CHAPTER VIII

1852-55

The middle of November found the travellers back again in Florence, and

it was nearly three years before they again quitted Italy. No doubt,

after the excitement of the _coup d'état_ in Paris, and the subsequent

manoeuvres of Louis Napoleon, which culminated in this very month in

his exchanging the title of President for that of Emperor, Florence must

have seemed very quiet, if not dull. The political movement there was

dead; the Grand Duke, restored by Austrian bayonets, had abandoned all

pretence at reform and constitutional progress. In Piedmont, Cavour had

just been summoned to the head of the administration, but there were no

signs as yet of the use he was destined to make of his power. Of

politics, therefore, we hear little for the present.

Nor is there much to note at this time in respect of literature. A new

edition of Mrs. Browning's poems was called for in 1853; but beyond some

minor revisions of detail it did not differ from the edition of 1850.

Her husband's play, 'Colombe's Birthday,' was produced at the Haymarket

Theatre during April, with Miss Faucit (Lady Martin) in the principal

part; but the poet had no share in the production, and his literary

activity must have been devoted to the composition of some of the fine

poems which subsequently formed the two volumes of 'Men and Women,'

which appeared in 1855. Mrs. Browning had also embarked on her longest

poem, 'Aurora Leigh,' and speaks of being happily and busily engaged in

work; but we hear little of it as yet in her correspondence. Her little

son and her Florentine friends and visitors form her principal subjects;

and we also see the beginning of a topic which for the next few years

occupied a good deal of her attention--namely, Spiritualism.

The temperament of Mrs. Browning had in it a decidedly mystical vein,

which predisposed her to believe in any communication between our world

and that of the spirits. Hence when a number of people professed to have

such communication, she was not merely ready to listen to their claims,

but was by temperament inclined to accept them. The immense vogue which

spiritualism had during 'the fifties' tended to confirm her belief. It

was easy to say that where there was so much smoke there must be fire.

And what she believed, she believed strongly and with a perfect

conviction that no other view could be right. Just as her faith in Louis

Napoleon survived the _coup d'état_, and even Villafranca, so her belief

in communications with the spirit world was proof against any exposure

of fraud on the part of the mediums. Not that she was guilty of the

absurdities which marked many of the devotees of spiritualism. She had a

great horror of submitting herself to mesmeric influences. She

recognised that very many of the supposed revelations of the spirits

were trivial, perhaps false; but to the fact that communications did

exist she adhered constantly.

It is not of much interest now to discuss the ethics or the metaphysics

of the 'rapping spirits;' but the subject deserves more than a passing

mention in the life of Mrs. Browning, because it has been said, and

apparently with authority, that 'the only serious difference which ever

arose between Mr. Browning and his wife referred to the subject of

spiritualism.'[15] It is quite certain that Mr. Browning did not share

his wife's belief in spiritualism; a reference to 'Sludge the Medium'

is sufficient to establish his position in the matter. But it is easy to

make too much of the supposed 'difference.' Certainly it has left no

trace in Mrs. Browning's letters which are now extant. There is no sign

in them that the divergence of opinion produced the slightest discord in

the harmony of their life. No doubt Mr. Browning felt strongly as to the

character of some of the persons, whether mediums or their devotees,

with whom his wife was brought into contact, and he may have relieved

his feelings by strong expressions of his opinion concerning them; but

there is no reason to lay stress on this as indicating any serious

difference between himself and his wife.

It has seemed necessary to say so much, lest it should be supposed that

any of the omissions, which have been made in order to reduce the bulk

of the letters within reasonable limits, cover passages in which such a

difference is spoken of. In no single instance is this the case. The

omissions have been made in the interests of the reader, not in order to

affect in any way the representation which the letters give of their

writer's feelings and character. With this preface they may be left to

tell their own tale.

* * * * *

_To Miss Browning_

Florence: November 14, 1852 [postmark].

My dearest Sarianna,--You can't think how pleased I am to find myself in

Florence again in our own house, everything looking exactly as if we had

left it yesterday. Scarcely I can believe that we have gone away at all.

But Robert has been perfectly demoralised by Paris, and thinks it all as

dull as possible after the boulevards: 'no life, no variety.' Oh, of

course it _is_ very dead in comparison! but it's a beautiful death, and

what with the lovely climate, and the lovely associations, and the sense

of repose, I could turn myself on my pillow and sleep on here to the end

of my life; only be sure that I _shall do no such thing_. We are going

back to Paris; you will have us safe. Peninni had worked himself up to a

state of complete agitation on entering Florence, through hearing so

much about it. First he kissed me and then Robert again and again, as if

his little heart were full. '_Poor Florence_' said he while we passed

the bridge. Certainly there never was such a darling since the world

began.... I suffered extremely through our unfortunate election of the

Mont Cenis route (much more my own fault than Robert's), and was

extremely unwell at Genoa, to the extent of almost losing heart and

hope, which is a most unusual case with me, but the change from Lyons

had been too sudden and severe. At Genoa the weather was so exquisite,

so absolutely June weather, that at the end of a week's lying on the

sofa, I had rallied again quite, only poor darling Robert was horribly

vexed and out of spirits all that time, as was natural. I feel myself,

every now and then (and did then), like a weight round his neck, poor

darling, though he does not account it so, for his part. Well, but it

passed, and we were able to walk about beautiful Genoa the last two

days, and visit Andrea Doria's palace and enjoy everything together.

Then we came on by a night and day's diligence through a warm air, which

made me better and better. By the way, Turin is nearly as cold as

Chambéry; you can't believe yourself to be in Italy. Susa, at the foot

of the Alps, is warmer. We were all delighted to hear the sound of our

dear Italian, and inclined to be charmed with everything; and Peninni

fairly expressed the kind of generalisations we were given to, when he

observed philosophically, 'In Italy, pussytats don't never _scwatch_,

mama.' This was in reply to an objection I had made to a project of his

about kissing the head of an enchanting pussy-cat who presented herself

in vision to him as we were dining at Turin.... God bless and preserve

you. We love you dearly, and talk of you continually--of both of you.

Your most affectionate sister,

BA.

Best love to your father.--Peninni.

* * * * *

_To John Kenyon_

Casa Guidi: November 23, 1852.

We flatter ourselves, dearest Mr. Kenyon, that as we think so much of

you, you may be thinking a little of us, and will not be sorry--who

knows?--to have a few words from us.

November 24.

Just as I was writing, had written, that sentence yesterday, came the

letter which contained your notelet. Thank you, thank you, dearest

friend, it is very pleasant to have such a sign from your hand across

the Alps of kindness and remembrance. As to my sins in the choice of the

Mont Cenis route, 'Bradshaw' was full of temptation, and the results to

me have so entirely passed away now, that even the wholesome state of

repentance is very faded in the colours. What chiefly remains is the

sense of wonderful contrast between climate and climate when we found

ourselves at Genoa and in June. I can't get rid of the astonishment of

it even now. At Turin I had to keep up a fire most of the night in my

bedroom, and at Genoa, with all the windows and doors open, we were

gasping for breath, languid with the heat, blue burning skies overhead,

and not enough stirring air for refreshment. Nothing less, perhaps,

would have restored me so soon, and it was delightful to be able during

our last two days of our ten days there to stand on Andrea Doria's

terrace, and look out on that beautiful bay with its sweep of marble

palaces. My 'unconquerable mind' even carried me halfway up the

lighthouse for the sake of the 'view,' only there I had to stop

ingloriously, and let Robert finish the course alone while I rested on a

bench: aspiration is not everything, either in literature or

lighthouses, you know, let us be ever so 'insolvent.'

Well, and since we left Turin, everywhere in Italy we have found summer,

summer--not a fire have we needed even in Florence. Such mornings, such

evenings, such walkings out in the dusk, such sunsets over the Arno!

ah, Mr. Kenyon, you in England forget what life is in this out-of-door

fresh world, with your cloistral habits and necessities! I assure you I

can't help fancying that the winter is over and gone, the past looks so

cold and black in the warm light of the present. We have had some rain,

but at night, and only thundery frank rains which made the next day

warmer, and I have all but lost my cough, and am feeling very well and

very happy.

Oh, yes, it made me glad to see our poor darling Florence again; I do

love Florence when all's said against it, and when Robert (demoralised

by Paris) has said most strongly that the place is dead, and dull, and

flat, which it is, I must confess, particularly to our eyes fresh from

the palpitating life of the Parisian boulevards, where we could scarcely

find our way to Prichard's for the crowd during our last fortnight

there. Poor Florence, so dead, as Robert says, and as we both feel, so

trodden flat in the dust of the vineyards by these mules of Austria and

these asses of the Papacy: good heavens! how long are these things to

endure? I do love Florence, when all's said. The very calm, the very

dying stillness is expressive and touching. And then our house, our

tables, our chairs, our carpets, everything looking rather better for

our having been away! Overjoyed I was to feel myself _at home_ again!

our Italians so pleased to see us, Wiedeman's nurse rushing in, kissing

my lips away almost, and seizing on the child, 'Dio mio, come è bellino!

the tears pouring down her cheeks, not able to look, for emotion, at the

shawl we had brought her from England. Poor Italians! who can help

caring for them, and feeling for them in their utter prostration just

now? The unanimity of despair on all sides is an affecting thing, I can

assure you. There is no mistake _here_, no possibility of mistake or

doubt as to the sentiment of the people towards the actual régime; and

if your English newspapers earnestly want to sympathise with an

oppressed people, let them speak a little for Tuscany. The most hopeful

word we have heard uttered by the Italians is, 'Surely it cannot last.'

It is the hope of the agonising.

But our 'carta di soggiorno' was sent to us duly. The government is not

over learned in literature, oh no....

And only Robert has seen Mr. Powers yet, for he is in the crisis of

removal to a new house and studio, a great improvement on the last, and

an excellent sign of prosperity of course. He is to come to us some

evening as soon as he can take breath. We have had visits from the

attachés at the English embassy here, Mr. Wolf, and Mr. Lytton,[16] Sir

E. Bulwer Lytton's son, and I think we shall like the latter, who (a

reason for my particular sympathy) is inclined to various sorts of

spiritualism, and given to the magic arts. He told me yesterday that

several of the American rapping spirits are imported to Knebworth, to

his father's great satisfaction. A very young man, as you may suppose,

the son is; refined and gentle in manners. Sir Henry Bulwer is absent

from Florence just now.

As to our house, it really looks better to my eyes than it used to look.

Mr. Lytton wondered yesterday how we could think of leaving it, and so

do I, almost. The letting has answered well enough; that is, it has paid

all expenses, leaving an advantage to us of a house during _six months_,

at our choice to occupy ourselves or let again. Also it might have been

let for a year (besides other offers), only our agent expecting us in

September, and mistaking our intentions generally, refused to do so. Now

I will tell you what our plans are. We shall stay here till we can let

our house. If we don't let it we shall continue to occupy it, and put

off Rome till the spring, but the probability is that we shall have an

offer before the end of December, which will be quite time enough for a

Roman winter. In fact, I hear of a fever at Rome and another at Naples,

and would rather, on every account, as far as I am concerned, stay a

little longer in Florence. I can be cautious, you see, upon some points,

and Roman fevers frighten me for our little Wiedeman.

As to your 'science' of 'turning the necessity of travelling into a

luxury,' my dearest cousin, do let me say that, like some of the occult

sciences, it requires a good deal of gold to work out. Your too generous

kindness enabled us to do what we couldn't certainly have done without

it, but nothing would justify us, you know, in not considering the

cheapest way of doing things notwithstanding. So Bradshaw, as I say,

tempted us, and the sight of the short cut in the map (pure delusion

those maps are!) beguiled us, and we crossed the 'cold valley' and the

'cold mountain' when we shouldn't have done either, and we have bought

experience and paid for it. Never mind! experience is nearly always

worth its price. And I have nearly lost my cough, and Robert is dosing

me indefatigably with cod's liver oil to do away with my thinness....

