You have perhaps thought us ungrateful people, my ever dear friend,

for this long delay in thanking you for your beautiful and welcome

present.[199] Here is the truth. Though we had the books from Rome

last month, they were snatched from us by impatient hands before we

had finished the first volume. The books are hungered and thirsted

for in Florence, and, although the English reading club has them,

they can't go fast enough from one to another. Four of our friends

entreated us for the reversion, and although it really is only

just that we should be let read our own books first, yet Robert's

generosity can't resist the need of this person who is 'going away,'

and of that person who is 'so particularly anxious'--for particular

reasons perhaps--so we renounce the privilege you gave us (with the

pomps of this world) and are still waiting to finish even the first

volume. Our cultivated friends the Ogilvys, who had the work from us

earliest, because they were going to Naples, were charmed with it. Mr.

Kirkup the artist, who disputes with Mr. Bezzi the glory of finding

Dante's portrait--yes, and breathes fire in the dispute--has it now.

Madame Ossoli, Margaret Fuller, the American authoress, who brought

from the siege of Rome a noble marquis as her husband, asks for it.

And your adorer Mr. Stuart, who has lectured upon Shakespeare all

the winter, entreats for it. So when we shall be free to enjoy it

thoroughly for ourselves remains doubtful. Robert promises every day,

'You shall have it next, certainly,' and I only hope you will put

him and me in your next edition of the martyrs, for such a splendid

exercise of the gifts of self-renunciation. But don't fancy that

we have not been delighted with the sight of the books, with your

kindness, and besides with the impressions gathered from a rapid

examination of the qualities of the work. It seems to us in every

way a valuable and most interesting work; it must render itself

a _necessity_ for art students, and general readers and seers of

pictures like me, who carry rather sentiment than science into

the consideration of such subjects. We much admire your

introduction--excellent in all ways, besides the grace and eloquence.

Altogether, the work must set you higher with a high class of the

public, and I congratulate you on what is the gain of all of us.

Robert has begun a little pencil list of trifling criticisms he means

to finish. We both cry aloud at what you say of Guercino's angels,

and never would have said if you had been to Fano and seen his divine

picture of the 'Guardian Angel,' which affects me every time I think

of it. Our little Wiedeman had his part of pleasure in the book by

being let look at the engravings. He screamed for joy at the miracle

of so many bird-men, and kissed some of them very reverentially, which

is his usual way of expressing admiration....

Whether you will like Robert's new book I don't know, but I am sure

you will admit the originality and power in it. I wish we had the

option of giving it to you, but Chapman & Hall never seem to think

of our giving copies away, nor leave them at our disposal. There is

nothing _Italian_ in the book; poets are apt to be most present with

the distant. A remark of Wilson's[200] used to strike me as eminently

true--that the perfectest descriptive poem (descriptive of rural

scenery) would _be_ naturally produced in a London cellar. I have read

'Shirley' lately; it is not equal to 'Jane Eyre' in spontaneousness

and earnestness. I found it heavy, I confess, though in the mechanical

part of the writing--the compositional _savoir faire_--there is an

advance. Robert has exhumed some French books, just now, from a little

circulating library which he had not tried, and we have been making

ourselves uncomfortable over Balzac's 'Cousin Pons.' But what a

wonderful writer he is! Who else could have taken such a subject, out

of the lowest mud of humanity, and glorified and consecrated it? He is

wonderful--there is not another word for him--profound, as Nature is.

S I complain of Florence for the want of books. We have to dig and dig

before we can get anything new, and _I_ can read the newspapers only

through Robert's eyes, who only can read them at Vieusseux's in a room

sacred from the foot of woman. And this isn't always satisfactory to

me, as whenever he falls into a state of disgust with any political

_régime_, he throws the whole subject over and won't read a word

more about it. Every now and then, for instance, he ignores France

altogether, and I, who am more tolerant and more curious, find myself

suspended over an hiatus _(valde deflendus_), and what's to be said

and done? M. Thiers' speech--'Thiers is a rascal; I make a point of

not reading one word said by M. Thiers.' M. Prudhon--'Prudhon is a

madman; who cares for Prudhon?' The President--'The President's an

ass; _he_ is not worth thinking of.' And so we treat of politics.

I wish you would write to us a little oftener (or rather, a good deal)

and tell us much of yourself. It made me very sorry that you should

be suffering in the grief of your sister--you whose sympathies are so

tender and quick! May it be better with you now! Mention Lady Byron. I

shall be glad to hear that she is stronger notwithstanding this cruel

winter. We have lovely weather here now, and I am quite well and able

to walk out, and little Wiedeman rolls with Flush on the grass of

the Cascine. Dear kind Wilson is doatingly fond of the child, and

sometimes gives it as her serious opinion that 'there never _was_ such

a child before.' Of course I don't argue the point much. Now, will

you write to us? Speak of your plans particularly when you do. We have

taken this apartment on for another year from May. May God bless you!

Robert unites in affectionate thanks and thoughts of all kinds, with

your

E.B.B.--rather, BA.

This letter has waited some days to be sent away, as you will see by

the date.

[Footnote 199: Mrs. Jameson's _Legends of the Monastic Orders_, which

had just been published.]

[Footnote 200: Presumably _not_ Mrs. Browning's maid, but 'Christopher

North.']

At the end of March 1850, the long-deferred marriage of Mrs.

Browning's sister, Henrietta, to Captain Surtees Cook took place. It

is of interest here mainly as illustrating Mr. Barrett's behaviour

to his daughters. An application for his consent only elicited the

pronouncement, 'If Henrietta marries you, she turns her back on this

house for ever,' and a letter to Henrietta herself reproaching her

with the 'insult' she had offered him in asking his consent when she

had evidently made up her mind to the conclusion, and declaring

that, if she married, her name should never again be mentioned in his

presence. The marriage having thereupon taken place, his decision was

forthwith put into practice, and a second child was thenceforward an

exile from her father's house.

_To Miss Mitford_

Florence: [end of] April 1850.

You will have seen in the papers, dearest friend, the marriage of my

sister Henrietta, and will have understood why I was longer silent

than usual. Indeed, the event has much moved me, and so much of the

emotion was painful--painfulness being inseparable from events of the

sort in our family--that I had to make an effort to realise to myself

the reasonable degree of gladness and satisfaction in her release from

a long, anxious, transitional state, and her prospect of happiness

with a man who has loved her constantly and who is of an upright,

honest, reliable, and religious mind. Our father's objections were to

his Tractarian opinions and insufficient income. I have no sympathy

myself with Tractarian opinions, but I cannot under the circumstances

think an objection of the kind tenable by a third person, and in truth

we all know that if it had not been this objection, it would have been

another--there was no escape any way. An engagement of five years

and an attachment still longer were to have some results; and I can't

regret, or indeed do otherwise than approve from my heart, what she

has done from hers. Most of her friends and relatives have considered

that there was no choice, and that her step is abundantly justified.

At the same time, I thank God that a letter sent to me to ask my

advice never reached me (the _second_ letter of my sisters' lost,

since I left them), because no advice _ought_ to be given on any

subject of the kind, and because I, especially, should have shrunk

from accepting such a responsibility. So I only heard of the marriage

three days before it took place--no, four days before--and was upset,

as you may suppose, by the sudden news. Captain Surtees Cook's sister

was one of the bridesmaids, and his brother performed the ceremony.

The _means_ are very small of course--he has not much, and my sister

has nothing--still it seems to me that they will have enough to live

prudently on, and he looks out for a further appointment. Papa 'will

never again let her name be mentioned in his hearing,' he _says_, but

we must hope. The dreadful business passed off better on the whole

than poor Arabel expected, and things are going on as quietly as

usual in Wimpole Street now. I feel deeply for _her_, who in her

pure disinterestedness just pays the price and suffers the loss.

