we were to ask them to retrace their steps. Besides, I would rather — I for myself, I — that you had the whole poem at once and clearly printed before you, to insure as many chances as possible of your liking it. I am promised to see the volume completed in three weeks from this time, so that the dreadful moment of your reading it — I mean the ‘Seraphim’ part of it — cannot be far off, and perhaps, the season being a good deal advanced even now, you might not, on consideration, wish me to retard the appearance of the book, except for some very sufficient reason. I feel very nervous about it — far more than I did when my ‘Prometheus’ crept out [of] the Greek, or I myself out of the shell, in the first ‘Essay on Mind.’ Perhaps this is owing to Dr. Chambers’s medicines, or perhaps to a consciousness that my present attempt is actually, and will be considered by others, more a trial of strength than either of my preceding ones.
Thank you for the books, and especially for the editio rarissima, which I should as soon have thought of your trusting to me as of your admitting me to stand with gloves on within a yard of Baxter. This extraordinary confidence shall not be abused.
I thank you besides for your kind inquiries about my health. Dr. Chambers did not think me worse yesterday, notwithstanding the last cold days, which have occasioned some uncomfortable sensations, and he still thinks I shall be better in the summer season. In the meantime he has ordered me to take ice — out of sympathy with nature, I suppose; and not to speak a word, out of contradiction to my particular, 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 that your commands have been performed to the letter, and that one Greek motto (from ‘Orpheus’) is given to the first part of ‘The Seraphim,’ and another from Chrysostom to the second.
Henrietta desires me to say that she means to go to see you very soon. Give my very kind remembrance to Miss Holmes, and believe me,
Your affectionate friend,
E.B. BARRETT.
I saw Mr. Kenyon yesterday. He has a book just coming out. I should like you to read it. If you would, you would thank me for saying so.
To John Kenyon
[1838.]
Thank you, dearest Mr. Kenyon; and I should (and shall) thank Miss Thomson too for caring to spend a thought on me after all the Parisian glories and rationalities which I sympathise with by many degrees nearer than you seem to do. We, in this England here, are just social barbarians, to my mind — that is, we know how to read and write and think, and even talk on occasion; but we carry the old rings in our noses, and are proud of the flowers pricked into our cuticles. By so much are they better than we on the Continent, I always think. Life has a thinner rind, and so a livelier sap. And that I can see in the books and the traditions, and always understand people who like living in France and Germany, and should like it myself, I believe, on some accounts.
Where did you get your Bacchanalian song? Witty, certainly, but the recollection of the scores a little ghastly for the occasion, perhaps. You have yourself sung into silence, too, all possible songs of Bacchus, as the god and I know.
Here is a delightful letter from Miss Martineau. I cannot be so selfish as to keep it to myself. The sense of natural beauty and the good sense of the remarks on rural manners are both exquisite of their kinds, and Wordsworth is Wordsworth as she knows him. Have I said that Friday will find me expecting the kind visit you promise? That, at least, is what I meant to say with all these words.
Ever affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
To John Kenyon
Wimpole Street: Sunday evening [1838?].
My dear Mr. Kenyon, — I am so sorry to hear of your going, and I not able to say ‘good-bye’ to you, that — I am not writing this note on that account.
It is a begging note, and now I am wondering to myself whether you will think me very childish or womanish, or silly enough to be both together (I know your thoughts upon certain parallel subjects), if I go on to do my begging fully. I hear that you are going to Mr. Wordsworth’s — to Rydal Mount — and I want you to ask for yourself, and then to send to me in a letter — by the post, I mean, two cuttings out of the garden — of myrtle or geranium; I care very little which, or what else. Only I say ‘myrtle’ because it is less given to die and I say two to be sure of my chances of saving one. Will you? You would please me very much by doing it; and certainly not dis please me by refusing to do it. Your broadest ‘no’ would not sound half so strange to me as my ‘little crooked thing’ does to you; but you see everybody in the world is fanciful about something, and why not E.B.B.?
Dear Mr. Kenyon, I have a book of yours — M. Rio’s. If you want it before you go, just write in two words, ‘Send it,’ or I shall infer from your silence that I may keep it until you come back. No necessity for answering this otherwise. Is it as bad as asking for autographs, or worse? At any rate, believe me in earnest this time — besides being, with every wish for your enjoyment of mountains and lakes and ‘cherry trees,’
Ever affectionately yours,
E.B.B.
To H.S. Boyd
[May 1838.]
My dear friend, — I am rather better than otherwise within the last few days, but fear that nothing will make me essentially so except the invisible sun. I am, however, a little better, and God’s will is always done in mercy.
As to the poems, do forgive me, dear Mr. Boyd; and refrain from executing your cruel threat of suffering ‘the desire of reading them to pass away.’
I have not one sheet of them; and papa — and, to say the truth, I myself — would so very much prefer your reading the preface first, that you must try to indulge us in our phantasy. The book Mr. Bentley half promises to finish the printing of this week. At any rate it is likely to be all done in the next: and you may depend upon having a copy as soon 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 dear friend. I had begun to fancy that between Saunders and Otley and the ‘Seraphim’ I had fallen to the ground of your disfavour. But I do trust to be able to send you a copy before next Sunday.
I am thrown back a little just now by having caught a very bad cold, which has of course affected my cough. The worst seems, however, to be past, and Dr. Chambers told me yesterday that he expected to see me in two days nearly as well as before this casualty. And I have been, thank God, pretty well lately; and although when the stethoscope was applied three weeks ago, it did not speak very satisfactorily of the state of the lungs, yet Dr. Chambers seems to be hopeful still, and to talk of the wonders which the summer sunshine (when it does come) may be the means of doing for me. And people say that I look rather better than worse, even now.
Did you hear of an autograph of Shakespeare’s being sold lately for a very large sum (I think it was above a hundred pounds) on the credit of its being the only genuine autograph extant? Is yours quite safe? And are you so, in your opinion of its veritableness?
I have just finished a very long barbarous ballad for Miss Mitford and the Finden’s tableaux of this year. The title is ‘The Romaunt of the Page,’ and the subject not of my own choosing.
I believe that you will certainly have ‘The Se
raphim’ this week. Do macadamise the frown from your brow in order to receive them.
Give my love to Miss Holmes.
Your affectionate friend,
E.B. BARRETT.
To H.S. Boyd
June 7, 1838 [postmark].
My dear Mr. Boyd, — Papa is scarcely inclined, nor am I for myself, to send my book or books to the East Indies. Let them alone, poor things, until they can walk about a little! and then it will be time enough for them to ‘learn to fly.’
I am so sorry that Emily Harding saw Arabel and went away without this note, which I have been meaning to write to you for several days, and have been so absorbed and drawn away (all except my thoughts) by other things necessary to be done, that I was forced to defer it. My ballad, containing a ladye dressed up like a page and galloping off to Palestine in a manner that would scandalise you, went to Miss Mitford this morning. But I augur from its length that she will not be able to receive it into Finden.
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 146