Robert's best love, with that of your most

Gratefully affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

[Florence: winter 1852-3.]

[_The beginning of the letter is lost_]

The state of things here in Tuscany is infamous and cruel. The old

serpent, the Pope, is wriggling his venom into the heart of all

possibilities of free thought and action. It is a dreadful state of

things. Austria the hand, the papal power the brain! and no energy in

the victim for resistance--only for hatred. They do hate here, I am glad

to say.

But we linger at Florence in spite of all. It was delightful to find

ourselves in the old nest, still warm, of Casa Guidi, to sit in our own

chairs and sleep in our own beds; and here we shall stay as late

perhaps as March, if we don't re-let our house before. Then we go to

Rome and Naples. You can't think how we have caught up our ancient

traditions just where we left them, and relapsed into our former

soundless, stirless hermit life. Robert has not passed an evening from

home since we came--just as if we had never known Paris. People come

sometimes to have tea and talk with us, but that's all; a few

intelligent and interesting persons sometimes, such as Mr. Tennyson (the

poet's brother) and Mr. Lytton (the novelist's son) and Mr. Stuart, the

lecturer on Shakespeare, whom once I named to you, I fancy. Mr. Tennyson

married an Italian, and has four children. He has much of the atmosphere

poetic about him, a dreamy, speculative, shy man, reminding us of his

brother in certain respects; good and pure-minded. I like him. Young Mr.

Lytton is very young, as you may suppose, with all sorts of high

aspirations--and visionary enough to suit _me_, which is saying

much--and affectionate, with an apparent liking to us both, which is

engaging to us, of course. We have seen the Trollopes once, the younger

ones, but the elder Mrs. Trollope was visible neither at that time nor

since....

I sit here reading Dumas' 'last,' notwithstanding. Dumas is astonishing;

he never _will_ write himself out; there's no dust on his shoes after

all this running; his last books are better than his first.

Do your American friends write ever to you about the rapping spirits? I

hear and would hear much of them. It is said that at least fifteen

thousand persons in America, of all classes and society, are _mediums_,

as the term is. Most curious these phenomena.

[_The end of the letter is lost_]

* * * * *

_To Miss Mitford_

Casa Guidi, Florence: February [1853].

I had just heard of your accident from Arabel, my much loved friend, and

was on the point of writing to you when your letter came. To say that I

was shocked and grieved to hear such news of you, is useless indeed; you

will feel how I have felt about it. May God bless and restore you, and

make me very thankful, as certainly I must be in such a case....

The comfort to me in your letter is the apparent good spirits you write

in, and the cheerful, active intentions you have of work for the delight

of us all. I clap my hands, and welcome the new volumes. Dearest friend,

I do wish I had heard about the French poetry in Paris, for there I

could have got at books and answered some of your questions. The truth

is, I don't know as much about French modern poetry as I ought to do in

the way of _métier_. The French essential poetry seems to me to flow out

into prose works, into their school of romances, and to be least

poetical when dyked up into rhythm. Mdme. Valmore I never read, but she

is esteemed highly, I think, for a certain _naïveté_, and happy

surprises in the thought and feeling, _des mots charmants_. I wanted to

get her books in Paris, and missed them somehow; there was so much to

think of in Paris. Alfred de Musset's poems I read, collected in a

single volume; it is the only edition I ever met with. The French value

him extremely for his _music_; and there is much in him otherwise to

appreciate, I think; very beautiful things indeed. He is best to my mind

when he is most lyrical, and when he says things in a breath. His

elaborate poems are defective. One or two Spanish ballads of his seem to

me perfect, really. He has great power in the introduction of familiar

and conventional images without disturbing the ideal--a good power for

these days. The worst is that the moral atmosphere is _bad_, and that,

though I am not, as you know, the very least bit of a prude (not enough

perhaps), some of his poems must be admitted to be most offensive. Get

St. Beuve's poems, they have much beauty in them you will grant at once.

Then there is a Breton[17] poet whose name Robert and I have both of us

been ungrateful enough to forget--we have turned our brains over and

over and can't find the name anyhow--and who, indeed, deserves to be

remembered, who writes some fresh and charmingly simple idyllic poems,

one called, I think, 'Primel et Nola.' By that clue you may hunt him out

perhaps in the 'Revue des Deux Mondes.' There's no strong imagination,

understand--nothing of that sort! but you have a sweet, fresh, cool

sylvan feeling with him, rare among Frenchmen of his class. Edgar Quinet

has more positive genius. He is a man of grand, extravagant conceptions.

Do you know the 'Ahasuerus'?

I wonder if the Empress pleases you as well as the Emperor. For my part,

I approve altogether, and none the less that he has offended Austria by

the mode of announcement. Every cut of the whip in the face of Austria

is an especial compliment to me--or, _so I feel it_. Let him head the

democracy and do his duty to the world, and use to the utmost his great

opportunities. Mr. Cobden and the Peace Society are pleasing me

infinitely just now in making head against the immorality (that's the

word) of the English press. The tone taken up towards France is immoral

in the highest degree, and the invasion cry would be idiotic if it were

not something worse. The Empress, I heard the other day from good

authority, is 'charming and good at heart.' She was educated 'at a

respectable school at Bristol' (Miss Rogers's, Royal Crescent, Clifton),

and is very 'English,' which doesn't prevent her from shooting with

pistols, leaping gates, driving 'four-in-hand,' and upsetting the

carriage when the frolic requires it, as brave as a lion and as true as

a dog. Her complexion is like marble, white, pale and pure; her hair

light, rather 'sandy,' they say, and she powders it with gold dust for

effect; but there is less physical and more intellectual beauty than is

generally attributed to her. She is a woman of 'very decided opinions.'

I like all that, don't you? and I liked her letter to the Préfet, as

everybody must. Ah, if the English press were in earnest in the cause of

liberty, there would be something to say for our poor trampled-down

Italy--much to say, I mean. Under my eyes is a people really oppressed,

really groaning its heart out. But these things are spoken of with

measure.

We are reading Lamartine and Proudhon on '48. We have plenty of French

books here; only the poets are to seek--the moderns. Do you catch sight

of Moore in diary and letters? Robert, who has had glimpses of him, says

the 'flunkeyism' is quite humiliating. It is strange that you have not

heard more of the rapping spirits. They are worth hearing of were it

only in the point of view of the physiognomy of the times, as a sign of

hallucination and credulity, if not more. Fifteen thousand persons in

all ranks of society, and all degrees of education, are said to be

_mediums_, that is _seers_, or rather hearers and recipients, perhaps.

Oh, I can't tell you all about it; but the details are most curious. I

understand that Dickens has caught a wandering spirit in London and

showed him up victoriously in 'Household Words' as neither more nor less

than the 'cracking of toe joints;' but it is absurd to try to adapt such

an explanation to cases in general. You know I am rather a visionary,

and inclined to knock round at all the doors of the present world to try

to get out, so that I listen with interest to every goblin story of the

kind, and, indeed, I hear enough of them just now.

We heard nothing, however, from the American Minister, Mr. Marsh, and

his wife, who have just come from Constantinople in consequence of the

change of Presidency, and who passed an evening with us a few days ago.

She is pretty and interesting, a great invalid and almost blind, yet she

has lately been to Jerusalem, and insisted on being carried to the top

of Mount Horeb. After which I certainly should have the courage to

attempt the journey myself, if we had money enough. Going to the Holy

Land has been a favorite dream of Robert's and mine ever since we were

married, and some day you will wonder why I don't write, and hear

suddenly that I am lost in the desert. You will wonder, too, at our

wandering madness, by the way, more than at any rapping spirit extant;

we have 'a spirit in our feet,' as Shelley says in his lovely Eastern

song--and our child is as bad as either of us. He says, 'I _tuite_ tired

of _Flolence_. I want to go to _Brome_,' which is worse than either of

us. I never am tired of Florence. Robert has had an application from

Miss Faucit (now Mrs. Martin) to bring out his 'Colombe's Birthday' at

the Haymarket.

[_The remainder of this letter is missing_]

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

Florence: March 3, 1853.

My dearest Isa, ... You have seen in the papers that Sir Edward Lytton

Bulwer has had an accident in the arm, which keeps him away from the

House of Commons, and even from the Haymarket, where they are acting his

play ('Not so bad as we seem') with some success. Well, here is a

curious thing about it. Mr. Lytton told us some time ago, that, by

several clairvoyantes, without knowledge or connection with one another,

an impending accident had been announced to him, 'not fatal, but

serious.' Mr. Lytton said, 'I have been very uneasy about it, and

nervous as every letter arrived, but nearly three months having passed,

I began to think they must have made a mistake--only it is curious that

they all should _all_ make a mistake of the same kind precisely.' When

after this we saw the accident in the paper, it was effective, as you

may suppose!

Profane or not, I am resolved on getting as near to a solution of the

spirit question as I can, and I don't believe in the least risk of

profanity, seeing that whatever is, must be permitted; and that the

contemplation of whatever is, must be permitted also, where the

intentions are pure and reverent. I can discern no more danger in

psychology than in mineralogy, only intensely a greater interest. As to

the spirits, I care less about what they are capable of communicating,

than of the fact of there being communications. I certainly wouldn't set

about building a system of theology out of their oracles. God forbid.

They seem abundantly foolish, one must admit. There is probably,

however, a mixture of good spirits and bad, foolish and wise, of the

lower orders perhaps, in both kinds....

Isa, you and I must try to make head against the strong-minded women,

though really you half frighten me prospectively....

---- ----, one of the strong-minded, we just escaped with life from in

London, and again in Paris. In Rome she has us! What makes me talk so

ill-naturedly is the information I have since received, that she has put

everybody unfortunate enough to be caught, into a book, and published

them at full length, in American fashion. Now I do confess to the

greatest horror of being caught, stuck through with a pin, and

beautifully preserved with other butterflies and beetles, even in the

album of a Corinna in yellow silk. I detest that particular sort of

victimisation....

We are invited to go to Constantinople this summer, to visit the

American Minister there. There's a temptation for you!

God bless you, dearest Isa. I shall be delighted to see you again, and

so will Robert! I always feel (I say to him sometimes) that you love me

a little, and that I may rest on you. Your ever affectionate friend,

ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.

* * * * *

_To Miss Mitford_

Florence: March 15, [1853].

... The spring has surprised us here just as we were beginning to murmur

at the cold. Think of somebody advising me the other day not to send out

my child without a double-lined parasol! There's a precaution for March!