She represents herself, however, to be relieved at the crisis being

passed. I earnestly hope for her sake that we may be able to get to

England this year--a sight of us will be some comfort. Henrietta is to

live at Taunton for the present, as he has a military situation there,

and they are preparing for a round of visits among their many friends

who are anxious to have them previous to their settling. All this, you

see, will throw me back with papa, even if I can be supposed to have

gained half a step, and I doubt it. Oh yes, dearest Miss Mitford. I

have indeed again and again thought of your 'Emily,' stripping the

situation of 'the favour and prettiness' associated with that heroine.

Wiedeman might compete, though, in darlingness with the child, as the

poem shows him. Still, I can accept no omen. My heart sinks when I

dwell upon peculiarities difficult to analyse. I love him very deeply.

When I write to him, I lay myself at his feet. Even if I had gained

half a step (and I doubt it, as I said), see how I must be thrown back

by the indisposition to receive others. But I cannot write of this

subject. Let us change it....

Madame Ossoli sails for America in a few days, with the hope of

returning to Italy, and indeed I cannot believe that her Roman husband

will be easily naturalised among the Yankees. A very interesting

person she is, far better than her writings--thoughtful, spiritual

in her habitual mode of mind; not only exalted, but _exaltée_ in her

opinions, and yet calm in manner. We shall be sorry to lose her. We

have lost, besides, our friends Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvy, cultivated and

refined people: they occupied the floor above us the last winter, and

at the Baths of Lucca and Florence we have seen much of them for

a year past. She published some time since a volume of 'Scottish

Minstrelsy,' graceful and flowing, and aspires strenuously towards

poetry; a pretty woman with three pretty children, of quick

perceptions and active intelligence and sensibility. They are upright,

excellent people in various ways, and it is a loss to us that they

should have gone to Naples now. Dearest friend, how your letter

delighted me with its happy account of your improved strength. Take

care of yourself, do, to lose no ground. The power of walking must

refresh your spirits as well as widen your daily pleasures. I am so

glad. Thank God. We have heard from Mr. Chorley, who seems to have

received very partial gratification in respect to his play and yet

prepares for more plays, more wrestlings in the same dust. Well, I

can't make it out. A man of his sensitiveness to choose to appeal to

the coarsest side of the public--which, whatever you dramatists may

say, you all certainly do--is incomprehensible to me. Then I cannot

help thinking that he might achieve other sorts of successes more

easily and surely. Your criticism is very just. But _I_ like his

'Music and Manners in Germany' better than anything he has done. I

believe I always _did_ like it best, and since coming to Florence I

have heard cultivated Americans speak of it with enthusiasm, yes, with

enthusiasm. 'Pomfret' they would scarcely believe to be by the same

author. I agree with you, but it is a pity indeed for him to tie

himself to the wheels of the 'Athenaeum,' to _approfondir_ the ruts;

what other end? And, by the way, the 'Athenaeum,' since Mr. Dilke

left it, has grown duller and duller, colder and colder, flatter

and flatter. Mr. Dilke was not brilliant, but he was a Brutus in

criticism; and though it was his speciality to condemn his most

particular friends to the hangman, the survivors thought there was

something grand about it on the whole, and nobody could hold him in

contempt. Now it is all different. We have not even 'public virtue' to

fasten our admiration to. You will be sure to think I am vexed at the

article on my husband's new poem.[201] Why, certainly I am vexed! Who

would _not_ be vexed with such misunderstanding and mistaking. Dear

Mr. Chorley writes a letter to appreciate most generously: so you see

how little power he has in the paper to insert an opinion, or stop an

injustice. On the same day came out a burning panegyric of six columns

in the 'Examiner,' a curious cross-fire. If you read the little book

(I wish I could send you a copy, but Chapman & Hall have not offered

us copies, and you will catch sight of it somewhere), I hope you will

like things in it at least. It seems to me full of power. Two hundred

copies went off in the first fortnight, which is a good beginning

in these days. So I am to confess to a satisfaction in the American

piracies. Well, I confess, then. Only it is rather a complex smile

with which one hears: 'Sir or Madam, we are selling your book at half

price, as well printed as in England.' 'Those apples we stole from

your garden, we sell at a halfpenny, instead of a penny as you do;

they are much appreciated.' Very gratifying indeed. It's worth

while to rob us, that's plain, and there's something magnificent in

supplying a distant market with apples out of one's garden. Still the

smile is complex in its character, and the morality--simple, that's

all I meant to say. A letter from Henrietta and her husband, glowing

with happiness; it makes _me_ happy. She says, 'I wonder if I shall be

as happy as you, Ba.' God grant it. It was signified to her that she

should at once give up her engagement of five years, or leave the

house. She married directly. I do not understand how it could be

otherwise, indeed. My brothers have been kind and affectionate, I am

glad to say; in her case, poor dearest papa does injustice chiefly to

his own nature, by these severities, hard as they seem. Write soon and

talk of yourself to

Ever affectionate

BA.

I am rejoicing in the People's Edition of your work. 'Viva!' (Robert's

best regards.)

[Footnote 201: The _Athenaeum_ review of _Christmas Eve and Easter

Day_, while recognising the beauty of many passages in the two poems,

criticised strongly the discussion of theological subjects in 'doggrel

verse;' and its analysis of the theology would hardly be satisfactory

to the author.]

_To Mrs. Jameson_

Florence: May 4, [1850],

Dearest Friend,--This little note will be given to you by the Mr.

Stuart of whom I once told you that he was holding you up to the

admiration of all Florence and the Baths of Lucca as the best English

critic of Shakespeare, in his lectures on the great poet....

Robert bids me say that he wrote you a constrained half-dozen lines

by Mr. Henry Greenough, who asked for a letter of introduction to you,

while the asker was sitting in the room, and the form of 'dear Mrs.

Jameson' couldn't well be escaped from. He loves you as well as ever,

you are to understand, through every complication of forms, and you

are to love him, and _me_, for I come in as a part of him, if you

please. Did you get my thanks for the dear Petrarch pen (so steeped in

double-distilled memories that it seems scarcely fit to be steeped in

ink), and our appreciation as well as gratitude for the books--which,

indeed, charm us more and more? Robert has been picking up pictures at

a few pauls each, 'hole and corner' pictures which the 'dealers' had

not found out; and the other day he covered himself with glory by

discovering and seizing on (in a corn shop a mile from Florence) five

pictures among heaps of trash; and one of the best judges in Florence

(Mr. Kirkup) throws out such names for them as Cimabue, Ghirlandaio,

Giottino, a crucifixion painted on a banner, Giottesque, if not

Giotto, but _unique_, or nearly so, on account of the linen material,

and a little Virgin by a Byzantine master. The curious thing is that

two angel pictures, for which he had given a scudo last year, prove

to have been each sawn off the sides of the Ghirlandaio, so called,

representing the 'Eterno Padre' clothed in a mystical garment and

encircled by a rainbow, the various tints of which, together with the

scarlet tips of the flying seraphs' wings, are darted down into the

smaller pictures and complete the evidence, line for line. It has been

a grand altar-piece, cut to bits. Now come and see for yourself. We

can't say decidedly yet whether it will be possible or impossible for

us to go to England this year, but in any case you must come to see

Gerardine and Italy, and we shall manage to catch you by the skirts

then--so do come. Never mind the rumbling of political thunders,

because, even if a storm breaks, you will slip under cover in these

days easily, whether in France or Italy. I can't make out, for my

part, how anybody can be afraid of such things.

Will you be among the likers or dislikers, I wonder sometimes, of

Robert's new book? The _faculty_, you will recognise, in all cases; he

can do anything he chooses. I have complained of the _asceticism_ in

the second part, but he said it was 'one side of the question.' Don't

think that he has taken to the cilix--indeed he has not--but it is his

way to _see_ things as passionately as other people _feel_ them....

Chapman & Hall offer us no copies, or you should have had one, of

course. So Wordsworth is gone--a great light out of heaven.