The sun is powerful--we are rejoicing in our Italian climate. Oh, that I

could cut out just a mantle of it to wrap myself in, and so go and see

you. Your house is dry, you say. Is the room you occupy airy as well as

warm? Because being confined to a small room, with you who are so used

to liberty and out of door life, must be depressing to the vital

energies. Do you read much? No, no, you ought not to think of the press,

of course, till you are strong. Ah--if you should get to London to see

our play, how glad I should be! We, too, talk of London, but somewhat

mistily, and not so early in the summer. Mr. and Mrs. Marsh--he is the

American Minister at Constantinople--have been staying in Florence, and

passing some evenings with us. They tempt us with an invitation to

Constantinople this summer, which would be irresistible if we had the

money for the voyage, perhaps, so perhaps it is as well that we have

not. Enough for us that we are going to Rome and to Naples, then

northward. I am busy in the meanwhile with various things, a new poem,

and revising for a third edition which is called for by the gracious

public. Robert too is busy with another book. Then I am helping to make

frocks for my child, reading Proudhon (and Swedenborg) and in deep

meditation on the nature of the rapping spirits, upon whom, I

understand, a fellow dramatist of yours, Henry Spicer (I think you once

mentioned him to me as such), has just written a book entitled, 'The

Mystery of the Age.' A happy winter it has been to me altogether. We

have had so much repose, and at the same time so much interest in life,

also I have been so well, that I shall be sorry when we go out of

harbour again with the spring breezes. We like Mr. Tennyson extremely,

and he is a constant visitor of ours: the poet's elder brother. By the

way, the new edition of the Ode on the Duke of Wellington seems to

contain wonderful strokes of improvement. Have you seen it? As to

Alexandre Dumas, Fils, I hope it is not true that he is in any scrape

from the cause you mention. He is very clever, and I have a feeling for

him for his father's sake as well as because he presents a rare instance

of intellectual heirship. Didn't I tell you of the prodigious success of

his drama of the 'Dame aux Camélias,' which ran about a hundred nights

last year, and is running again? how there were caricatures on the

boulevards, showing the public of the pit holding up umbrellas to

protect themselves from the tears rained down by the public of the

boxes? how the President of the Republic went to see, and sent a

bracelet to the first actress, and how the English newspapers called him

immoral for it? how I went to see, myself, and cried so that I was ill

for two days and how my aunt called _me_ immoral for it? I was properly

lectured, I assure you. She 'quite wondered how Mr. Browning could allow

such a thing,' not comprehending that Mr. Browning never, or scarcely

ever, does think of restraining his wife from anything she much pleases

to do. The play was too painful, that was the worst of it, but I

maintain it is a highly moral play, rightly considered, and the acting

was most certainly most exquisite on the part of all the performers. Not

that Alexandre Dumas, Fils, excels generally in morals (in his books, I

mean), but he is really a promising writer as to cleverness, and when he

has learnt a little more art he will take no low rank as a novelist.

Robert has just been reading a tale of his called 'Diane de Lys,' and

throws it down with--'You must read that, Ba--it is clever--only

outrageous as to the morals.' Just what I should expect from Alexandre

Dumas, Fils. I have a tenderness for the whole family, you see.

You don't say a word to me of Mrs. Beecher Stowe. How did her book[18]

impress you? No woman ever had such a success, such a fame; no man ever

had, in a single book. For my part I rejoice greatly in it. It is an

individual glory full of healthy influence and benediction to the world.

[_The remainder of this letter is missing_]

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

Casa Guidi, Florence: March 17, [1853].

Thank you--how to thank you enough--for the too kind present of the

'Madonna,'[19] dearest Mona Nina. I will not wait to read it through--we

have only _looked_ through it, which is different; but there is enough

seen so beautiful as to deserve the world's thanks, to say nothing of

ours, and there are personal reasons besides why _we_ should thank you.

Have you not quoted us, have you not sent us the book? Surely, good

reasons.

But now, be still better to me, and write and say how you are. I want to

know that you are quite well; if you can tell me so, do. You have told

me of a new book, which is excellent news, and I hear from another

quarter that it will consist of your 'Readings' and 'Remarks,' a sort of

book most likely to penetrate widely and be popular in a good sense.

Would it not be well to bring out such a work volume by volume at

intervals? Is it this you are contemplating?...

Robert and I have had a very happy winter in Florence; let me, any way,

answer for myself. I have been well, and we have been quiet and

occupied; reading books, doing work, playing with Wiedeman; and with

nothing from without to vex us much. At the end of it all, we go to

Rome certainly; but we have taken on this apartment for another year,

which Robert decided on to please me, and because it was reasonable on

the whole. We have been meditating Socialism and mysticism of very

various kinds, deep in Louis Blanc and Proudhon, deeper in the German

spiritualists, added to which, I have by no means given up my French

novels and my rapping spirits, of whom our American guests bring us

relays of witnesses. So we don't absolutely moulder here in the

intellect, only Robert (and indeed I have too) has tender recollections

of 'that blaze of life in Paris,' and we both mean to go back to it

presently. No place like Paris for living in. Here, one sleeps,

'perchance to dream,' and praises the pillow.

We had a letter from our friend M. Milsand yesterday; you see he does

not forget us--no, indeed. In speaking of the state of things in France,

which I had asked him to do, he says, he is not sanguine (he never _is_

sanguine, I must tell you, about anything), though entirely dissentient

from _la presse Anglaise_. He considers on the whole that the _status_

is as good as can be desired, as a _stable foundation for the

development of future institutions_. It is in that point of view that he

regards the situation. So do I. As to the English press, I, who am not

'Anglomane' like our friend, I call it plainly either maniacal or

immoral, let it choose the epithet. The invasion cry, for instance, I

really can't qualify it; I can't comprehend it with motives all good and

fair. I throw it over to you to analyse.

With regard to the sudden death of French literature, you all exaggerate

that like the rest. If you look into even the 'Revue des Deux Mondes'

for the year 1852, you will see that a few books are still published.

_Pazienza._ Things will turn up better than you suppose. Newspapers

breathe heavily just now, that's undeniable; but for book literature the

government _never has_ touched it with a finger. I ascertained _that_ as

a fact when I was in Paris.

None of you in England understand what the crisis has been in France;

and how critical measures have been necessary. Lamartine's work on the

revolution of '48 is one of the best apologies for Louis Napoleon; and,

if you want another, take Louis Blanc's work on the same.

Isn't it a shame that nobody comes from the north to the south, after a

hundred oaths? I hear nothing of dear Mr. Kenyon. I hear nothing from

you of _your_ coming. You won't come, any of you....

I am much relieved by hearing that Mazzini is gone from Italy, whatever

Lord Malmesbury may say of it. Every day I expected to be told that he

was taken at Milan and shot. A noble man, though incompetent, I think,

to his own aspiration; but a man who personally has my sympathies

always. The state of things here is cruel, the people are one groan. God

deliver us all, I must pray, and by almost any means.

As to your Ministry, I don't expect very much from it. Lord Aberdeen,

'put on' to Lord John, is using the drag uphill. They will do just as

little as they can, be certain.

Think of my submitting at last to the conjugal will and cod's liver

oil--yes, and think of its doing me good. The cough was nearly, if not

quite, gone because of the climate, before I took the oil, but it does

me good by making me gain in flesh. I am much less thin, and very well,

and dearest Robert triumphant.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

Florence: April 12, [1853].

The comfort is, my ever loved friend, that here is spring--summer, as

translated into Italy--if fine weather is to set you up again. I shall

be very thankful to have better news of you; to hear of your being out

of that room and loosened into some happy condition of liberty. It seems

unnatural to think of you in one room. _That_ seems fitter for _me_,

doesn't it? And the rooms in England are so low and small, that they

put double bars on one's captivity. May God bring you out with the

chestnut trees and elms! It's very sad meanwhile.

Comfort yourself, dear friend! Admire Louis Napoleon. He's an

extraordinary man beyond all doubt; and that he has achieved great good

for France, _I_ do not in the least doubt. I was only telling you that I

had not finished my pedestal for him--wait a little. Because, you see,

for my part, I don't go over to the system of 'mild despotisms,' no,

indeed. I am a democrat to the bone of me. It is simply as a

democratical ruler, and by grace of the people, that I accept him, and

he must justify himself by more deeds to his position before he

glorifies himself before _me_. That's what I mean to say. A mild despot

in France, let him be the Archangel Gabriel, unless he hold the kingdom

in perpetuity, what is the consequence? A successor like the Archangel

Lucifer, perhaps. Then, for the press, where there is thought, there

must be discussion or conspiracy. Are you aware of the amount of readers

in France? Take away the 'Times' newspaper, and the blow falls on a

handful of readers, on a section of what may be called the aristocracy.

But everybody reads in France. Every fiacre driver who waits for you at

a shop door, beguiles the time with a newspaper. It is on that account

that the influence of the press is dangerous, you will say. Precisely

so; but also, on that account too, it is necessary. No; I hold, myself,

that he will give more breathing room to France, as circumstances admit

of it. Else, there will be convulsion. You will see. We shall see. And

Louis Napoleon, who is wise, _foresees_, I cannot doubt.

Not read Mrs. Stowe's book! But you _must_. Her book is quite a sign of

the times and has otherwise and intrinsically considerable power. For

myself, I rejoice in the success, both as a woman and a human being. Oh,

and is it possible that you think a woman has no business with questions

like the question of slavery? Then she had better use a pen no more.

She had better subside into slavery and concubinage herself, I think, as

in the times of old, shut herself up with the Penelopes in the 'women's

apartment,' and take no rank among thinkers and speakers. Certainly you

are not in earnest in these things. A difficult question--yes! All

virtue is difficult. England found it difficult. France found it

difficult. But we did not make ourselves an arm-chair of our sins. As

for America, I honor America in much; but I would not be an American for

the world while she wears that shameful scar upon her brow. The address

of the new President[20] exasperates me. Observe, I am an abolitionist,

not to the fanatical degree, because I hold that compensation should be

given by the North to the South, as in England. The States should unite

in buying off this national disgrace.

The Americans are very kind and earnest, and I like them all the better

for their warm feeling towards you. Is Longfellow agreeable in his

personal relations? We knew his brother, I think I told you, in Paris. I

suppose Mr. Field has been liberal to Thackeray, and yet Thackeray does

not except him in certain observations on American publishers. We shall

have an arrangement made of some sort, it appears. Mr. Forster wants me

to add some new poems to my new edition, in order to secure the

copyright under the new law. But as the law does not act backwards, I

don't see how new poems would save me. They would just sweep out the new

poems--that's all. One or two lyrics could not be made an object, and in

those two thick volumes, nearly bursting with their present contents,

there would not be room for many additions. No, I shall add nothing. I

have revised the edition very carefully, and made everything better. It

vexed me to see how much there was to do. Positively, even rhymes left

unrhymed in 'Lady Geraldine's Courtship.' You don't write so carelessly,

not you, and the reward is that you haven't so much trouble in your new

editions. I see your book advertised in a stray number of the 'Athenæum'

lent to me by Mr. Tennyson--Frederick. He lent it to me because I wanted

to see the article on the new poet, Alexander Smith, who appears so

applauded everywhere. He has the poet's _stuff_ in him, one may see from

the extracts. Do you know him? And Coventry Patmore--have you heard

anything of _his_ book,[21] of which appears an advertisement?

Ah, yes; how unfortunate that you should have parted with your

copyrights! It's a bad plan always, except in the case of novels which

have their day, and no day after.

The poem I am about will fill a volume when done. It is the novel or

romance I have been hankering after so long, written in blank verse, in

the autobiographical form; the heroine, an artist woman--not a painter,

mind. It is intensely modern, crammed from the times (not the 'Times'

newspaper) as far as my strength will allow. Perhaps you won't like it,

perhaps you will. Who knows? who dares hope?

I am beginning to be anxious about 'Colombe's Birthday.' I care much

more about it than Robert does. He says that nobody will mistake it for

_his_ speculation, it's Mr. Buckstone's affair altogether. True; but I

should like it to succeed, being Robert's play notwithstanding. But the

play is subtle and refined for pits and galleries. I am nervous about

it. On the other hand, those theatrical people ought to know; and what

in the world made them select it if it is not likely to answer their

purpose? By the way, a dreadful rumour reaches us of its having been

'_prepared for the stage by the author_.' Don't believe a word of it.

Robert just said 'yes' when they wrote to ask him, and not a line of

communication has passed since. He has prepared nothing at all,

suggested nothing, modified nothing. He referred them to his new

edition; and that was the whole.

We see a great deal of Mr. Tennyson. Robert is very fond of him, and so

am I. He too writes poems, and prints them, though not for the public.