May God bless you, my dear friend!

Love your affectionate and grateful, for so many

reasons,

BA.

The death of Wordsworth on April 23 left the Laureateship vacant,

and though there was probably never any likelihood of Mrs. Browning's

being invited to succeed him, it is worth noticing that her claims

were advocated by so prominent a paper as the 'Athenaeum,' which not

only urged that the appointment would be eminently suitable under a

female sovereign, but even expressed its opinion that 'there is no

living poet of either sex who can prefer a higher claim than Mrs.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.' No doubt there would have been a certain

appropriateness in the post of Laureate to a Queen being held by a

poetess, but the claims of Tennyson to the primacy of English poetry

were rightly regarded as paramount. The fact that in Robert Browning

there was a poet of equal calibre with Tennyson, though of so

different a type, seems to have occurred to no one.

_To Miss Mitford_

Florence: June 15, 1850.

My ever dear Friend,--How it grieves me that you should have been

so unwell again! From what you say about the state of the house, I

conclude that your health suffers from that cause precisely; and that

when you are warmly and dryly walled in, you will be less liable to

these attacks, grievous to your friends as to you. Oh, I don't praise

anybody, I assure you, for wishing to entice you to live near them.

We come over the Alps for a sunny climate; what should we not do for

a moral atmosphere like yours? I dare say you have chosen excellently

your new residence, and I hope you will get over the fuss of it with

great courage, remembering the advantages which it is likely to secure

to you. Tell me as much as you can about it all, that I may shift the

scene in the right grooves, and be able to imagine you to myself out

of Three Mile Cross. You have the local feeling so eminently that I

have long been resolved on never asking you to migrate. Doves

won't travel with swallows; who should persuade them? This is no

migration--only a shifting from one branch to another. With Reading

on one side of you still, you will lose nothing, neither sight nor

friend. Oh, do write to me as soon as you can, and say that the

deepening summer has done you good and given you strength; say it,

if possible. I shall be very anxious for the next letter.... My only

objection to Florence is the distance from London, and the expense of

the journey. One's heart is pulled at through different English

ties and can't get the right rest, and I think we shall move

northwards--try France a little, after a time. The present year has

been full of petty vexation to us about the difficulty of going to

England, and it becomes more and more doubtful whether we can attain

to the means of doing it. There are four of us and the child, you

see, and precisely this year we are restricted in means, as far as our

present knowledge goes; but I can't say yet, only I do very much

fear. Nobody will believe our promises, I think, any more, and my

poor Arabel will be in despair, and I shall lose the opportunity of

_authenticating_ Wiedeman; for, as Robert says, all our fine stories

about him will go for nothing, and he will be set down as a sham

child. If not sham, how could human vanity resist the showing him off

bodily? That sounds reasonable....

Certainly you are disinterested about America, and, of course, all

of us who have hearts and heads must feel the sympathy of a greater

nation to be more precious than a thick purse. Still, it is not just

and dignified, this vantage ground of American pirates. Liking the

ends and motives, one disapproves the means. Yes, even _you_ do; and

if I were an American I should dissent with still more emphasis. It

should be made a point of honour with the nation, if there is no

point of law against the re publishers. For my own part, I have every

possible reason to thank and love America; she has been very kind to

me, and the visits we receive here from delightful and cordial persons

of that country have been most gratifying to us. The American minister

at the court of Vienna, with his family, did not pass through Florence

the other day without coming to see us--General Watson Webbe-with

an air of moral as well as military command in his brow and eyes. He

looked, and talked too, like one of oar dignities of the Old World.

The go-ahead principle didn't seem the least over-strong in him, nor

likely to disturb his official balance. What is to happen next in

France? Do you trust still your President? He is in a hard position,

and, if he leaves the Pope where he is, in a dishonored one. As for

the change in the electoral law and the increase of income, I see

nothing in either to make an outcry against. There is great injustice

everywhere and a rankling party-spirit, and to speak the truth and act

it appears still more difficult than usual. I was sorry, do you know,

to hear of dear Mr. Horne's attempt at Shylock; he is fit for higher

things. Did I tell you how we received and admired his Judas Iscariot?

Yes, surely I did. He says that Louis Blanc is a friend of his and

much with him, speaking with enthusiasm. I should be more sorry at

his being involved with the Socialists than with Shylock--still more

sorry; for I love liberty so intensely that I hate Socialism. I hold

it to be the most desecrating and dishonouring to humanity of all

creeds. I would rather (for _me_) live under the absolutism of

Nicholas of Russia than in a Fourier machine, with my individuality

sucked out of me by a social air-pump. Oh, if you happen to write

again to Mrs. Deane, thank her much for her kind anxiety; but, indeed,

if I had lost my darling I should not write verses about it.[202] As

for the Laureateship, it won't be given to _me_, be sure, though the

suggestion has gone the round of the English newspapers--'Galignani'

and all--and notwithstanding that most kind and flattering

recommendation of the 'Athenaeum,' for which I am sure we should

be grateful to Mr. Chorley. I think Leigh Hunt should have the

Laureateship. He has condescended to wish for it, and has 'worn his

singing clothes' longer than most of his contemporaries, deserving

the price of long as well as noble service. Whoever has it will be, of

course, exempted from Court lays; and the distinction of the title and

pension should remain for Spenser's sake, if not for Wordsworth's. We

are very anxious to know about Tennyson's new work, 'In Memoriam.'

Do tell us about it. You are aware that it was written years ago, and

relates to a son of Mr. Hallam, who was Tennyson's intimate friend

and the betrothed of his sister. I have heard, through someone who had

seen the MS., that it is full of beauty and pathos.... Dearest, ever

dear Miss Mitford, speak particularly of your health. May God bless

you, prays

Your ever affectionate

E.B.B.

Robert's kindest regards.

[Footnote 202: Referring to the lines entitled _A Child's Grave at

Florence_, which had apparently been misunderstood as implying the

death of Mrs. Browning's own child.]

_To Miss Mitford_

Florence: July 8, 1850.

My dearest Miss Mitford,--I this moment have your note; and as a

packet of ours is going to England, I snatch up a pen to do what I can

with it in the brief moments between this and post time. I don't wait

till it shall be possible to write at length, because I have something

immediate to say to you. Your letter is delightful, yet it is not

for _that_ that I rush so upon answering it. Nor even is it for the

excellent news of your consenting, for dear Mr. Chorley's sake, to

give us some more of your 'papers,'[203] though 'blessed be the hour,

and month, and year' when he set about editing the 'Ladies' Companion'

and persuading you to do such a thing. No, what I want to say is

strictly personal to me. You are the kindest, warmest-hearted, most

affectionate of critics, and precisely as such it is that you have

thrown me into a paroxysm of terror. My dearest friend, _for the

love of me_--I don't argue the point with you--but I beseech you

humbly,--kissing the hem of your garment, and by all sacred and tender

recollections of sympathy between you and me, _don't_ breathe a word

about any juvenile performance of mine--_don't_, if you have any love

left for me. Dear friend, 'disinter' anybody or anything you please,

but don't disinter _me_, unless you mean the ghost of my vexation to

vex you ever after. 'Blessed be she who spares these stones.' All the

saints know that I have enough to answer for since I came to my

mature mind, and that I had difficulty enough in making most of the

'Seraphim' volume presentable a little in my new edition, because it

was too ostensible before the public to be caught back; but if the

sins of my rawest juvenility are to be thrust upon me--and sins are

extant of even twelve or thirteen, or earlier, and I was in print once

when I was ten, I think--what is to become of me? I shall groan

as loud as Christian did. Dearest Miss Mitford, now forgive this

ingratitude which is gratitude all the time. I love you and thank you;

but, right or wrong, mind what I say, and let me love and thank you

still more. When you see my new edition you will see that everything

worth a straw I ever wrote is there, and if there were strength in

conjuration I would conjure you to pass an act of oblivion on the

stubble that remains--if anything does remain, indeed. Now, more than

enough of this. For the rest, I am delighted. I am even so generous as

not to be jealous of Mr. Chorley for prevailing with you when nobody

else could. I had given it up long ago; I never thought you would stir

a pen again. By what charm did he prevail? Your series of papers will

be delightful, I do not doubt; though I never could see 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

_guide_ through 'Pompeii' will be better than many of the ruins. 'The

Pleader's Guide' I never heard of before. Praed has written some

sweet and tender things. Then I shall like to hear you on Beaumont and

Fletcher, and Andrew Marvell.

I have seen nothing of Tennyson's new poem. Do you know if the

echo-song is the most popular of his verses? It is only another proof

to my mind of the no-worth of popularity. That song would be eminently

sweet for a common writer, but Tennyson has done better, surely; his

eminences are to be seen above. As for the laurel, in a sense he is

worthier of it than Leigh Hunt; only Tennyson can wait, that is the

single difference.

So anxious I am about your house. Your health seems to me mainly

to depend on your moving, and I do urge your moving; if not there,

elsewhere. May God bless you, ever dear friend!

I dare say you will think I have given too much importance to the

rococo verses you had the goodness to speak of; but I have a horror of

being disinterred, there's the truth! Leave the violets to grow

over me. Because that wretched school-exercise of a version of the

'Prometheus' had been named by two or three people, wasn't I at the

pains of making a new translation before I left England, so to erase a

sort of half-visible and half invisible 'Blot on the Scutcheon'? After

such an expenditure of lemon-juice, you will not wonder that I should

trouble you with all this talk about nothing....

I am so delighted that you are to lift up your voice again, and so

grateful to Mr. Chorley.

Ah yes, if we go to Paris we shall draw you. Mr. Chorley shan't have

all the triumphs to himself.

Not a word more, says Robert, or the post will be missed. God bless

you! Do take care of yourself, and _don't_ stay in that damp house.

And do make allowances for love.

Your ever affectionate

BA.

How glad I shall be if it is true that Tennyson is married! I believe

in the happiness of marriage, for men especially.

[Footnote 203: These are the papers subsequently published under the

title _Recollections of a Literary Life_. Among them was an article

on the Brownings, giving biographical detail with respect to Mrs.

Browning's early life, especially as to the loss of her brother,

which caused extreme pain to her sensitive nature, as a later letter

testifies.]

Through the greater part of the summer of 1850 the Brownings held fast

in Florence, and it was not until September, when Mrs. Browning was

recovering from a rather sharp attack of illness, that they took a

short holiday, going for a few weeks to Siena, a place which they were

again to visit some years later, during the last two summers of Mrs.

Browning's life. The letter announcing their arrival is the first in

the present collection addressed to Miss Isa Blagden. Miss Blagden was

a resident in Florence for many years, and was a prominent member of

English society there. Her friendship, not only with Mrs. Browning,

but with her husband, was of a very intimate character, and was

continued after Mrs. Browning's death until the end of her own life in

1872.

_To Miss I. Blagden_

Siena: September [1850].

Here I am keeping my promise, my dear Miss Blagden. We arrived quite

safely, and I was not too tired to sleep at night, though tired of

course, and the baby was a miracle of goodness all the way, only

inclining once to a _rabbia_ through not being able to get at the

electric telegraph, but in ecstasies otherwise at everything new. We

had to stay at the inn all night. We heard of a multitude of villas,

none of which could be caught in time for the daylight. On Sunday,

however, just as we were beginning to give it up, in Robert came with

good news, and we were settled in half an hour afterwards here, a

small house of some seven rooms, two miles from Siena, and situated

delightfully in its own grounds of vineyard and olive ground, not to

boast too much of a pretty little square flower-garden. The grapes

hang in garlands (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 Maremma extending to the foot of the Roman

mountains. Our villa is on a hill called 'poggio dei venti,' and the

winds give us a turn accordingly at every window. It is delightfully

cool, and I have not been able to bear my window open at night since

our arrival; also we get good milk and bread and eggs and wine, and

are not much at a loss for anything. Think of my forgetting to tell

you (Robert would not forgive me for that) how we have a _specola_ or

sort of belvedere at the top of the house, which he delights in, and

which I shall enjoy presently, when I have recovered my taste for

climbing staircases. He carried me up once, but the being carried

down was so much like being carried down the flue of a chimney, that I

waive the whole privilege for the future. What is better, to my mind,

is the expected fact of being able to get books at Siena--_nearly_ as

well as at Brecker's, really; though Dumas fils seems to fill up many

of the interstices where you think you have found something.

_Three_ pauls a month, the subscription is; and for seven, we get a

'Galignani,' or are promised to get it. We pay for our villa ten scudi

the month, so that altogether it is not ruinous. The air is as fresh

as English air, without English dampness and transition; yes, and

we have English lanes with bowery tops of trees, and brambles and

blackberries, and not a wall anywhere, except the walls of our villa.

For my part, I am recovering strength, I hope and believe. Certainly

I can move about from one room to another, without reeling much: but

I still look so ghastly, as to 'back recoil,' perfectly knowing 'Why,'

from everything in the shape of a looking glass. Robert has found an

armchair for me at Siena. To say the truth, my time for enjoying this

country life, except the enchanting silence and the look from the

window, has not come yet: I must wait for a little more strength.

Wiedeman's cheeks are beginning to redden already, and he delights

in the pigeons and the pig and the donkey and a great yellow dog and

everything else now; only he would change all your trees (except the

apple trees), he says, for the Austrian band at any moment. He is

rather a town baby....

Our drawback is, dear Miss Blagden, that we have not room to take you

in. So sorry we both are indeed. Write and tell me whether you have

decided about Vallombrosa. I hope we shall see much of you still at

Florence, if not here. We could give you everything here except a bed.

Robert's kindest regards with those of

Your ever affectionate

ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.

My love to Miss Agassiz, whenever you see her.

_To Miss Mitford_

Siena: September 24, 1850.

To think that it is more than two months since I wrote last to you, my

beloved friend, makes the said two months seem even longer to me than

otherwise they would necessarily be--a slow, heavy two months in every

case, 'with all the weights of care and death hung at them.' Your

letter reached me when I was confined to my bed, and could scarcely

read it, for all the strength at my heart.... As soon as I could be

moved, and before I could walk from one room to another, Dr. Harding

insisted on the necessity of change of air (for my part, I seemed to

myself more fit to change the world than the air), and Robert carried

me into the railroad like a baby, and off we came here to Siena. We

took a villa a mile and _a_ half from the town, a villa situated on a

windy hill (called 'poggio al vento'), with magnificent views from

all the windows, and set in the midst of its own vineyard and olive

ground, apple trees and peach trees, not to speak of a little square

flower-garden, for which we pay _eleven shillings one penny

farthing the week_; and at the end of these three weeks, our medical

comforter's prophecy, to which I listened so incredulously, is

fulfilled, and I am able to walk a mile, and am really as well as ever

in all essential respects.... Our poor little darling, too (see

what disasters!), was ill four-and-twenty hours from a species of

sunstroke, and frightened us with a heavy hot head and glassy staring

eyes, lying in a half-stupor. Terrible, the silence that fell suddenly

upon the house, without the small pattering feet and the singing

voice. But God spared us; he grew quite well directly and sang louder

than ever. Since we came here his cheeks have turned into roses....