They are better and stronger than Charles Tennyson's, and he has the

poetical temperament in everything. Did I tell you that he had married

an Italian, and had children from twelve years old downwards? He is

intensely English nevertheless, as expatriated Englishmen generally are.

I always tell Robert that his patriotism grows and deepens in exact

proportion as he goes away from England. As for me, it is not so with

me. I am very cosmopolitan, and am considerably tired of the

self-deification of the English nation at the expense of all others. We

have some noble advantages over the rest of the world, but it is not all

advantage. The shameful details of bribery, for instance, prove what I

have continually maintained, the non-representativeness of our

'representative system;' and, socially speaking, we are much behindhand

with most foreign peoples. Let us be proud in the right place, I say,

and not in the wrong. 'We see too a good deal of young Lytton, Sir

Edward's only son, an interesting young man, with various sorts of good,

and aspiration to good, in him. You see we are not at Rome yet. Do write

to me. Speak of yourself particularly. God bless you, dearest friend.

Believe that I think of you and love you most faithfully.

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

Florence: April 21, 1853.

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I am in consternation and vexation on receiving

your letter. What you must have thought of me all this time! Of course I

never saw the letters which went to Rome. Letters sent to Poste

restante, Rome, are generally lost, even if you are a Roman: and we are

no Romans, alas! nor likely to become such, it seems to me. There's a

fatality about Rome to us. I waited for you to write, and then waited on

foolishly for the settlement of our own plans, after I had ascertained

that you were not in Devonshire, but in France as usual. Now, I can't

help writing, though I have written a letter already which must have

crossed yours--a long letter--so that you will have more than enough of

me this time.

It's comfort and pleasure after all to have a good account of you both,

my very dear friends, even though one knows by it that you have been

sending one 'al diavolo' for weeks or months. Forgive me, do. I feel

guilty somehow to the extreme degree, that four letters should have been

written to me, even though I received none of them, because I ought to

have written at least one letter in that time.

Your politics would be my politics on most points; we should run

together more than halfway, if we could stand side by side, in spite of

all your vindictiveness to N. III. My hero--say you? Well, I have more

belief in him than you have. And what is curious, and would be

unaccountable, I suppose, to English politicians in general, the Italian

democrats of the lower classes, the popular clubs in Florence, are

clinging to him as their one hope. Ah, here's oppression! here's a

people trodden down! You should come here and see. It is enough to turn

the depths of the heart bitter. The will of the people forced, their

instinctive affections despised, their liberty of thought spied into,

their national life ignored altogether. Robert keeps saying, 'How long,

O Lord, how long?' Such things cannot last, surely. Oh, this brutal

Austria!

I myself expect help from Louis Napoleon, though scarcely in the way

that the clubs are said to do. When I talk of a club, of course I mean a

secret combination of men--young men who meet to read forbidden

newspapers and talk forbidden subjects. He won't help the Mazzinians,

but he will do something for Italy, you will see. The Cardinals feel

it, and that's why they won't let the Pope go to Paris. We shall see. I

seem to catch sight of the grey of dawn even in the French Government

papers, and am full of hope.

As to Mazzini, he is a noble man and an unwise man. Unfortunately the

epithets are compatible. Kossuth is neither very noble nor very wise. I

have heard and _felt_ a great deal of harm of him. The truth is not in

him. And when a patriot lies like a Jesuit, what are we to say?

For England--do you approve of the fleet staying on at Malta? We are

prepared to do nothing which costs us a halfpenny for a less gain than

three farthings--always excepting the glorious national defences, which

have their end too, though not the one generally attributed....

God bless you, my dear, dear friends! Care in your thoughts for us all!

Your ever affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To John Kenyon_

Casa Guidi: May 16 [1853].

My dearest Mr. Kenyon,--You are to be thanked and loved as ever, and

what can we say more? This: Do be good to us by a supererogatory virtue

and write to us. You can't know how pleasant it is to be _en rapport_

with you, though by holding such a fringe of a garment as a scrap of

letter is. We don't see you, we don't hear you! 'Rap' to us with the end

of your pen, like the benign spirit you are, and let me (who am

credulous) believe that you care for us and think kindly of us in the

midst of your brilliant London gossipry, and that you don't disdain the

talk of us, dark ultramontanists as we are. You are good to us in so

many ways, that it's a reason for being good in another way besides. At

least, to reason so is one of the foolishnesses of my gratitude.

On the whole, I am satisfied with regard to 'Colombe.' I never expected

a theatrical success, properly and vulgarly so called; and the play has

taken rank, to judge by the various criticisms, in the right way, as a

true poet's work: the defects of the acting drama seemed recognised as

the qualities of the poem. It was impossible all that subtle tracery of

thought and feeling should be painted out clear red and ochre with a

house-painter's brush, and lose nothing of its effect.[22] A play that

runs nowadays has generally four legs to run with--something of the

beast to keep it going. The human biped with the 'os divinior' is slower

than a racehorse even. What I hope is, that the poetical appreciation of

'Colombe' will give an impulse to the sale of the poems, which will be

more acceptable to us than the other kind of success....

Yes, dearest Mr. Kenyon, we mean, if we can, to go to Rome in the

autumn. It is very wrong of you not to come too, and the reasons you

give against it are by no means conclusive. My opinion is that, whatever

the term of your natural life may be, you would probably have an

additional ten years fastened on to it by coming to the Continent, and

so I tease you and tease you, as is natural to such an opinion. People

twirl now in their arm-chairs, and the vitality in them kindles as they

rush along. Remember how pleased you were when you were at Como! Don't

draw a chalk circle round you and fancy you can't move. Even tables and

chairs have taken to move lately, and hats spin round without a giddy

head in them. Is this a time to stand still, even in the garden at

Wimbledon? 'I speak to a wise man; judge what I say.'

We tried the table experiment in this room a few days since,

by-the-bye, and failed; but we were impatient, and Robert was playing

Mephistopheles, as Mr. Lytton said, and there was little chance of

success under the circumstances. It has been done several times in

Florence, and the fact of the possibility seems to have passed among

'attested facts.' There was a placard on the wall yesterday about a

pamphlet purporting to be an account of these and similar phenomena

'scoperte a Livorno,' referring to 'oggetti semoventi' and other

wonders. You can't even look at a wall without a touch of the subject.

The _circoli_ at Florence are as revolutionary as ever, only tilting

over tables instead of States, alas! From the Legation to the English

chemist's, people are 'serving tables' (in spite of the Apostle)

everywhere. When people gather round a table it isn't to play whist. So

good, you say. You can believe in table-moving, because _that_ may be

'electricity;' but you can't believe in the 'rapping spirits,' with the

history of whom these movements are undeniably connected, because it's

'a jump.' Well, but you will jump when the time comes for jumping, and

when the evidence is strong enough. I know you; you are strong enough

and true enough to jump at anything, without being afraid. The tables

jump, observe--and _you_ may jump. Meanwhile, if you were to hear what

we heard only the evening before last from a cultivated woman with

truthful, tearful eyes, whose sister is a medium, and whose mother

believes herself to be in daily communion with her eldest daughter, dead

years ago--if you were to hear what we hear from nearly all the

Americans who come to us, their personal experiences, irrespectively of

paid mediums, I wonder if you would admit the possibility of your even

jumping! Robert, who won't believe, he says, till he sees and hears with

his own senses--Robert, who is a sceptic--observed of himself the other

day, that we had received as much evidence of these spirits as of the

existence of the town of Washington. But then of course he would

add--and you would, reasonably enough--that in a matter of this kind

(where you have to jump) you require more evidence, double the evidence,

to what you require for the existence of Washington. That's true.

[_Incomplete_]

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

Florence: June [1853].

My dearest Fanny,--I hope you will write to me as if I deserved it. You

see, my first word is to avert the consequences of my sin instead of

repenting of it in the proper and effectual way. The truth is, that ever

since I received your letter we have been looking out for 'messengers'

from the Legation, so as to save you postage; while the Embassy people

have been regularly forgetting us whenever there has been an

opportunity. By the way, I catch up that word of 'postage' to beg you

_never to think of it_ when inclined in charity to write to us. If you

knew what a sublunary thing--oh, far below any visible moon!--postage is

to us exiles! Too glad we are to get a letter and pay for it. So write

to me _directly_, dear Fanny, when you think enough of us for that, and

write at length, and tell us of yourself first, swirling off into Pope's

circles--'your country first and then the human race'--and, indeed, we

get little news from home on the subjects which especially interest us.

My sister sends me heaps of near things, but she is not in the magnetic

circles, nor in the literary, nor even in the gossiping. Be good to us,

_you_ who stand near the fountains of life! Every cup of cold water is

worth a ducat here.

To wait to a second page without thanking you for your kindness and

sympathy about 'Colombe' does not do justice to the grateful sense I had

of both at the time, and have now. We were _very_ glad to have your

opinion and impressions. Most of our friends took for granted that we

had supernatural communications on the subject, and did not send us a

word. Mrs. Duncan Stewart was one of the kind exceptions (with yourself

and one or two more), and I write to thank her. It was very pleasant to

hear what you said, dear Fanny. Certainly, says the author, you are

right, and Helen Faucit wrong, in the particular reading you refer to;

but she seems to have been right in so much, that we should only

remember our grateful thoughts of her in general.

Now what am I to say about my illustrations--that is, your illustrations

of my poems? To thank you again and again first. To be eager next to see

what is done. To be sure it is good, and surer still that _you_ are good

for spending your strength on me. See how it is. When you wrote to me, a

new edition was in the press; yes, and I was expecting every day to hear

it was out again. But it would not have done, I suppose, to have used

illustrations for that sort of edition; it would have raised the price

(already too high) beyond the public. But there will be time always for

such arrangements--when it so pleases Mr. Chapman, I suppose. Do tell me

more of what you have done.

We did not go to Rome last winter, in spite of the spirits of the sun

who declared from Lord Stanhope's crystal ball, you remember, that we

should. And we don't go to England till next summer, because we must see

Rome next winter, and must lie _perdus_ in Italy meantime. I have had a

happy winter in Florence, recovered my lost advantages in point of

health, been busy and tranquil, had plenty of books and talk, and seen

my child grow rosier and prettier (said aside) every day. Robert and I

are talking of going up to the monasteries beyond Vallombrosa for a day

or two, on mule-back through forests and mountains. We have had an

excursion to Prato (less difficult) already, and we keep various dreams

in our heads to be acted out on occasion. Our favorite friend here is a

brother of Alfred Tennyson's, himself a poet, but most admirable to me

for his simplicity and truth. Robert is very fond of him. Then we like

Powers--of the 'Greek Slave'--Swedenborgian and spiritualist; and Mr.

Lytton, Sir Edward's son, who is with us often, and always a welcome

visitor. All these confederate friends are ranged with me on the

believing side with regard to the phenomena, and Robert has to keep us

at bay as he best can. Oh, do tell me what you can. Your account deeply

interested me. We have heard many more intimate personal relations from

Americans who brush us with their garments as they pass through

Florence, and I should like to talk these things over with you. Paid

mediums, as paid clairvoyants in general, excite a prejudice; yet,

perhaps, not reasonably. The curious fact in this movement is, however,

the degree in which it works within private families in America. Has

anything of the kind appeared in England? And has the motion of the

tables ever taken the form of alphabetical expression, which has been

the case in America? I had a letter from Athens the other day,

mentioning that 'nothing was talked of there except moving tables and

spiritual manifestations.' (The writer was not a believer.) Even here,

from the priest to the Mazzinian, they are making circles. An engraving

of a spinning table at a shop window bears this motto: '_E pur si

muove!_' That's adroit for Galileo's land, isn't it? Now mind you tell

me whatever you hear and see. How does Mrs. Crowe decide? By the way, I

was glad to observe by the papers that she has had a dramatic success.

Your Alexander Smith has noble stuff in him. It's undeniable, indeed. It

strikes us, however, that he has more imagery than verity, more colour

than form. He will learn to be less arbitrary in the use of his

figures--of which the opulence is so striking--and attain, as he ripens,

more clearness of outline and depth of intention. Meanwhile none but a

poet could write this, and this, and this.

Your faithfully affectionate

E.B.B., properly speaking BA.

July 3.

This was written ever so long since. Here we are in July; but I won't

write it over again. The 'tables' are speaking alphabetically and

intelligently in Paris; they knock with their legs on the floor,

establishing (what was clear enough before to _me_) the connection

between the table-moving and 'rapping spirits.' Sarianna--who is of the

unbelieving of temperaments, as you know--wrote a most curious account

to me the other day of a séance at which she had been present, composed

simply of one or two of our own honest friends and of a young friend of

theirs, a young lady....[23] She says that she 'was not as much

impressed as she would have been,' 'but I am bound to tell the truth,

that I _do not think it possible that any tricks could have been

played_.'

This from Sarianna is equal to the same testimony--from Mr. Chorley,

say!

We are planning a retreat into the mountains--into Giotto's country, the

Casentino--where we are to find a villa for almost nothing, and shall

have our letters sent daily from Florence, together with books and

newspapers. I look forward to it with joy. We promise one another to be

industrious _à faire frémir_, so as to make the pleasure lawful. Little

Penini walks about, talking of 'mine villa,' anxiously hoping that 'some

boys' may not have pulled all the flowers before he gets there. He

boasts, with considerable complacency, that 'a table in Pallis says I am

four years,' though the fact doesn't strike him as extraordinary.

Do you ever see Mr. Kenyon? I congratulate you on your friend's 'Coeur

de Lion.' _That_ has given you pleasure.

* * * * *

The summer 'retreat' from Florence this year was not to the Casentino

after all, but to the Baths of Lucca, which they had already visited in

1849. During their stay there, which lasted from July to October, Mr.

Browning is said to have composed 'In a Balcony.'

* * * * *

_To Miss Mitford_

Florence: July 15, 1853.

... We have taken a villa at the Baths of Lucca, after a little holy

fear of the company there; but the scenery, the coolness, and the

convenience altogether prevail, and we have taken our villa for three

months or rather more, and go to it next week with a stiff resolve of

not calling nor being called upon. You remember perhaps that we were

there four years ago, just after the birth of our child. The mountains

are wonderful in beauty, and we mean to buy our holiday by doing some

work.

Yesterday evening we had the American Minister at the Court of Turin

here, and it was delightful to hear him talk about Piedmont, its

progress in civilisation and the comprehension of liberty, and the

honesty and resolution of the King. It is the only hope of Italy, that

Piedmont! God prosper the hope. Besides this diplomatical dignitary and

his wife, we had two American gentlemen of more than average

intelligence, who related wonderful things of the 'spiritual

manifestations' (so called), incontestable things, inexplicable things.

You will have seen Faraday's letter.[24] I wish to reverence men of

science, but they often will not let me. If _I_ know certain facts on

this subject, Faraday _ought_ to have known them before he expressed an

opinion on it. His statement does not meet the facts of the case--it is

a statement which applies simply to various amateur operations without

touching on the essential phenomena, such as the moving of tables

untouched by a finger.

Our visitor last night, to say nothing of other witnesses, has

repeatedly seen this done with his eyes--in private houses, for

instance, where there could be no machinery--and he himself and his

brother have held by the legs of a table to prevent the motion--the

medium sitting some yards away--and that table has been wrenched from

their grasp and lifted into the air. My husband's sister, who has

admirable sense and excessive scepticism on all matters of the kind, was

present the other day at the house of a friend of ours in Paris, where

an English young lady was medium, and where the table expressed itself

intelligently by knocking, with its leg, responses according to the

alphabet. For instance, the age of my child was asked, and the leg

knocked four times. Sarianna was 'not impressed,' she says, but, 'being

bound to speak the truth, she does not _think it possible that any trick

could have been used_.' To hear her say so was like hearing Mr. Chorley

say so; all her prejudices were against it strongly. Mr. Spicer's book

on the subject is flippant and a little vulgar, but the honesty and

accuracy of it have been attested to me by Americans oftener than once.

By the way, he speaks in it of your interesting 'Recollections,' and

quotes you upon the possibility of making a ghost story better by the

telling--in reference to Washington.

Mr. Tennyson is going to England for a few months, so that our Florence

party is breaking up, you see. He has printed a few copies of his poems,

and is likely to publish them if he meets with encouragement in England,

I suppose. They are full of imagery, encompassed with poetical

atmosphere, and very melodious. On the other hand, there is vagueness

and too much personification. It's the smell of a rose rather than a

rose--very sweet, notwithstanding. His poems are far superior to Charles

Tennyson's, bear in mind. As for the poet, we quite love him, Robert and

I do. What Swedenborg calls 'selfhood,' the _proprium_, is not in him.

Oh yes! I confess to loving Florence and to having associated with it

the idea of _home_. My child was born here, and here I have been very

happy and _well_. Yet we shall not live in Florence--we are steady to

our Paris plan. We must visit Rome next winter, and in the spring we

shall go to Paris _viâ_ London; you may rely on us for next summer. I

think it too probable that I may not be able to bear two successive

winters in the North; but in that case it will be easy to take a flight

for a few winter months into Italy, and we shall regard Paris, where

Robert's father and sister are waiting for us, as our fixed place of

residence. As to the distance between Paris and London, it's a mere step

now. We are to have war, I suppose. I would not believe it for a long

while, but the Czar seems to be struck with madness--mad in good

earnest. Under these circumstances I hope our Ministry will act with

decision and honesty--but I distrust Lord Aberdeen. There is evidently,

or has been, a division in the Cabinet, and perhaps Lord Palmerston is

not the strongest. Louis Napoleon has acted excellently in this

conjuncture--with integrity and boldness--don't you think so? Dear Mr.

Kenyon has his brother and sister with him, to his great joy. Robert

pretended he would not give me your last letter. Little Wiedeman threw

his arms round my neck (taking the play-cruelty for earnest) and

exclaimed, 'Never mind, mine darling Ba! You'll have it.' He always

calls me Ba at coaxing times. Such a darling that child is, indeed!

God bless you! Do write soon and tell me in detail of yourself.

Our united love, but mine the closest!

Your ever most affectionate

E.B.B.

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

Casa Tolomei, Alia Villa, Bagni di Lucca:

July 26, [1853].

I deserve another scold for this other silence, dearest Isa. Scold as

softly as you can! We have been in uncertainty about leaving

Florence--where to go for the summer--and I did not like to write till I

could tell you where to write to _me_. Now we are 'fixed,' as our

American friends would say. We have taken this house for three months--a

larger house than we need. We have a row of plane trees before the door

in which the cicale sing all day, and the beautiful mountains stand

close around, keeping us fresh with shadows. Penini thinks he is in

Eden--_at least he doesn't think otherwise_. We have a garden and an

arbour, and the fireflies light us up at nights. With all this, I am

sorry for Florence. Florence was horribly hot, and pleasant

notwithstanding. We hated cutting the knot of friends we had

there--bachelor friends, Isa, who came to us for coffee and smoking! I

was gracious and permitted the cigar (as you were not present), and

there were quantities of talk, controversy, and confidences evening

after evening. One of our very favourite friends, Frederick Tennyson, is

gone to England, or was to have gone, for three months. Mr. Lytton had a

reception on the terrace of his villa at Bellosguardo the evening before

our last in Florence, and we were all bachelors together there, and I

made tea, and we ate strawberries and cream and talked spiritualism

through one of the pleasantest two hours that I remember. Such a view!

Florence dissolving in the purple of the hills; and the stars looking

on. Mr. Tennyson was there, Mr. Powers, and M. Villari[25], an

accomplished Sicilian, besides our young host and ourselves. How we 'set

down' Faraday for his 'arrogant and insolent letter,' and what stories

we told, and what miracles we swore to! Oh, we are believers here, Isa,

except Robert, who persists in wearing a coat of respectable

scepticism--so considered--though it is much out of elbows and ragged

about the skirts. If I am right, you will none of you be able to

disbelieve much longer--a, new law, or a new development of law, is

making way everywhere. We have heard much--more than I can tell you in a

letter. Imposture is absolutely out of the question, to speak generally;

and unless you explain the phenomena by 'a personality unconsciously

projected' (which requires explanation of itself), you must admit the

spirit theory. As to the simpler forms of the manifestation (it is all

one manifestation), the 'turning-tables,' I was convinced long before

Faraday's letter that _many_ of the amateur performances were from

involuntary muscular action--but what then? These are only imitations of

actual phenomena. Faraday's letter does not meet the common fact of

tables being moved and lifted without the touch of a finger. It is a

most arrogant letter and singularly inconclusive. Tell me any facts you

may hear. Mr. Kinney, the American Minister at the Court of Turin, had

arrived at Florence a few days before we quitted it, and he and his wife

helped us to spend our last evening at Casa Guidi. He is cultivated and

high-minded. I like him much; and none the less that he brings hopeful

accounts of the state of Piedmont, of the progress of the people, and

good persistency of the King. It makes one's heart beat with the sense

that all is not over with our poor Italy.

I am glad you like Frederick Tennyson's poems. They are full of

_atmospherical_ poetry, and very melodious. The poet is still better

than the poems--so truthful, so direct, such a reliable Christian man.

Robert and I quite love him. We very much appreciate, too, young Lytton,

your old friend. He is noble in many ways, I think, and affectionate.

Moreover, he has an incontestable _faculty_ in poetry, and I expect

great things from him as he ripens into life and experience. Meanwhile

he has just privately printed a drama called 'Clytemnestra,' too

ambitious because after Æschylus, but full of promise indeed. We are

hoping that he will come down and see us in the course of our

rustication at the Baths, and occupy our spare bedroom....

As to Mr. ----, his Hebrew was Chinese to _you_, do you say? But, dear,

he is strong in veritable Chinese besides! And one evening he nearly

assassinated me with the analysis, chapter by chapter, of a Japanese

novel. Mr. Lytton, who happened to be a witness, swore that I grew

paler and paler, and not with sympathy for the heroine. He is a

miraculously vain man--which rather amused me--and, for the rest, is

full of information--yes, and of kindness, I think. He gave me a little

black profile of you which gives the air of your head, and is so far

valuable to me. As to myself, indeed, he has rather flattered me than

otherwise--I don't complain, I assure you. How could I complain of a man

who compares me to Isaiah, under any circumstances?...

God bless you! Robert's love with that of

Your ever affectionate and faithful

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mr. Chorley_

Casa Tolomei (Alia Villa), Bagni di Lucca:

August 10, [1853].