What still further depressed me during our latter days at Florence

was the dreadful event in America--the loss of our poor friend Madame

Ossoli,[204] affecting in itself, and also through association with

that past, when the arrowhead of anguish was broken too deeply into my

life ever to be quite drawn out. Robert wanted to keep the news

from me till I was stronger, but we live too _close_ for him to keep

anything from me, and then I should have known it from the first

letter or visitor, so there was no use trying. The poor Ossolis spent

part of their last evening in Italy with us, he and she and their

child, and we had a note from her off Gibraltar, speaking of the

captain's death from smallpox. Afterwards it appears that her

child caught the disease and lay for days between life and death;

_recovered_, and then came the final agony. 'Deep called unto deep,'

indeed. Now she is where there is no more grief and 'no more sea;' and

none of the restless in this world, none of the ship-wrecked in heart

ever seemed to me to want peace more than she did. We saw much of her

last winter; and over a great gulf of differing opinion we both felt

drawn strongly to her. High and pure aspiration she had--yes, and a

tender woman's heart--and we honoured the truth and courage in her,

rare in woman or man. The work she was preparing upon Italy would

probably have been more equal to her faculty than anything previously

produced by her pen (her other writings being curiously inferior to

the impressions her conversation gave you); indeed, she told me it was

the only production to which she had given time and labour. But,

if rescued, the manuscript would be nothing but the raw material. I

believe nothing was finished; nor, if finished, could the work

have been otherwise than deeply coloured by those blood colours of

Socialistic views, which would have drawn the wolves on her, with a

still more howling enmity, both in England and America. Therefore it

was better for her to go. Only God and a few friends can be expected

to distinguish between the pure personality of a woman and her

professed opinions. She was chiefly known in America, I believe, by

oral lectures and a connection with the newspaper press, neither of

them happy means of publicity. Was she happy in anything, I wonder?

She told me that she never was. May God have made her happy in her

death!

Such gloom she had in leaving Italy! So full she was of sad

presentiment! Do you know she gave a _Bible_ as a parting gift

from her child to ours, writing in it '_In memory of_ Angelo Eugene

Ossoli'--a strange, prophetical expression? That last evening a

prophecy was talked of jestingly--an old prophecy made to poor Marquis

Ossoli, 'that he should shun the sea, for that it would be fatal to

him.' I remember how she turned to me smiling and said, 'Our ship is

called the "Elizabeth," and I accept the omen.'

Now I am making you almost dull perhaps, and myself certainly duller.

Rather let me tell you, dearest Miss Mitford, how delightedly I look

forward to reading whatever you have written or shall write. You write

'as well as twenty years ago'! Why, I should think so, indeed. Don't I

know what your letters are? Haven't I had faith in you always? Haven't

I, in fact, teased you half to death in proof of it? I, who was a sort

of Brutus, and oughtn't to have done it, you hinted. Moreover, Robert

is a great admirer of yours, as I must have told you before, and has

the pretension (unjustly though, as I tell _him_) to place you still

higher among writers than I do, so that we are two in expectancy here.

May Mr. Chorley's periodical live a thousand years!

As my 'Seagull' won't, but you will find it in my new edition, and the

'Doves' and everything else worth a straw of my writing. Here's a

fact which you must try to settle with your theories of simplicity and

popularity: _None of these simple poems of mine have been favorites

with general readers_. The unintelligible ones are always preferred, I

observe, by extracters, compilers, and ladies and gentlemen who write

to tell me that I'm a muse. The very Corn Law Leaguers in the North

used to leave your 'Seagulls' to fly where they could, and clap hands

over mysteries of iniquity. Dearest Miss Mitford--for the rest, don't

mistake what I write to you sometimes--don't fancy that I undervalue

simplicity and think nothing of legitimate fame--I only mean to say

that the vogue which begins with the masses generally comes to nought

(Béranger is an exceptional case, from the _form_ of his poems,

obviously), while the appreciation beginning with the few always ends

with the masses. Wasn't Wordsworth, for instance, both simple and

unpopular, when he was most divine? To go to the great from the small,

when I complain of the lamentable weakness of much in my 'Seraphim'

volume, I don't complain of the 'Seagull' and 'Doves' and the simple

verses, but exactly of the more ambitious ones. I have had to rewrite

pages upon pages of that volume. Oh, such feeble rhymes, and turns of

thought--such a dingy mistiness! Even Robert couldn't say a word for

much of it. I took great pains with the whole, and made considerable

portions new, only your favourites were not touched--not a word

touched, I think, in the 'Seagull,' and scarcely a word in the

'Doves.' You won't complain of me a great deal, I do hope and trust.

Also I put back your 'little words' into the 'House of Clouds.' The

two volumes are to come out, it appears, at the end of October; not

before, because Mr. Chapman wished to inaugurate them for his new

house in Piccadilly. There are some new poems, and one rather long

ballad written at request of anti-slavery friends in America.[205]

I arranged that it should come next to the 'Cry of the Children,' to

appear impartial as to national grievances....

Oh--Balzac--what a loss! One of the greatest and (most) original

writers of the age gone from us! To hear this news made Robert and me

very melancholy. Indeed, there seems to be fatality just now with the

writers of France. Soulié, Bernard, gone too; George Sand translating

Mazzini; Sue in a socialistical state of decadence--what he means

by writing such trash as the 'Péchés' I really can't make out; only

Alexandre Dumas keeping his head up gallantly, and he seems to me to

write better than ever. Here is a new book, just published, by

Jules Sandeau, called 'Sacs et Parchemins'! Have you seen it? It

miraculously comes to us from the little Siena library.

We stay in this villa till our month is out, and then we go for a week

into Siena that I may be nearer the churches and pictures, and see

something of the cathedral and Sodomas. We calculated that it was

cheaper to move our quarters than to have a carriage to and fro, and

then Dr. Harding recommended repeated change of air for me, and he has

proved his ability so much (so kindly too!) that we are bound to

act on his opinions as closely as we can. Perhaps we may even go to

Volterra afterwards, if the _finances_ will allow of it. If we do, it

may be for another week at farthest, and then we return to Florence.

You had better direct there as usual. And do write and tell me much of

yourself, and set _me_ down in your thoughts as quite well, and ever

yours in warm and grateful affection.

E.B.B.

[Footnote 204: Drowned with her husband on their way to America.]

[Footnote 205: _The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point_.]

_To Miss Mitford_

Florence: November 13, 1850 [postmark].

I _meant_ to cross your second letter, and so, my very dear friend,

you are a second time a prophetess as to my intentions, while I

am still more grateful than I could have been with the literal

fulfilment. Delightful it is to hear from you--do always write when

you can. And though this second letter speaks of your having been

unwell, still I shall continue to flatter myself that upon the whole

'the better part prevails,' and that if the rains don't wash you away

this winter, I may have leave to think of you as strengthening and to

strengthen still. Meanwhile you certainly, as you say, have roots to

your feet. Never was anyone so pure as you from the drop of gypsey

blood which tingles in my veins and my husband's, and gives us every

now and then a fever for roaming, strong enough to carry us to Mount

Caucasus if it were not for the healthy state of depletion observable

in the purse. I get fond of places, so does he. We both of us grew

rather pathetical on leaving our Sienese villa, and shrank from

parting with the pig. But setting out on one's travels has a great

charm; oh, I should like to be able to pay our way down the Nile, and

into Greece, and into Germany, and into Spain! Every now and then

we take out the road-books, calculate the expenses, and groan in the

spirit when it's proved for the hundredth time that we can't do

it. One must have a home, you see, to keep one's books in and one's

spring-sofas in; but the charm of a home is a home _to come back to_.

Do you understand? No, not you! You have as much comprehension of the

pleasure of 'that sort of thing' as in the peculiar taste of the

three ladies who hung themselves in a French balloon the other

day, operatically _nude_, in order, I conjecture, to the ultimate

perfection of French delicacy in morals and manners....

I long to see your papers, and dare say they are charming. At the same

time, just because they are sure to be charming (and notwithstanding

their kindness to me, notwithstanding that I live in a glass house

myself, warmed by such rare stoves!) I am a little in fear that your

generosity and excess of kindness may run the risk of lowering the

ideal of poetry in England by lifting above the mark the names of some

poetasters. Do you know, you take up your heart sometimes by mistake,

to admire with, when you ought to use it only to love with? and this

is apt to be dangerous, with your reputation and authority in matters

of literature. See how impertinent I am! But we should all take care

to teach the world that poetry is a divine thing, should we not? that

is, not mere verse-making, though the verses be pretty in their way.