My dear Mr. Chorley,--I can't bear that you should intimate by half a

word that you are 'a creature to be eaten'--viz. not to have your share

in friendship and confidence. Now, if you fancy that we, for instance,

don't affectionately regard you, you are very wrong, and I am very right

for feeling inclined to upbraid you. I take the pen from Robert--he

would take it if I did not. We scramble a little for the pen which is to

tell you this--which is to say it again and again, and be dull in the

reiteration, rather than not instruct you properly, as we teach our

child to do--D O G, dog; D O G, dog; D O G, dog. Says Robert, 'What a

slow business!' Yet he's a quick child; and you too must be quick and

comprehending, or we shall take it to heart sadly. Often I think, and we

say to one another, that we belied ourselves to you in England. If you

knew how, at that time, Robert was vexed and worn!--why, he was not the

same even to _me_! He seemed to himself to be slipping out of waistcoats

and friends at once--so worn and teased he was! But then and now believe

that he loved and loves you. Set him down as a friend--as somebody to

'rest on' after all; and don't fancy that because we are away here in

the wilderness (which blossoms as a rose, to one of us at least) we may

not be full of affectionate thoughts and feelings towards you in your

different sort of life in London. So sorry we are--I especially, for I

think I understand the grief especially--about the household troubles

which you hint at and Mr. Kenyon gave us a key to. I quite understand

how a whole life may seem rumpled up and creased--torn for the moment;

only you will live it smooth again, dear Mr. Chorley--take courage. You

have time and strength and good aims, and human beings have been happy

with much less. I understate your advantages on purpose, you see. I

heard you talked of in Florence when Miss Cushman, in the quarter of an

hour she gave us at Casa Guidi, told us of the oath she had in heaven to

bring out your play and make it a triumph. How she praised the play, and

you! Twice I have spoken with her--once on a balcony on the boulevard,

when together we saw Louis Napoleon enter Paris in immediate face of the

empire, and that once in Florence. I like the 'manly soul' in her face

and manners. Manly, not masculine--an excellent distinction of Mrs.

Jameson's. By the way, we hear wonderful things of the portrait painted

of Miss Cushman at Rome by Mr. Page the artist, called 'the American

Titian' by the Americans....

There I stop, not to 'fret' you beyond measure. Besides, now that you

Czars of the 'Athenæum' have set your Faradays on us, ukase and knout,

what Pole, in the deepest of the brain, would dare to have a thought on

the subject? Now that Professor Faraday has 'condescended,' as the

'Literary Gazette' affectingly puts it (and the condescension is

sufficiently obvious in the letter--'how we stoop!')--now that Professor

Faraday has condescended to explain the whole question--which had

offered some difficulty, it is admitted, to 'hundreds of intelligent

men, including five or six eminent men of science,' in Paris, and, we

may add, to thousands of unintelligent men elsewhere, including the

eminent correspondent of the 'Literary Gazette'--let us all be silent

for evermore. For my part, I won't say that Lord Bacon would have

explained any question to a child even without feeling it to be an act

of condescension. I won't hint under my breath that Lord Bacon

reverenced every _fact_ as a footstep of Deity, and stooped to pick up

every rough, ungainly stone of a fact, though it were likely to tear and

deform the smooth wallet of a theory. I, for my part, belong, you know,

not to the 'eminent men of science,' nor even to the 'intelligent men,'

but simply to the women, children (and poets?), and if we happen to see

with our eyes a table lifted from the floor without the touch of a

finger or foot, let no dog of us bark--much less a puppy-dog! The famous

letter holds us gagged. What it does not hold is the facts; but, _en

revanche_, the writer and his abettors know the secret of being

invincible--which is, not to fight. My child proposed a donkey-race

yesterday, the condition being that he should ride first. Somebody, told

me once that when Miss Martineau has spoken eloquently on one side of a

question, she drops her ear-trumpet to give the opportunity to her

adversary. Most controversies, to do justice to the world, are conducted

on the same plan and terms.

What I do venture however to say is that it's _not_ all over in Paris

because of Faraday's letter. _Ask Lamartine._ What I hear and what the

'Literary Gazette' hears from Paris is by no means the same thing. I

hear Hebrew while the 'Gazette' hears Dutch--a miracle befitting the

subject, or what was once considered to be the subject (I beg Professor

Faraday's pardon), before it was annihilated.

How pert women can be, can't they, Mr. Chorley? particularly when they

are safe among the mountains, shut in with a row of seven plane-trees

joined at top. I won't go on to offer myself as 'spiritual correspondent

to the "Athenæum,"' though I have a modest conviction that it might

increase your sale considerably. Ah, tread us down! put us out! You will

have some trouble with us yet. The opposition Czar of St. Petersburg

supports us, be it known, and Louis Napoleon comes to us for oracles.

The King of Holland is going mad gently in our favour--quite absorbed,

says an informant. But I won't quote kings. It is giving oneself too

great a disadvantage.

We stayed in Florence till it was oven-heat, and then we came here,

where it was fire-heat for a short time, though with cool nights

comparatively, by means of which we lived, comparatively too. Now it is

cool by day and night. You know these beautiful hills, the green rushing

river which keeps them apart, the chestnut woods, the sheep-walks and

goat-walks, the villages on the peaks of the mountains like wild eagles;

the fresh, unworn, uncivilised, world-before-the-flood look of

everything? If you don't know it, you ought to know it. Come and know

it--do! We have a spare bedroom which opens its door of itself at the

thought of you, and if you can trust yourself so far from home, try for

our sakes. Come and look in our faces and learn us more by heart, and

see whether we are not two friends. I am so very sorry for your

increased anxiety about your sister. I scarcely know how to cheer you,

or, rather, to attempt such a thing, but it did strike me that she was

full of life when I saw her. It may be better with her than your fears,

after all. If you would come to us, you would be here in two hours from

Leghorn; and there's a telegraph at Leghorn--at Florence. Think of it,

do. The Storys are at the top of the hill; you know Mr. and Mrs. Story.

She and I go backward and forward on donkeyback to tea-drinking and

gossiping at one another's houses, and our husbands hold the reins. Also

Robert and I make excursions, he walking as slowly as he can to keep up

with my donkey. When the donkey trots we are more equal. The other day

we were walking, and I, attracted by a picturesque sort of ladder-bridge

of loose planks thrown across the river, ventured on it, without

thinking of venturing. Robert held my hand. When we were in the middle

the bridge swayed, rocked backwards and forwards, and it was difficult

for either of us to keep footing. A gallant colonel who was following us

went down upon his hands and knees and crept. In the meantime a peasant

was assuring our admiring friends that the river was deep at that spot,

and that four persons had been lost from the bridge. I was so sick with

fright that I could scarcely stand when all was over, never having

contemplated an heroic act. 'Why, what a courageous creature you are!'

said our friends. So reputations are made, Mr. Chorley.

Yes, we are doing a little work, both of us. Robert is working at a

volume of lyrics, of which I have seen but a few, and those seemed to me

as fine as anything he has done. We neither of us show our work to one

another till it is finished. An artist must, I fancy, either find or

_make_ a solitude to work in, if it is to be good work at all. This for

the consolation of bachelors!

I am glad you like Mr. Powers's paper. You would have 'fretted' me

terribly if you had not, for I liked it myself, knowing it to be an

earnest opinion and expressive of the man. I had a very interesting

letter from him the other day. He is devout in his art, and the simplest

of men otherwise....

Now, I will ask you to write to us. It is _you_ who give us up, indeed.

Will your sister accept our true regards and sympathies? I shall persist

in hoping to see her a little stronger next spring--or summer, rather.

May God bless you! I will set myself down, and Robert with me, as

Faithfully and affectionately yours,

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

_To Miss Mitford_

Casa Tolomei, Alia Villa, Bagni di Lucca:

August 20 and 21, 1853.

... We are enjoying the mountains here, riding the donkeys in the

footsteps of the sheep, and eating strawberries and milk by basins full.

The strawberries succeed one another, generation after generation,

throughout the summer, through growing on different aspects of the

hills. If a tree is felled in the forests strawberries spring up just as

mushrooms might, and the peasants sell them for just nothing. Our little

Penini is wild with happiness; he asks in his prayers that God would

'mate him dood and tate him on a dontey,' (make him good and take him on

a donkey), so resuming all aspiration for spiritual and worldly

prosperity. Then our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Story, help the mountains to

please us a good deal. He is the son of Judge Story, the biographer of

his father, and, for himself, sculptor and poet; and she a sympathetic,

graceful woman, fresh and innocent in face and thought. We go backwards

and forwards to tea and talk at one another's houses. Last night they

were our visitors, and your name came in among the Household Gods to

make us as agreeable as might be. We were considering your expectations

about Mr. Hawthorne. 'All right,' says Mr. Story, '_except the rare half

hours_' (of eloquence). He represents Mr. Hawthorne as not silent only

by shyness, but by nature and inaptitude. He is a man, it seems, who

talks wholly and exclusively with the pen, and who does not open out

socially with his most intimate friends any more than with strangers. It

isn't his _way_ to converse. That has been a characteristic of some men

of genius before him, you know, but you will be nevertheless

disappointed, very surely. Also, Mr. Story does not imagine that you

will get anything from him on the subject of the 'manifestations.' You

have read the 'Blithedale Romance,' and are aware of his opinion

expressed there? He evidently recognised them as a sort of scurvy

spirits, good to be slighted, because of their disreputableness. By the

way, I heard read the other day a very interesting letter from Paris,

from Mr. Appleton, Longfellow's brother-in-law, who is said to be a man

of considerable ability, and who is giving himself wholly just now to

the investigation of this spirit-subject, termed by him the 'sublimest

conundrum ever given to the world for guessing.' He appears still in

doubt whether the intelligence is external, or whether the phenomena are

not produced by an _unconscious projection in the medium of a second

personality, accompanied with clairvoyance, and attended by physical

manifestations_. This seems to me to double the difficulty; yet the idea

is entertained as a doubtful sort of hypothesis by such men as Sir

Edward Lytton and others. _Imposture_ is absolutely out of the question,

be certain, as an ultimate solution, and a greater proof of credulity

can scarcely be given than a belief in imposture as things are at

present. But I was going to tell you Mr. Appleton has a young American

friend in Paris, who, 'besides being a very sweet girl,' says he, 'is a

strong medium.' By Lamartine's desire he took her to the poet's house;

'all the phenomena were reproduced, and everybody present convinced,'

Lamartine himself 'in ecstasies.' Among other spirits came Henry Clay,

who said, 'J'aime Lamartine.' We shall have it in the next volume of

biography. Louis Napoleon gets oracles from the 'raps,' and it is said

that the Czar does the same,--your Emperor, certainly,--and the King of

Holland is allowing the subject to absorb him. 'Dying out! dying out!'

Our accounts from New York are very different, but unbelieving persons

are apt to stop their ears and exclaim, 'We hear nothing now.' On one

occasion the Hebrew Professor at New York was addressed in Hebrew to his

astonishment.

Well, I don't believe, with all my credulity, in poets being perfected

at universities. What can be more absurd than this proposition of

'finishing' Alexander Smith at Oxford or Cambridge? We don't know how to

deal with literary genius in England, certainly. We are apt to treat

poets (when we condescend to treat them at all) as over-masculine papas

do babies; and Monckton Milnes was accused of only touching his in order

to poke out its eyes, for instance. Why not put this new poet in a

public library? There are such situations even among us, and something

of the kind was done for Patmore. The very judgment Tennyson gave of

him, _in the very words_, we had given here--'fancy, not imagination.'

Also, imagery in excess; thought in deficiency. Still, the new poet is a

true poet, and the defects obvious in him may be summed up in _youth_

simply. Let us wait and see. I have read him only in extracts, such as

the reviews give, and such as a friend helped me to by good-natured MS.

It is extraordinary to me that with his amount of development, as far as

I understand it, he has met with so much rapid recognition. Tell me if

you have read 'Queechy,' the American book--novel--by Elizabeth

Wetherell? I think it very clever and characteristic. Mrs. Beecher Stowe

scarcely exceeds it, after all the trumpets. We are about to have a

visit from Mr. Lytton, Sir Edward's only son--only child now. Did I tell

you that he was a poet--yes, and of an unquestionable faculty? I expect

much from him one day, when he shakes himself clear of the poetical

influences of the age, which he will have strength to do presently. He

thinks as well as sees, and that is good....

Oh yes! I like Mr. Kingsley. I am glad he spoke kindly of _us_, because

really I like him and admire him. Few people have struck me as much as

he did last year in England. 'Manly,' do you say? But I am not very fond

of praising men by calling them _manly_. I hate and detest a masculine

man. _Humanly_ bold, brave, true, direct, Mr. Kingsley is--a moral

cordiality and an original intellect uniting in him. I did not see

_her_ and the children, but I hope we shall be in better fortune next

time.

Since I began this letter the Storys and ourselves have had a grand

donkey-excursion to a village called Benabbia, and the cross above it on

the mountain-peak. We returned in the dark, and were in some danger of

tumbling down various precipices; but the scenery was exquisite--past

speaking of for beauty. Oh those jagged mountains, rolled together like

pre-Adamite beasts, and setting their teeth against the sky! It was

wonderful. You may as well guess at a lion by a lady's lapdog as at

Nature by what you see in England. All honour to England, lanes and

meadowland, notwithstanding; to the great trees above all. Will you

write to me sooner? Will you give me the details of yourself? Will you

love me?

Your most affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

Casa Tolomei, Alia Villa, Bagni di Lucca:

August 30, [1853].

Dearest Fanny,--On your principle that 'there's too much to say,' I

ought not to think of writing to you these three months; you have

pleased me and made me grateful to such an extremity by your most pretty

and graceful illustrative outlines. The death-bed I admire particularly;

the attitudes are very expressive, and the open window helps the

sentiment. What am I to say for your kindness in holding a torch of this

kind (perfumed for the 'nobilities') between the wind and my poems?

Thank you, thank you. And when that's said, I ought to stop short and

beg you, dear Fanny, not to waste yourself in more labour of this kind,

seeing that I am accursed and that nothing is to be done with my books

and me, as far as my public is concerned. Why not get up a book of your

own, a collection of 'outlines' illustrative of everybody's poems, which

would stand well on its own feet and make a circle for itself? Think of

_that_ rather. For my part, there's nothing to be done with me, as I

said; that is, there's nothing to be done with my publishers, who just

do as they like with my books, and don't like to do much good for _me_

with them, whatever they may do for themselves. I am misanthropical in

respect to the booksellers. They manage one as they please, and not at

all to please one. I have no more to say to the fate of my books than

you have--and not much more to pocket. This third edition, for instance,

which should have been out four or five months ago, they are keeping, I

suppose, for the millennium, encouraged probably by the spiritual

manifestations; and _my_ personal manifestations meanwhile have as much

weight with them as facts have with Faraday, or the theory of fair play

with the London 'Athenæum.' I am sick of it all, indeed. I look down on

it all as the epicurean gods do on the world without putting out a

finger to save an empire; perhaps because they can't. Long live the

----, who are kings of us. It's the best thing possible, I conclude, in

this best of possible social economies, though for ourselves

individually it may not be a very good thing; not precisely what we

should choose. Think of the separate book of outlines. Seriously, Robert

and I recommend you to consider it. You might make a book for

drawing-room tables which would be generally acceptable if not too

expensive. And Mr. Spicer is bringing me more? How kind of you. And when

is he coming? Scarcely could anyone come as a stranger whom I desire

more to see, and I do hope he will bring me facts and fantasies too on

the great subject which is interesting me so deeply. His book of 'Sights

and Sounds' we have read, but the new book has not penetrated to us.

'Sights and Sounds' is very curious, and the authenticity of its facts

has been confirmed to me by various testimonies, but the author is too

clever for his position; I mean too full of flash and wit. There's an

air of levity, and of effective writing, without which the book would

have been more impressive and convincing; don't you think so? And here

we get to the heart of most of the difficulties of the subject. Why do

we make no quicker advances, do you say? Why are our communications

chiefly trivial? Why, but because we ourselves are trivial, and don't

bring serious souls and concentrated attentions and holy aspirations to

the spirits who are waiting for these things? Spirit comes to spirit by

affinity, says Swedenborg; but our cousinship is not with the high and

noble. We try experiments from curiosity, just as children play with the

loadstone; our ducks swim, but they don't get beyond that, and _won't_,

unless we do better. _To_ prove what I say, consider what you say

yourself, that you couldn't manage to draw the same persons together

again (these very persons being persuaded of the verity of the spiritual

communications they were in reach of) on account of the difficulties of

the London season. Difficulties of the London season! The inconsequence

of human nature is more wonderful to me than the ingress of any spirits

could be. This instance is scarcely credible....

I had a letter the other day from Mr. Chorley, and he was chivalrous

enough (I call it real chivalry in his state of opinion) to deliver to

me a message from Mr. Westland Marston, whom he met at Folkestone, and

who kindly proposes to write a full account to me of his own spiritual

experiences, having heard from you that they were likely to interest me;

I mean that I was interested in the whole subject. Will you tell him

from me that I shall be most thankful for anything he will vouchsafe to

write to me, and will you give him my address? I don't know where to

find him, and Mr. Chorley is on the Continent wandering. I have seen

nothing for myself, but I am a believer upon testimony; and a stream of

Americans running through Florence, and generally making way to us, the

testimony has been various and strong. Interested in the subject! Who

can be uninterested in the subject? Even Robert is interested, who

professes to be a sceptic, an infidel indeed (though I can swear to

having seen him considerably shaken more than once), and who promises

never to believe till he has experience by his own senses. Isn't it hard

on me that I can't draw a spirit into our circle and convince him? He

would give much, he says, to find it true....

Here an end. Write soon and write much.

Your ever affectionate

E.B.B. (called BA).

Our child was gathering box leaves in a hedge the other day (wherever we

have a hedge, it's box, I would have you to understand), and pulled a

yellow flower by mistake. Down he flung it as if it stung him. 'Ah,

brutto! Colore Tedesco!' Think of that baby!

* * * * *

_To Mr. Westwood_

Casa Tolomei, Alia Villa, Bagni di Lucca:

September [1853].

As to Patmore's new volume of poems, my husband and I had the pleasure

of reading in MS. the poem which gives its title to the book. He has a

great deal of thought and poetry in him. Alexander Smith I know by

copious extracts in reviews, and by some MSS. once sent to us by friends

and readers. Judging from those he must be set down as a true poet in

opulence of imagery, but defective, so far (he is said to be very young)

in the intellectual part of poetry. His images are flowers thrown to him

by the gods, beautiful and fragrant, but having no root either in Enna

or Olympus. There's no unity and holding together, no reality properly

so called, no thinking of any kind. I hear that Alfred Tennyson says of

him: 'He has fancy without imagination.' Still, it is difficult to say

at the dawn what may be written at noon. Certainly he is very rich and

full of colour; nothing is more surprising to me than his favourable

reception with the critics. I should have thought that his very merits

would be against him.

If you can read novels, and you have too much sense not to be fond of

them, read 'Villette.' The scene of the greater part of it is in

Belgium, and I think it a strong book. 'Ruth,' too, by Mrs. Gaskell, the

author of 'Mary Barton,' has pleased me very much. Do you know the

French novels? there's passion and power for you, if you like such

things. Balzac convinced me that the French language was malleable into

poetry. We are behindhand here in books, and elderly ones seem young to

us. For instance, we have not caught sight yet of 'Moore's Life,' the

extracts from which are unpropitious, I think. I had a fancy, I cannot

tell you how it grew, that Moore, though an artificial, therefore

inferior, poet, was a most brilliant letter-writer. His letters are

disappointing, and his mean clinging to the aristocracy still more so.

I wish you could suddenly walk into this valley, which seems to have

been made by the flashing scimitar of the river that cuts through the

mountain. Ah! you in England, and in Belgium still less, do not know

what scenery is, what Nature is when she is natural. You could as soon

guess at a tiger from the cat on the hearthstone. You do not know; but,

being a poet, you can dream. You have divine insights, as we all have,

of heaven, all of us with whom the mortal mind does not cake and

obstruct into cecity. No, no, no. I protest against anything I have not

reprinted. The Prometheus poems bear the mark of their time, which was

one of greenness and immaturity. Indeed, the responsibility for what I

_acknowledge_ in print is hard enough to bear. Don't put another stick

on the overloaded--_ass_, shall I say candidly?

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

Bagni di Lucca: October 5, [1853].

My dearest Mrs. Martin, I am delighted to have your letter at last, and

should have come upon you like a storm in a day or two if you hadn't

written, for really I began to be low in patience. Also, after having

spent the summer here, we were about to turn our faces to Florence

again, and it was necessary to my own satisfaction to let you know of

our plans for the winter. To begin with those, then, we go to Florence,

as I said, from hence, and after a week or two, or three or four as it

may be, the briefer time if we let our house, we proceed to Rome for

some months. You see we _must_ visit Rome before we go northwards, and

northwards we _must_ go in the spring, so that the logic of events seems

to secure Rome to us this time; otherwise I should still doubt of our

going there, so often have we been on the verge and caught back....

So you think that he[26] is looking 'less young than formerly,' and that

'we should all learn to hear and make such remarks with equanimity.'

Now, once for all, let me tell you--confess to you--I never, if I live

to be a hundred, should learn that learning. Death has the luminous side

when we know how to look; but the rust of time, the touch of age, is

hideous and revolting to me, and I never see it, by even a line's

breadth, in the face of any I love, without pain and recoil of nature. I

have a worse than womanly weakness about that class of subjects. Death

is a face-to-face intimacy; age, a thickening of the mortal mask between

souls. So I hate it; put it far from me. Why talk of age, when it's just

an appearance, an accident, when we are all young in soul and heart? We

don't say, one to another, 'You are freckled in the forehead to-day,' or

'There's a yellow shade in your complexion.' Leave those disagreeable

trifles. I, for my part, never felt younger. Did _you_, I wonder? To be

sure not. Also, I have a gift in my eyes, I think, for scarcely ever

does it strike me that anybody is altered, except my child, for

instance, who certainly is larger than when he was born. When I went to

England after five years' absence, everybody (save one) appeared to me

younger than I was used to conceive of them, and of course I took for

granted that I appeared to them in the same light. Be sure that it is

highly moral to be young as long as possible. Women who throw up the

game early (or even late) and wear dresses 'suitable to their years'

(that is, as hideous as possible), are a disgrace to their sex, aren't

they now? And women and men with statistical memories, who are always

quoting centuries and the years thereof ('Do you remember in '20?' _As

if anybody could_), are the pests of society. And, in short, and for my

part, whatever honours of authorship may ever befall me, I hope I may be

safe from the epithet which distinguishes the Venerable Bede.

Now, if I had written this from Paris, you would have cried out upon the

frivolity I had picked up. Who would imagine that I had just finished a

summer of mountain solitude, succeeding a winter's meditation on

Swedenborg's philosophy, and that such fruit was of it all? By the way,

tell me how it was that Paris did harm to Moore? Mentally, was it, and

morally, or in the matter of the body? I have not seen the biography

yet. Italy keeps us behind in new books. But the extracts given in

newspapers displease me through the ignoble tone of 'doing honour to the

lord,' which is anything but religious. Also, the letters seem somewhat

less brilliant than I expected from Moore; but it must be, after all, a

most entertaining book. Tell me if you have read Mrs. Gaskell's 'Ruth.'

That's a novel which I much admire. It is strong and healthy at once,

teaching a moral frightfully wanted in English society. Such an

interesting letter I had from Mrs. Gaskell a few days ago simple, worthy

of 'Ruth.' By the way, 'Ruth' is a great advance on 'Mary Barton,'

don't you think so? 'Villette,' too (Jane Eyre's), is very powerful.