Rather perish every verse _I_ ever wrote, for one, than help to drag

down an inch that standard of poetry which, for the sake of humanity

as well as literature, should be kept high. As for simplicity and

clearness, did I ever deny that they were excellent qualities? Never,

surely. Only, they will not _make_ poetry; and absolutely vain they

are, and indeed all other qualities, without the essential thing,

the genius, the inspiration, the insight--let us call it what we

please--without which the most accomplished verse-writers had far

better write prose, for their own sakes as for the world's--don't you

think so? Which I say, because I sighed aloud over many names in your

list, and now have taken pertly to write out the sigh at length. Too

charmingly you are sure to have written--and see the danger! But Miss

Fanshawe is well worth your writing of (let me say that I am sensible

warmly of that) as one of the most witty of our wits in verse, men or

women. I have only seen manuscript copies of some of her verses, and

that years ago, but they struck me very much; and really I do not

remember another female wit worthy to sit beside her, even in French

literature. Motherwell is a true poet. But oh, I don't believe in your

John Clares, Thomas Davises, Whittiers, Hallocks--and still less in

other names which it would be invidious to name again. How pert I am!

But you give me leave to be pert, and you know the meaning of it all,

after all. Your editor quarrelled a little with me once, and I with

him, about the 'poetesses of the united empire,' in whom I couldn't or

wouldn't find a poet, though there are extant two volumes of them, and

Lady Winchilsea at the head. I hold that the writer 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 the summer. We never see him; it is curious. He made his way

to us with the sunniest of faces and cordialest of manners at Lucca;

and I, who am much taken by manner, was quite pleased with him, and

wondered how it was that I didn't like his books. Well, he only

wanted to see that we had the right number of eyes and no odd fingers.

Robert, in return for his visit, called on him three times, I think,

and I left my card on Mrs. Lever. But he never came again--he had

seen enough of us, he could put down in his private diary that we had

neither claw nor tail; and there an end, properly enough. In fact,

he lives a different life from ours: he in the ballroom and we in the

cave, nothing could be more different; and perhaps there are not many

subjects of common interest between us. I have seen extracts in

the 'Examiner' from Tennyson's 'In Memoriam' which seemed to me

exquisitely beautiful and pathetical. Oh, there's a poet, talking of

poets. Have you read Wordsworth's last work--the legacy? With regard

to the elder Miss Jewsbury, do you know, I take Mr. Chorley's part

against you, because, although I know her only by her writings, the

writings seem to me to imply a certain vigour and originality of mind,

by no means ordinary. For instance, the fragments of her letters in

his 'Memorials of Mrs. Hemans' are much superior to any other letters

almost in the volume--certainly to Mrs. Hemans's own. Isn't this so?

And so you talk, you in England, of Prince Albert's 'folly,' do you

really? Well, among the odd things we lean to in Italy is to an actual

belief in the greatness and importance of the future exhibition.

We have actually imagined it to be a noble idea, and you take me by

surprise in speaking of the general distaste to it in England. Is

it really possible? For the agriculturists, I am less surprised at

coldness on their part; but do you fancy that the manufacturers and

free-traders are cold too? Is Mr. Chorley against it equally? Yes, I

am glad to hear of Mrs. Butler's success--or Fanny Kemble's, ought I

to say? Our little Wiedeman, who can't speak a word yet, waxes hotter

in his ecclesiastical and musical passion. Think of that baby (just

cutting his eyeteeth) screaming in the streets till he is taken into

the churches, kneeling on his knees to the first sound of music, and

folding his hands and turning up his eyes in a sort of ecstatical

state. One scarcely knows how to deal with the sort of thing: it is

too soon for religious controversy. He crosses himself, I assure you.

Robert says it is as well to have the eyeteeth and the Puseyistical

crisis over together. The child is a very curious imaginative child,

but too excitable for his age, that's all I complain of ... God bless

you, my much loved friend. Write to

Your ever affectionate

E.B.B.

What books by Soulié have appeared since his death? Do you remember?

I have just got 'Les Enfants de l'Amour,' by Sue. I suppose he will

prove in it the illegitimacy of legitimacy, and _vice versâ_. Sue is

in decided decadence, for the rest, since he has taken to illustrating

Socialism!

_To Miss I. Blagden_

[Florence:] Sunday morning [about 1850].

My dear Miss Blagden,--In spite of all your _drawing_ kindness, we

find it impossible to go to you on Monday. We are expecting friends

from Rome who will remain only a few days, perhaps, in Florence. Now

it seems to me that you very often pass our door. Do you not too often

leave the trace of your goodness with me? And would it not be better

of you still, if you would at once make use of us and give us pleasure

by pausing here, you and Miss Agassiz, to rest and refresh yourselves

with tea, coffee, or whatever else you may choose? We shall be

delighted to see you always, and don't fancy that I say so out of form

or 'tinkling cymbalism.'

Thank you for your intention about the 'Leader.' Robert and I shall

like much to see anything of John Mill's on the subject of Socialism

or any other. By the 'British Review,' do you mean the _North

British_? I read a clever article in that review some months ago on

the German Socialists, ably embracing in its analysis the fraternity

in France, and attributed, I have since heard, to Dr. Hanna, the

son-in-law and biographer of Chalmers. Christian Socialists are by no

means a new sect, the Moravians representing the theory with as

little offence and absurdity as may be. What is it, after all, but an

out-of-door extension of the monastic system? The religious principle,

more or less apprehended, may bind men together so, absorbing their

individualities, and presenting an aim _beyond the world_; but upon

merely human and earthly principles no such system can stand, I feel

persuaded, and I thank God for it. If Fourierism could be realised

(which it surely cannot) out of a dream, the destinies of our race

would shrivel up under the unnatural heat, and human nature would,

in my mind, be desecrated and dishonored--because I do not believe

in purification without suffering, in progress without struggle, in

virtue without temptation. Least of all do I consider happiness the

end of man's life. We look to higher things, have nobler ambitions.

Also, in every advancement of the world hitherto, the individual has

led the masses. Thus, to elicit individuality has been the object of

the best political institutions and governments. Now, in these new

theories, the individual is ground down into the multitude, and

society must be 'moving all together if it moves at all'--restricting

the very possibility of progress by the use of the lights of genius.

Genius is _always individual_.

Here's a scribble upon grave matters! I ought to be acknowledging

instead your scrupulous honesty, as illustrated by five-franc pieces

and Tuscan florins. Make us as useful as you can do, for the future;

and please us by coming often. I am afraid your German Baroness could

not make an arrangement with you, as you do not mention her. Give

our best regards to Miss Agassiz, and accept them yourself, dear Miss

Blagden, from

Your affectionate

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

_To Mr. Westwood_

Florence: Thursday, December 12, 1850.

My dear Mr. Westwood,--Your book has not reached us yet, and so if I

waited for that, to write, I might wait longer still. But I don't wait

for that, because you bade me not to do so, and besides we have only

this moment finished reading 'In Memoriam,' and it was a sort of

miracle with us that we got it so soon....

_December_ 13.--The above sentences were written yesterday, and hardly

had they been written when your third letter came with its enclosure.

How very kind you are to me, and how am I to thank you enough! If you

had not sent me the 'Athenaeum' article I never should have seen it

probably, for my husband only saw it in the reading room, where women

don't penetrate (because in Italy we can't read, you see), and where

the periodicals are kept so strictly, like Hesperian apples, by the

dragons of the place, that none can be stolen away even for half an

hour. So he could only wish me to catch sight of that article--and you

are good enough to send it and oblige us both exceedingly. For which

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' does show me so much favor, while,

as in a late instance, so little justice is shown to my husband? It's

a problem, like another. As for poetry, I hope to do better things

in it yet, though I _have_ a child to 'stand in my sunshine,' as you

suppose he must; but he only makes the sunbeams brighter with his

glistening curls, little darling--and who can complain of that? You

can't think what a good, sweet, curious, imagining child he is. Half

the day I do nothing but admire him--there's the truth. He doesn't

talk yet much, but he gesticulates with extraordinary force of

symbol, and makes surprising revelations to us every half-hour or so.

Meanwhile Flush loses nothing, I assure you. On the contrary, he is

hugged and kissed (rather too hard sometimes), and never is permitted

to be found fault with by anybody under the new _régime_. If Flush is

scolded, Baby cries as matter of course, and he would do admirably for

a 'whipping-boy' if that excellent institution were to be revived by

Young England and the Tractarians for the benefit of our deteriorated

generations. I was ill towards the end of last summer, and we had to

go to Siena for the sake of getting strength again, and there we lived

in a villa among a sea of little hills, and wrapt up in vineyards

and olive yards, enjoying everything. Much the worst of Italy is, the

drawback about books. Somebody said the other day that we 'sate here

like posterity'--reading books with the gloss off them. But our case

in reality is far more dreary, seeing that Prince Posterity will have

glossy books of his own. How exquisite 'In Memoriam' is, how earnest

and true; after all, the gloss never can wear off books like that.

And as to your book, it will come, it will come, and meantime I may

assure you that posterity is very impatient for it. The Italian poem

will be read with the interest which is natural. You know it's a

more than doubtful point whether Shakespeare ever saw Italy out of

a vision, yet he and a crowd of inferior writers have written about

Venice and vineyards as if born to the manner of them. We hear of

Carlyle travelling in France and Germany--but I must leave room for

the words you ask for from a certain hand below.

Ever dear Mr. Westwood's obliged and faithful

E.B.B.

And the 'certain hand' will write its best (and far better than any

poor 'Pippa Passes') in recording a feeling which does not pass at

all, that of gratitude for all such generous sympathy as dear Mr.

Westwood's for E.B.B. and (in his proper degree) R. BROWNING.

_To Miss Mitford_

Florence: December 13, 1850.

_Did_ I write a scolding letter, dearest Miss Mitford? So much the

better, when people deserve to be scolded. The worst is, however,

that it sometimes does them no sort of good, and that they will sit

on among the ruins of Carthage, let ever so many messages come from

Italy. My only hope now is, that you will have a mild winter in

England, as we seem likely to have it here; and that in the spring,

by the help of some divine interposition of friends supernaturally

endowed (after the manner of Mr. Chorley), you may be made to go away

into a house with fast walls and chimneys. Certainly, if you could be

made to _write_, anything else is possible. That's my comfort. And

the other's my hope, as I said; and so between hope and consolation

I needn't scold any more. Let me tell you what I have heard of Mrs.

Gaskell, for fear I should forget it later. She is connected by

marriage with Mrs. A.T. Thompson, and from a friend of Mrs. Thompson's

it came to me, and really seems to exonerate Chapman & Hall from the

charge advanced against them. 'Mary Barton' was shown in manuscript

to Mrs. Thompson, and failed to please her; and, in deference to her

judgment, certain alterations were made. Subsequently it was offered

to all or nearly all the publishers in London and rejected. Chapman

& Hall accepted and gave a hundred pounds, as you heard, for the

copyright of the work; and though the success did not, perhaps (that

is quite possible), induce any liberality with regard to copies, they

gave _another hundred pounds_ upon printing the second edition, and

it was not in the bond to do so. I am told that the liberality of

the proceeding was appreciated by the author and her friends

accordingly--and there's the end of my story. Two hundred pounds is a

good price--isn't it?--for a novel, as times go. Miss Lynn had only

a hundred and fifty for her Egyptian novel, or perhaps for the Greek

one. Taking the long run of poetry (if it runs at all), I am half

given to think that it pays better than the novel does, in spite of

everything. Not that we speak out of golden experience; alas, no! We

have had not a sou from our books for a year past, the booksellers

being bound of course to cover their own expenses first. Then this

Christmas account has not yet reached us. But the former editions paid

us regularly so much a year, and so will the present ones, I hope.

Only I was not thinking of _them_, in preferring what may strike you

as an extravagant paradox, but of Tennyson's returns from Moxon last

year, which I understand amounted to five hundred pounds. To be

sure, 'In Memoriam' was a new success, which should not prevent our

considering the fact of a regular income proceeding from the previous

books. A novel flashes up for a season and does not often outlast it.

For 'Mary Barton' I am a little, little disappointed, do you know. I

have just done reading it. There is power and truth--she can shake and

she can pierce--but I wish half the book away, it is so tedious

every now and then; and besides I want more beauty, more air from the

universal world--these classbooks must always be defective as works

of art. How could I help being disappointed a little when Mrs. Jameson

told me that 'since the "Bride of Lammermoor," nothing had appeared

equal to "Mary Barton"?' Then the style of the book is slovenly,

and given to a kind of phraseology which would be vulgar even as

colloquial English. Oh, it is a powerful book in many ways. You are

not to set me down as hypercritical. Probably the author will, write

herself clear of many of her faults: she has strength enough. As to

'In Memoriam,' I have seen it, I have read it--dear Mr. Kenyon had the

goodness to send it to me by an American traveller--and now I really

do disagree with you, for the book has gone to my heart and soul;

I think it full of deep pathos and beauty. All I wish away is

the marriage hymn at the end, and _that_ for every reason I wish

away--it's a discord in the music. The monotony is a part of the

position--(the sea is monotonous, and so is lasting grief.) Your

complaint is against fate and humanity rather than against the poet

Tennyson. Who that has suffered has not felt wave after wave

break dully against one rock, till brain and heart, with all their

radiances, seemed lost in a single shadow? So the effect of the book

is artistic, I think, and indeed I do not wonder at the opinion which

has reached us from various quarters that Tennyson stands higher

through having written it. You see, what he appeared to want,

according to the view of many, was an earnest personality and direct

purpose. In this last book, though of course there is not room in it

for that exercise of creative faculty which elsewhere established

his fame, he appeals heart to heart, directly as from his own to the

universal heart, and we all feel him nearer to us--_I_ do--and so

do others. Have you read a poem called 'the Roman' which was praised

highly in the 'Athenaeum,' but did not seem to Robert to justify the

praise in the passages extracted? written by somebody with certainly

a _nom de guerre_--Sidney Yendys. Observe, _Yendys_ is _Sidney_

reversed. Have you heard anything about it, or seen? The 'Athenaeum'

has been gracious to me beyond gratitude almost; nothing could by

possibility be kinder. A friend of mine sent me the article from

Brussels--a Mr. Westwood, who writes poems himself; yes, and poetical

poems too, written with an odorous, fresh sense of poetry about them.

He has not original power, more's the pity: but he has stayed near the

rose in the 'sweet breath and buddings of the spring,' and although

that won't make anyone live beyond spring-weather, it is the

expression of a sensitive and aspirant nature; and the man is

interesting and amiable--an old correspondent of mine, and kind to me

always. 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

that neither of them will make way in that particular department of

literature selected by them for action. Oh, my dearest friend, you may

talk about coteries, but the English society at Florence (from what I

hear of the hum of it at a distance) is worse than any coterie-society

in the world. A coterie, if I understand the thing, is informed by a

unity of sentiment, or faith, or prejudice; but this society here is

not informed at all. People come together to gamble or dance, and if

there's an end, why so much the better; but there's _not_ an end

in most cases, by any manner of means, and against every sort

of innocence. Mind, I imply nothing about Mr. Lever, who lives

irreproachably with his wife and family, rides out with his children

in a troop of horses to the Cascine, and yet is as social a person

as his joyous temperament leads him to be. But we live in a cave, and

peradventure he is afraid of the damp of us--who knows? We know very

few residents in Florence, and these, with chance visitors, chiefly

Americans, are all that keep us from solitude; every now and then in

the evening somebody drops in to tea. Would, indeed, you were near!

but should I be satisfied with you 'once a week,' do you fancy. Ah,

you would soon love Robert. You couldn't help it, I am sure. I should

be soon turned down to an underplace, and, under the circumstances,

would not struggle. Do you remember once telling me that 'all men are

tyrants'?--as sweeping an opinion as the Apostle's, that 'all men

are liars.' Well, if you knew Robert you would make an exception

certainly. Talking of the artistical English here, somebody told me

the other day of a young Cambridge or Oxford man who deducted from

his researches in Rome and Florence that 'Michael Angelo was a wag.'