Since we have been here we have had for a visitor (drawing the advantage

from our spare room) Mr. Lytton, Sir Edward's only son, who is attaché

at the Florence Legation at this time. He lost nothing from the test of

house-intimacy with either of us--gained, in fact, much. Full of all

sorts of good and nobleness he really is, and gifted with high faculties

and given to the highest aspirations--not vulgar ambitions,

understand--he will never be a great diplomatist, nor fancy himself an

inch taller for being master of Knebworth.[27] Then he is somewhat

dreamy and unpractical, we must confess; he won't do for drawing carts

under any sort of discipline. Such a summer we have enjoyed here, free

from burning heats and mosquitos--the two drawbacks of Italy--and in the

heart of the most enchanting scenery. Mountains not too grand for

exquisite verdure, and just kept from touching by the silver finger of a

stream. I have been donkey-riding, and so has Wiedeman. I even went (to

prove to you how well I am) the great excursion to Prato Fiorito, six

miles there and six miles back, perpendicularly up and down. Oh, it

almost slew me of course! I could not stir for days after. But who

wouldn't see heaven and die? Such a vision of divine scenery, such as,

in England, the best dreamers do not dream of! As we came near home I

said to Mr. Lytton, who was on horseback, 'I am dying. How are you?' To

which he answered, 'I thought a quarter of an hour ago I could not keep

up to the end, but now I feel better.' This from a young man just

one-and-twenty! He is delicate, to be sure, but still you may imagine

that the day's work was not commonly fatiguing. The guides had to lead

the horses and donkeys. It was like going up and down a wall, without

the smoothness. No road except in the beds of torrents. Robert

pretended to be not tired, but, of course (as sensible people say of the

turning tables), nobody believed a word of it. It was altogether a

supernatural pretension, and very impertinent in these enlightened days.

Mr. and Mrs. Story were of our party. He is the son of Judge Story and

full of all sorts of various talent. And she is one of those cultivated

and graceful American women who take away the reproach of the national

want of refinement. We have seen much of them throughout the summer.

There has been a close communion of tea-drinking between the houses, and

as we are all going to Rome together, this pleasure is not a past

one....

We still point to Paris. Ah! you disapprove of Paris, I see, but we must

try the experiment. What I am afraid of is simply the climate. I doubt

whether I shall stand two winters running as far north as Paris, but if

I _can't_, we must come south again. Then I love Italy. Oh! if it were

not for the distance between Italy and England, we should definitively

settle here at once. We shall be in England, by the way, next summer for

pleasure and business, having, or about to have, two books to see

through the press. Not _prose_, Mr. Martin. I'm lost--devoted to the

infernal gods of rhyming. 'It's my fate,' as a popular poet said when

going to be married....

(We go on Monday. Write to Florence for the next month.)

* * * * *

_To Miss Browning_

[Florence: autumn, 1853.]

My dearest Sarianna,--I shall not be able to write very much to-day, for

Robert is in haste, and we are both overwhelmed with different

engagements, the worst of which have been forced on me _maritally_

rather than artistically by the portrait-sittings he of course has told

you of. His own portrait, by Mr. Reade, I must be glad about, seeing

that though it by no means gives his best expression, the face is

_there_, and it will be the best work extant on the same subject. I only

wish that the artist had been satisfied with it, or taken my Penini in

the second place instead of me, who am not wanted in canvas for art's

sake, or for any other sake in the world. When gone from hence, may

nobody think of me again, except when one or two may think perhaps how I

loved them....

Do you think much of the war? I hope all will be done on the part of the

two western Powers honestly and directly; and then, may the best that

can, come out of the worst that must be. The poor Italians catch like

men in an agony at all these floating straws. We hear that the new

Austrian Commandant has received instructions to hold no intercourse

with members of the English and French Legations till further orders are

received.

We have lived a disturbed life lately; too much coming and going even

with agreeable people. There has been no time for work. In Rome it must

be different, or we shall get on poorly with our books, I think. Robert

seems, however, by his account, to be in an advanced state already....

[_Incomplete._]

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

Casa Guidi: Saturday [about October, 1853].

My dearest Isa,-- ... I was very sorry on returning from Lucca to find

only Mr. Thompson's note and yours; but though we missed him at Florence

we shall see him at Rome, I hope. There was also a card from Miss

Lynch,[28] an American poetess (one of the ninety-and-nine muses), with

a note of introduction from England. Do you hear of her at Rome? The

'Ninth Street' printed on her card leaves me in the infinite as far as

conjectures of where she is go.

So pleased I am to get back to Florence, and so little inclined to

tumble out of my nest again; yet we _shall go to Rome_ if some new

obstacle does not arise. We have had no glimpse of the Tassinaris; they

seem to have vanished from the scene. Florence is full of great people,

so called, from England, and the _real sommités_ are coming, such as

Alfred Tennyson, and, with an interval, Dickens and Thackeray. The two

latter go to Rome for the winter, I understand.

Do you say _Edward Lytton_? But he isn't Edward Lytton now--he is

Robert. The two Edwards clashed inconveniently, and now he doesn't sign

an Edward even by an initial; he has renounced the name, and is a Robert

for evermore. I am glad to tell you that although he is delicate and

excitable there seems to me no tendency to disease of any kind. Indeed,

he is looking particularly well just now. He is full of sensibility,

both intellectually and morally, which is scarcely favorable to health

and long life; but in the long run, if people can run, they get over

such a disadvantage. At this time he is about to publish a collection of

poems. I think highly of his capabilities; and he is a great favorite

with both of us for various excellent reasons. Did I tell you of his

passing a fortnight with us at Lucca, and how sorry we were to lose him

at last? Sir Edward either has just brought out, or is bringing out, a

volume of poems of his own, called 'Cornflowers' (referring to the

harvest time of maturity in which he produces them), and chiefly of a

metaphysical character. His son, who has seen the manuscript, thinks

them the best of his poems. 'My Novel' is certainly excellent. Did I

tell you that I had seized and read it?

I shall get at Swedenborg in Rome, and get on with my readings. There

are deep truths in him, I cannot doubt, though I can't receive

_everything_, which may be my fault. I would fain speak with a wise

humility. We will talk on these things and the spirits. How that last

subject attracts me! It strikes me that we are on the verge of great

developments of the spiritual nature, and that in a philosophical point

of view (apart from ulterior ends) the facts are worthy of all

admiration and meditation. If a spiritual influx, it is _mixed_--good

and evil together. The fact of there being a mixture of evil justifies

Swedenborg's philosophy (does it not?) without concluding against the

movement generally. We were at the Pergola the other night, and heard

the 'Trovatore,' Verdi's new work. Very passionate and dramatic, surely.

The Storys are here on their way back to Rome. Oh, I mean to convert

you, Isa! Is it true that the fever at Rome is still raging? Give my

love to your dear invalid, who must be comforting you so much with her

improvement. Penini is in a chronic state of packing up his desk to go

to '_Bome_.' Robert's love with mine as ever. I can't write either

legibly or otherwise than stupidly on this detestable paper, having

never learnt to skate. Are we giving you too much trouble, dearest, kind

Isa?

Your affectionate friend

E.B.B.

* * * * *

After a few weeks only at Florence the Brownings moved on to Rome and

there (at No. 43 Via Bocca di Leone) they passed the winter. Both were

now actively engaged on their new volumes of poetry--Mr. Browning on his

'Men and Women,' Mrs. Browning on 'Aurora Leigh,' both of which were,

however, still far from completion.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

Via Bocca di Leone, Rome: December 21, 1853.

My dearest Mona Nina,--I have been longer than I thought to be in Rome

without writing to you, especially when I have a letter of yours for

which to thank you. My fancy was to wait till I had seen Gerardine in

her own home, and then to write to you, but I have called on her three

times, and the three Fates have been at it each time to prevent my

getting in. Still, we have met _here_, and I would rather not wait any

longer for whatever might be added to what I have seen and know

already....

Ah, dearest friend! you have heard how our first step into Rome was a

fall, not into a catacomb but a fresh grave[29], and how everything here

has been slurred and blurred to us, and distorted from the grand antique

associations. I protest to you I doubt whether I shall get over it, and

whether I ever shall feel that this is Rome. The first day at the bed's

head of that convulsed and dying child; and the next two, three, four

weeks in great anxiety about his little sister, who was all but given up

by the physicians; the English nurse horribly ill of the same fever, and

another case in this house. It was not only sympathy. I was selfishly

and intensely frightened for my own treasures; I wished myself at the

end of the world with Robert and Penini twenty times a day. Rome has

been very peculiarly unhealthy; and I heard a Monsignore observe the

other morning that there would not be much truce to the fever till March

came. Still, I begin to take breath again and be reasonable. Penini's

cheeks are red as apples, and if we avoid the sun, and the wind, and the

damp, and, above all if God takes care of us, we shall do excellently.

_I_, of course, am in a flourishing condition; walk out nearly every day

and scarcely cough at all. Which isn't enough for me, you see. Dear

friend, we have not set foot in the Vatican. Oh, barbarians!

But we have seen Mrs. Kemble, and I am as enchanted as I ought to be,

and even, perhaps, a little more. She has been very kind and gracious to

me; she was to have spent an evening with us three days since, but

something intervened. I am much impressed by her as well as attracted to

her. What a voice, what eyes, what eyelids full of utterance!

Then we have had various visits from Mr. Thackeray and his daughters.

'She writes to me of Thackeray instead of Raffael, and she is at Rome'!

But she _isn't_ at Rome. There's the sadness of it. We got to Gibson's

studio, which is close by, and saw his coloured Venus. I don't like her.

She has come out of her cloud of the ideal, and to my eyes is not too

decent. Then in the long and slender throat, in the turn of it, and the

setting on of the head, you have rather a grisette than a goddess. 'Tis

over pretty and _petite_, the colour adding, of course, to this effect.

Crawford's studio (the American sculptor) was far more interesting to me

than Gibson's. By the way, Mr. Page's portrait of Miss Cushman is really

something wonderful--soul and body together. You can show nothing like

it in England, take for granted. Indeed, the American artists consider

themselves a little aggrieved when you call it as good as a Titian.

'_Did_ Titian ever produce anything like it?' said an admirer in my

hearing. Critics wonder whether the colour will _stand_. It is a theory

of this artist that time does not _tone_, and that Titian's pictures

were painted as we see them. The consequence of which is that his

(Page's) pictures are undertoned in the first instance, and if they

change at all will turn black[30]. May all Boston rather turn black,

which it may do one of these days by an eruption from the South, when

'Uncle Tomison' gets strong enough.

We have been to St. Peter's; we have stood in the Forum and seen the

Coliseum. Penini says: 'The sun has tome out. I think God knows I want

to go out to walk, and _so_ He has sent the sun out.' There's a child

who has faith enough to put us all to shame. A vision of angels wouldn't

startle him in the least. When his poor little friend died, and we had

to tell him, he inquired, fixing on me those earnest blue eyes, 'Did

papa _see_ the angels when they took away Joe?' And when I answered 'No'

(for I never try to deceive him by picturesque fictions, I should not

dare, I tell him simply what I believe myself), 'Then did Joe _go up_ by

himself?' In a moment there was a burst of cries and sobs. The other day

he asked me if I thought _Joe had seen the Dute of Wellyton_. He has a

medal of the Duke of Wellington, which put the name into his head.

By-the-bye, Robert yesterday, in a burst of national vanity, informed

the child that this was the man who beat Napoleon. 'Then I sint he a

velly naughty man. What! he beat Napoleon _wiz a stit_?' (with a stick).

Imagine how I laughed, and how Robert himself couldn't help laughing.

So, the seraphs judge our glories!

If you have seen Sir David Brewster lately I should like to know whether

he has had more experience concerning the tables, and has modified his

conclusions in any respect. I myself am convinced as I can be of any

fact, that there is an _external intelligence_; the little I have seen

is conclusive to me. And this makes me more anxious that the subject

should be examined with common fairness by learned persons. Only the

learned won't learn--that's the worst of them. Their hands are too full

to gather simples. It seems to me a new development of law in the human

constitution, which has worked before in exceptional cases, but now

works in general.