Another, after walking through the Florentine galleries, exclaimed to

a friend of mine, 'I have seen nothing here equal to those magnificent

pictures in Paris by Paul de Kock.' My friend humbly suggested that he

might mean Paul de la Roche. But see what English you send us for

the most part. We have had one very interesting visitor lately, the

grandson of Goethe. He did us the honour, he said, of spending two

days in Florence on our account, he especially wishing to see Robert

on account of some sympathy of view about 'Paracelsus.' There can

scarcely be a more interesting young man--quite young he seems, and

full of aspiration of the purest kind towards the good and true and

beautiful, and not towards the poor laurel crowns attainable from

any possible public. I don't know when I have been so charmed by a

visitor, and indeed Robert and I paid him the highest compliment we

could, by wishing, one to another, that our little Wiedeman might be

like him some day. I quite agree with you about the church of your

Henry. It surprises me that a child of seven years should find

pleasure even once a day in the long English service--too long,

according to my doxy, for matured years. As to fanaticism, it depends

on a defect of intellect rather than on an excess of the adoring

faculty. The latter cannot, I think, be too fully developed. How I

shall like you to see our Wiedeman! He is a radiant little creature,

really, yet he won't talk; he does nothing but gesticulate, only

making his will and pleasure wonderfully clear and supreme, I assure

you. He's a tyrant, ready made for your theory. If your book is

'better than I expect,' what will it be? God bless you! Be well, and

love me, and write to me, for I am your ever affectionate

BA.

_To Mrs. Martin_

Florence: January 30, 1851.

Here I am at last, dearest friend. But you forget how you told me,

when you wrote your 'long letter,' that you were going away into chaos

somewhere, and that your address couldn't be known yet. It was this

which made me delay the answer to that welcome letter--and to begin

to 'put off' is fatal, as perhaps you know. Now forgive me, and I will

behave better in future, indeed....

I am quite well, and looking well, they say; but the frightful

illness of the autumn left me paler and thinner long after the perfect

recovery. The physician told Robert afterwards that few women would

have recovered at all; and when I left Siena I was as able to

walk, and as well in every respect as ever, notwithstanding

everything--think, for instance, of my walking to St. Miniato, here

in Florence! You remember, perhaps, what that pull is. I dare say you

heard from Henrietta how we enjoyed our rustication at Siena. It is

pleasant even to look back on it. We were obliged to look narrowly

at the economies, more narrowly than usual; but the cheapness of the

place suited the occasion, and the little villa, like a mere tent

among the vines, charmed us, though the doors didn't shut, and though

(on account of the smallness) Robert and I had to whisper all our talk

whenever Wiedeman was asleep. Oh, I wish you were in Italy. I wish

you had come here this winter which has been so mild, and which, with

ordinary prudence, would certainly have suited dear Mr. Martin.... I

tried to dissuade the Peytons from making the experiment, through the

fear of its not answering.... We can't get them into society, you

see, because we are out of it, having struggled to keep out of it

with hands and feet, and partially having succeeded, knowing scarcely

anybody except bringers of letters of introduction, and those chiefly

Americans and not residents in Florence. The other day, however, Mrs.

Trollope and her daughter-in-law called on us, and it is settled that

we are to know them; though Robert had made a sort of vow never to

sit in the same room with the author of certain books directed against

liberal institutions and Victor Hugo's poetry. I had a longer battle

to fight, on the matter of this vow, than any since my marriage, and

had some scruples at last of taking advantage of the pure goodness

which induced him to yield to my wishes; but I _did_, because I hate

to seem ungracious and unkind to people; and human beings, besides,

are better than their books, than their principles, and even than

their everyday actions, sometimes. I am always crying out: 'Blessed be

the inconsistency of men.' Then I thought it probable that, the first

shock of the cold water being over, he would like the proposed new

acquaintances very much--and so it turns out. She was very agreeable,

and kind, and good-natured, and talked much about _you_, which was

a charm of itself; and we mean to be quite friends, and to lend

each other books, and to forget one another's offences, in print or

otherwise. Also, she admits us on her private days; for she has public

days (dreadful to relate!), and is in the full flood and flow of

Florentine society. Do write to me, will you? or else I shall set

you down as vexed with me. The state of politics here is dismal.

Newspapers put down; Protestant places of worship shut up. It is so

bad that it must soon be better. What are you both thinking of the

'Papal aggression'?[206] 'Are you frightened? Are you frenzied? For my

part I can't get up much steam about it. The 'Great Insult' was simply

a great mistake, the consequence (natural enough) of the Tractarian

idiocies as enacted in Italy.

God bless both of you, dearest and always remembered friends! Robert's

best regards, he says.

Your affectionate

BA.

Tell me your thoughts about France. I am so anxious about the crisis

there.[207] We have had a very interesting visit lately from the

grandson of Goethe.

[Footnote 206: The Papal Bull appointing Roman Catholic bishops

throughout England was issued on September 24, 1850, and England was

now in the throes of the anti-papal excitement produced by it.]

[Footnote 207: "Where Louis Napoleon was engaged in his series of

encroachments on the power of the Assembly and intrigues for the

imperial throne."]

_To Miss Browning_

Florence: April 23, 1851 [postmark].

My dearest Sarianna,--I do hope that Robert takes his share of the

blame in using and abusing you as we have done. It was altogether too

bad--shameful--to send that last MS. for you to copy out; and I did,

indeed, make a little outcry about it, only he insisted on having it

so. Was it very wrong, I wonder? Your kindness and affectionateness I

never doubt of; but if you are not quite strong just now, you might be

teased, in spite of your heart, by all that copying work--not pleasant

at any time. Well, believe that I thank you, at least gratefully, for

what you have done. So quickly too! The advertisement at the end

of the week proves how you must have worked for me. Thank you, dear

Sarianna.

Robert will have told you our schemes, and how we are going to work,

and are to love you _near_ for the future, I hope. You, who are wise,

will approve of us, I think, for keeping on our Florentine apartment,

so as to run no more risk than is necessary in making the Paris

experiment. We shall let the old dear rooms, and make money by them,

and keep them to fall back upon, in case we fail at Paris. 'But

we'll not fail.' Well, I hope not, though I am very brittle still and

susceptible to climate. Dearest Sarianna, it will do you infinite

good to come over to us every now and then--you want change, absolute

change of scene and air and climate, I am confident; and you never

will be right till you have had it. We talk, Robert and I, of carrying

you back with us to Rome next year as an English trophy. Meanwhile you

will see Wiedeman, you and dear Mr. Browning. Don't expect to see a

baby of Anak, that's all. Robert is always measuring him on the door,

and reporting such wonderful growth (some inch a week, I think), that

if you receive his reports you will cry out on beholding the child. At

least, you'll say: 'How little he must have been to be no larger now.'

You'll fancy he must have begun from a mustard-seed! The fact is, he

is small, only full of life and joy to the brim. I am not afraid of

your not loving him, nor of his not loving you. He has a loving little

heart, I assure you. If anyone pricks a finger with a needle he begins

to cry--he can't bear to see the least living thing hurt. And when

he loves, it is well. Robert says I must finish, so here ends dearest

Sarianna's

Ever affectionate sister

BA.

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